A  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


•The 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW    YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY    •   CALCUTTA 

MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


A  BOOK  OF 

ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 

BY 

FRANKLYN  BLISS  SNYDER,  Ph.  D. 

ASSOCIATE  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN  NORTHWESTERN  UNIVERSITY 

AND 
ROBERT  GRANT  MARTIN,  Ph.  D. 

ASSISTANT  PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  IN    NORTHWESTERN  UNIVERSITY 


•N>m  fork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1916 

All  rights  reserved 


ej   17 

sns- 


Copyright,  1916, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Set  up  and  electrotyped.      Published  February,  1916. 


PREFACE 

In  preparing  this  volume,  primarily  intended  for  college  courses  in  the  development 
of  English  literature,  the  editors  have  tried  to  give  to  the  most  important  men  a  repre- 
sentation more  adequate  than  they  have  been  accorded  in  previous  volumes  of  the 
kind,  and  so  comprehensive  that  whoever  uses  the  book  will  find  a  considerable  range 
of  possible  selection.  In  addition,  the  editors  have  included  enough  work  by  men  of 
secondary  importance  to  fill  the  gaps  between  the  larger  figures,  and  to  make  this  text 
adequate  for  any  survey  of  English  literature  from  Chaucer  to  Meredith,  save  in  the 
fields  of  drama  and  fiction.  Fiction  has  been  omitted  for  obvious  reasons.  The  drama 
would  have  been  excluded  entirely,  had  it  not  been  felt  that  some  teachers  would  be 
glad  of  a  specimen  miracle  play.  An  appendix  containing  brief  biographies  of  the  chief 
men  represented,  and  bibliographical  suggestions,  may  be  of  assistance  to  those  who 
desire  to  use  the  volume  without  an  accompanying  history. 

In  certain  respects  the  texts  here  presented  have  been  standardized.  Punctuation 
has  been  modernized;  the  spelling  -or  instead  of  -our  for  words  such  as  honor,  labor, 
etc.,  has  been  adopted;  except  in  a  few  obvious  instances,  the  full  form  of  the  weak  past 
participle  in  -ed  has  been  used  throughout  the  volume. 

The  thanks  of  the  editors  are  due  to  Professor  R.  E.  Neil  Dodge,  of  the  University 
of  Wisconsin,  and  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  for  permission  to  use  the  Cambridge 
text  of  Spenser.  Stevenson's  Aes  Triplex  is  taken  from  the  Thistle  edition,  published 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  the  authorized  publishers  of  Stevenson's  works.  The  debt 
of  the  editors  to  such  standard  works  as  Skeat's  Oxford  Chaucer,  Child's  Ballads,  and 
Lucas's  Lamb,  will  be  recognized  by  all  who  use  the  book. 


395743 


CONTENTS 
THE  END   OF  THE   MIDDLE  AGES 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  page 

The  Prologue        i 

The  Nun's  Priest's  Tale n 

The  Pardoner's  Tale 19 

Balade  de  Bon  Conseyl 25 

Chaucer's  Complaint  to  His  Purse 25 

Anonymous 

Piers  the  Plowman 26 

Anonymous 

The  Chester  Miracle  Play  of  Noah's  Flood 27 

English  and  Scottish  Popular  Ballads 

Edward 32 

Kemp  Owyne $3 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 34 

The  Wife  of  Usher's  Well "34 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne        35 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 38 

The  Hunting  of  the  Cheviot 39 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 43 

Sir  Thomas  Malory 

Le  Morte  Darthur:  Caxton's  Preface 44 

Book  XXI '45 

THE   ELIZABETHAN  AGE 

Edmund  Spenser 

The  Faerie  Queene:  Letter  to  Raleigh 49 

Book  I,  Cantc/i 51 

Canto  hi 56 

Canto  xi 57 

66 


Prothalamion  . 
Elizabethan  Sonneteers 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt 

The  Lover  Compareth  His  State 69 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey 

Description  of  Spring 69 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Astrophel  and  Stella:  Nos.  1,  31,  39,  41 69 

Edmund  Spenser 

Amoretti:  Nos.  24,  34,  63,  70,  75,  79  71 

Samuel  Daniel 

Care-Charmer  Sleep     \   ■  \ 72 


Michael  Drayton 

Since  There's  no  Help '- 72 

William  Shakespeare    \ 

Sonnets:  Nos.  iS,  29,  30)33,  64,  65,  66,  71,  73,  98,  106,  116,  146   ....       72 

vii 


CONTENTS 


Tv 


Elizabethan  Song  Writers 
Anonymous  page 

Back  and  Side,  Go  Bare,  Go  Bare , 75 

Sir  Edward  Dyer 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is 76 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

Love  Is  Dead 76 

John  Lyly 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 77 

Spring's  Welcome 77 

George  Peele 

Cupid's  Curse 77 

Robert  Greene 

Sweet  Are  the  Thoughts 77 

Sephestia's  Song  to  Her  Child 78 

Thomas  Lodge 

Rosalind's  Madrigal         78 

Christopher  Marlowe 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love 78 

Thomas  Nash 

Litany  in  Time  of  Plague 79 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh 

His  Pilgrimage 79 

The  Conclusion 80 

Robert  Southwell 

The  Burning  Babe 80 

William  Shakespeare 
Songs  from  Plays 

When  Icicles  Hang  by  the  Wall 80 

'  Who  Is  Silvia? 81 

Over  Hill,  Over  Dale 81 

Tell  Me  Where  Is  Fancy  Bred 81 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree          81 

Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind 81 

It  Was  a  Lover  and  His  Lass 82 

O  Mistress  Mine,  Where  Are  You  Roaming? 82 

Take,  O  Take  Those  Lips  Away 82 

Come,  Thou  Monarch  of  the  Vine 82 

Hark,  Hark!  the  Lark 82 

Fear  no  More  the  Heat  o'  the  Sun 82 

Come  unto  These  Yellow  Sands        82 

Full  Fathom  Five  Thy  Father  Lies 83 

Where  the  Bee  Sucks         83 

Anonymous 

Hey  Nonny  No ! 83 

^•Edmund  Campion 

Of  Corinna's  Singing 83 

When  Thou  Must  Home 83 

Come,  Cheerful  Day 83 

Now  Winter  Nights  Enlarge 84 

Cherry-Ripe 84 

Chance  and  Change         84 

Thomas  Dekker 

O  Sweet  Content 84 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Lullaby gc 

Michael  Drayton 

Agincourt         gr 

Ben  Jonson 

Hymn  to  Diana          g6 

Song  to  Celia g6 

The  Triumph  of  Charis         gy 

To  the  Memory  of  Shakespeare gy 

A  Pindaric  Ode gg 

An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy         gg 

John  Donne 

Go  and  Catch  a  Falling  Star gg 

Love's  Deity         go 

Sweetest  Love,  I  Do  not  Go gg 

Death,  Be  not  Proud go 

Francis  Beaumont 

Even  Such  Is  Man go 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey go 

John  Fletcher 

Sweetest  Melancholy go 

Care-Charming  Sleep gi: 

Song  to  Bacchus         gi 

John  Webster 

A  Dirge 9I 

Hark,  Now  Everything  Is  Still        gi 

William  Browne 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke gi 

Elizabethan  Prose 

Sir  Thomas  North 

The  Death  of  Caesar gj 

John  Lyly 

Queen  Elizabeth gy 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

The  Defence  of  Poesy ioo 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh 

The  Last  Fight  of  the  Revenge 103 

Francis  Bacon 

Essays:  Of  Truth 107 

Of  Adversity 108 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life iog 

Of  Great  Place iog 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self in 

Of  Youth  and  Age 112 

Of  Gardens 112 

Of  Studies 114 


PURITANS  AND   CAVALIERS 

Caroline  Song  Writers 
George  Wither 

Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair 115 


CONTENTS 


Thomas  Carew  page 

Ask  Me  no  More  Where  Jove  Bestows 115 

He  That  Loves  a  Rosy  Cheek 

Sir  John  Suckling 

Constancy        .  

Why  so  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover? 

Richard  Lovelace 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 

James  Shirley 

A  Dirge 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Argument  of  His  Book 

Upon  the  Loss  of  His  Mistresses 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time 

How  Roses  Came  Red 

To  Daffodils  

Night  Piece,  to  Julia 

Upon  Julia's  Clothes 

An  Ode  for  Ben  Jonson 

Grace  for  a  Child 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent 

George  Herbert 

Virtue         

The  Collar 

The  Quip 

The  Pulley 

Richard  Crashaw 

In  the  Holy  Nativity  of  Our  Lord  God 

Henry  Vaughan 

The  Retreat 

Peace  

The  World 

Edmund  Waller 

On  a  Girdle 

Go,  Lovely  Rose! 

Andrew  Marvell 

An  Horatian  Ode 

Abraham  Cowley 

The  Change 

The  Wish         

The  Swallow 

The  Thief 

Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset 

Song:  To  All  You  Ladies  now  at  Land 

Caroline  Prose 
Sir  Thomas  Browne 

Hydriotaphia,  or  Urn-Burial 

Thomas  Fuller 

The  Good  Schoolmaster 

The  Life  of  Queen  Elizabeth 

Izaak  Walton 

The  Complete  Angler 137 


CONTENTS  xi 


Jeremy  Taylor  page 

Holy  Dying 142 

John  Milton 

y   L'Allegro 145 

J  II  Penseroso 147 

Lycidas 148 

On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-Three 151 

On  Shakespeare 152 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 152 

</  On  His  Blindness 152 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 152 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 153 

On  His  Deceased  Wife 153 

n/  Paradise  Lost:  Book  I 153 

Book  II 165 

Book  XII 180 

Areopagitica          181 

Samuel  Pepys 

The  Diary 187 

Loyalist  Stall  Ballads 

To  Make  Charles  a  Great  King 191 

The  Humble  Petition  of  the  House  of  Commons 192 

The  Character  of  a  Roundhead 192 

Come,  Drawer,  Some  Wine 192 

The  Protecting  Brewer          193 

The  Lawyers'  Lamentation 193 

THE  AGE  OF   CLASSICISM 

John  Dryden 

y  Absalom  and  Achitophel 195 

Mac  Flecknoe 204 

The  Hind  and  the  Panther         207 

A  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day 208 

Alexander's  Feast 209 

Lines  Under  the  Portrait  of  Milton 211 

An  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy     . — 211 

Preface  to  the  Fables 213 

Daniel  Defoe 

The  True-Born  Englishman 214 

The  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters 216 

The  Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal 221 

Jonathan  Swift 

>/The  Tale  of  a  Tub 226 

A  Modest  Proposal 231 

The  Journal  to  Stella 236 

Joseph  Addison 

The  Campaign 239 

The  Spacious  Firmament  on  High 240 

Joseph  Addison  and  Richard  Steele 
The  Tatler 

Prospectus 240 

Duelling 241 

Ned  Softly         242 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Frozen  Words •  244 

The  Spectator 

Mr.  Spectator 246 

The  Club     .      .      . 248 

Westminster  Abbey 251 

Sir  Roger  at  Church 253 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Assizes 254 

The  Vision  of  Mirza 256 

A  Coquette's  Heart 258 

Alexander  Pope 

Windsor  Forest 260 

An  Essay  on  Criticism 262 

/  The  Rape  of  the  Lock 264 

An  Essay  on  Man 276 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot 278 

The  Universal  Prayer 279 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

The  Deserted  Village 279 

The  Retaliation    .      .            286 

The  Citizen  of  the  World 

Beau  Tibbs  at  Home 287 

A  Visit  to  a  Silk-Merchant 289 

Samuel  Johnson 

The  Rambler,  No.  121 290 

Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield 293 

Letter  to  James  Macpherson 294 

Lives  of  the  English  Poets 

Milton          294 

Dryden         297 

Addison 298 

Pope 299 

Gray 300 

James  Boswell 

The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson:  The  Year  1763 301 

Edmund  Burke 

Address  to  the  Electors  of  Bristol 322 

The  Impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings 326 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France 329 

The  Precursors  of  Romanticism 

Allan  Ramsay 

Peggy       .  m 332 

The  Lass  with  a  Lump  of  Land 332 

James  Thomson 

The  Seasons 333 

The  Castle  of  Indolence        335 

Rule,  Britannia 336 

Edward  Young 

Night  Thoughts 336 

Robert  Blair 

The  Grave 337 

William  Collins 

A  Song  from  Cymbeline 339 


CONTENTS  xiii 


PAGE 

How  Sleep  the  Brave 339 

Ode  to  Evening 339 

The  Passions 340 

Thomas  Gray 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College 342 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard         343 

The  Progress  of  Poesy 345 

The  Bard 347 

The  Fatal  Sisters              349 

Sketch  of  His  Own  Character 350 

Letters 350 

James  Macpherson 

Cath-Loda 352 

The  Songs  of  Selma 353 

Carthon                  353 

Robert  Fergusson 

The  Daft  Days 353 

Thomas  Chatterton 

Bristowe  Tragedie 354 

Song  from  ^Ella 359 

William  Cowper 

Walking  with  God 360 

The  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 360 

The  Task 361 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture   . 362 

Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin 364 

To  Mary          364 

The  Castaway 365 

Robert  Burns 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 366 

The  Holy  Fair 366 

To  a  Mouse 369 

To  a  Daisy 369 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 370 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid          373 

Tarn  O'Shanter 374 

Scots  Wha  Hae 377 

Songs 

Mary  Morison 377 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes 377 

Auld  Lang  Syne 378 

Of  A'  the  Airts 37S 

Tarn  Glen 378 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 379 

Go  Fetch  to  Me  a  Pint  of  Wine 379 

John  Anderson 379 

Willie  Brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maut 379 

Sweet  Afton 380 

Bonie  Doon 380 

Ae  Fond  Kiss          380 

Highland  Mary .      .           .     .  3S1 

Duncan  Gray          381 

See,  the  Smoking  Bowl  before  Us 382 


xiv  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Contented  wi'  Little 382 

A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That 382 

0,  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast . .  383 

William  Blake 
Songs  of  Innocence 

Introduction 383 

The  Lamb 383 

Cradle  Song 384 

The  Little  Black  Boy 384 

Songs  of  Experience 

The  Clod  and  the  Pebble 384 

The  Sick  Rose 385 

The  Tiger 385 

The  Sunflower         385 

Auguries  of  Innocence 385 

Milton        385 

George  Crabbe 

The  Village 385 

The  Borough         387 

William  Lisle  Bowles 

Time 387 

Hope 388 

To  the  River  Tweed 388 

Bamborough  Castle    ...            388 

Written  at  Tynemouth  after  a  Tempestuous  Voyage 388 


THE  AGE  OF   ROMANTICISM 

William  Wordsworth 

Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads 389 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring 392 

Expostulation  and  Reply 392 

The  Tables  Turned ,  .      .      .  392 

J  Tintern  Abbey 393 

Lucy  Gray 395 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways 396 

Three  Years  She  Grew    .      .   ' 396 

A  Slumber  Did  My  Spirit  Seal ^-396 

The  Prelude 396 

Michael 399 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up 406 

Resolution  and  Independence 406 

Yew  Trees 408 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns 409 

The  Solitary  Reaper 409 

To  the  Cuckoo 410 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 410 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 411 

Ode  to  Duty 411 

/  Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 411 

*    Ode:  Intimations  of  Immortality 413 

To  a  Sky-Lark 415 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic         415 

London,  1802 416 

Westminster  Bridge 416 

On  the  Sea-Shore  near  Calais                 416 

The  World  Is  too  Much  with  Us 416 

To  Toussaint  L'Ouverture 417 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

France:  An  Ode 417 

J  Kubla  Khan                      l  .. «  vjk>v 4X9 

yThe  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  a^W^^  ' ^ 

Frost  at  Midnight 430 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni 431 

Dejection:  An  Ode 433 

Youth  and  Age 435 

Work  without  Hope         436 

Biographia  Literaria .  436 

Robert  Southey 

The  Inchcape  Rock 440 

My  Days  among  the  Dead  Are  Passed 441 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

Lochinvar 441 

Soldier,  Rest! 442 

Boat  Song 442 

Coronach 443 

Harp  of  the  North 443 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 444 

Brignall  Banks 444 

County  Guy          445 

Bonny  Dundee 445 

George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron 

When  We  Two  Parted 446 

Know  Ye  the  Land         446 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 447 

The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib .  447 

Stanzas  for  Music 447 

So  We'll  Go  no  More  A-Roving 448 

My  Boat  Is  on  the  Shore 448 

Sonnet  on  Chillon                  .     L^^-^ZZZ/      f  *  ■£-  ( 44-8 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon        i^^C^^ .  A  *T   U 448 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage:  Canto  III 452 

Canto  IV 456 

Don  Juan:  Dedication 460 

Canto  III 460 

Canto  IV 463 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 471 

Ozymandias 472 

y  Ode  to  the  West  Wind 472 

The  Indian  Serenade 474 

^The  Cloud 474 

vTo  a  Skylark         475 

To (Music,  When  Soft  Voices  Die) 476 

Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection 476 


xvi  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  World's  Wanderers 477 

Time 477 

y  To  Night 477 

To (One  Word  Is  Too  Often  Profaned)         478 

Lyrics  from  Prometheus  Unbound 478 

/Adonais 479 

Final  Chorus  from  Hellas - 488 

When  the  Lamp  Is  Shattered 488 

With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane 489 

John  Keats 

Sleep  and  Poetry 49° 

Endymion •   •  49° 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 491 

7  Ode  to  a  Nightingale 492 

y  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 493 

/Ode  on  Melancholy 494 

-/To  Autumn 494 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern         495 

Robin  Hood 495 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 496 

Hyperion:  Book  I 502 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 507 

When  I  Have  Fears 507 

Bright  Star 508 

Thomas  Campbell 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 508 

Thomas  Moore 

The  Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing 508 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night 509 

The  Harp  That  Once  through  Tara's  Halls 509 

Oh,  Breathe  not  His  Name        509 

Charles  Wolfe 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 509 

Thomas  Hood 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 510 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt 511 

Charles  Lamb 

Christ's  Hospital  Five  and  Thirty  Years  Ago 512 

Dream  Children 519 

The  Praise  of  Chimney-Sweepers 521 

A  Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig 525 

The  Superannuated  Man 529 

William  Hazlitt 

The  Fight 533 

On  Going  a  Journey 542 

On  Familiar  Style 548 

Thomas  de  Quincy 

Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater 551 

On  the  Knocking  at  the  Gate  in  Macbeth 559 

y   Levana  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow 561 


CONTENTS 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 

Walter  Savage  Landor  page 

RoseAylmer 566 

The  Death  of  Artemidora 566 

Sappho  to  Hesperus         566 

One  Year  Ago 566 

To  Robert  Browning 566 

On  the  Hellenics         567 

Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon 567 

To  Youth              568 

To  Age 56S 

On  His  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday 56S 

To  My  Ninth  Decade 56S 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 56S 

CEnone 57° 

v/ The  Lotos-Eaters 574 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 575 

You  Ask  Me  Why 579 

Morte  D' Arthur 579 

>/ Ulysses 583 

Locksley  Hall 584 

Break,  Break,  Break 589 

Songs  from  the  Princess:  Bugle  Song 589 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 589 

Home  They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead            .     .  590 

In  Memoriam 590 

The  Eagle - 592 

Maud 592 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade          594 

The  Northern  Farmer — Old  Style 594 

The  Higher  Pantheism          596 

Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wail 596 

The  Revenge        597 

Rizpah 599 

By  an  Evolutionist     . 601 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam 601 

Crossing  the  Bar 603 

Robert  Browning 

Song  from  Pippa  Passes 603 

Cavalier  Tunes 603 

The  Lost  Leader        604 

How  They  Brought  the  Good  News 605 

Meeting  at  Night 606 

Parting  at  Morning 606 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 606 

Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad 607 

Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea 607 

Saul 607 

Love  among  the  Ruins 614 

Memorabilia 615 

J  My  Last  Duchess 615 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

In  a  Gondola         616 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral 619 

The  Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb 621 

y  Andrea  Del  Sarto 623 

Prospice 627 

Abt  Vogler 627 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 629 

Epilogue  to  Asolando 632 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 632 

The  Cry  of  the  Children 633 

A  Musical  Instrument 636 

Edward  Fitzgerald 

Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam 636 

Thomas  Carlyle 

Sartor  Resartus 644 

Past  and  Present                   648 

Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches 655 

John  Ruskin 

Modern  Painters:  Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  Alps 657 

The  Two  Boyhoods 658 

The  Stones  of  Venice:  St.  Mark's 664 

Time  and  Tide :  Letter  xv 669 

The  Relation  of  Art  to  Morals 671 

Thomas  Babington,  Lord  Macaulay 

Oliver  Goldsmith 675 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus              683 

Where  Lies  the  Land 684 

All  Is  Well 684 

Life  Is  Struggle 684 

Ite  Domum  Saturae 684 

Say  not  the  Struggle  Nought  Availeth 685 

Matthew  Arnold  • 

Shakespeare , 685 

The  Forsaken  Merman 686 

Philomela        687 

Requiescat 688 

The  Scholar-Gipsy 688 

Sohrab  and  Rustum         692 

The  Austerity  of  Poetry 706 

Rugby  Chapel 706 

Dover  Beach 709 

The  Last  Word 709 

Literature  and  Science 709 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley 

On  the  Advisableness  of  Improving  Natural  Knowledge      ......  720 

John  Henry,  Cardinal  Newman 

The  Idea  of  a  University 728 

Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua 739 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

The  Blessed  Damozel 740 

Sister  Helen 741 


: 


CONTENTS  xix 

PAGE 

y/  The  House  of  Life:  The  Sonnet 745 

Lovesight 745 

Silent  Noon .      .           ...  745 

A  Superscription 745 

William  Morris 

The  Earthly  Paradise:  An  Apology 746 

Prologue 746 

Atalanta's  Race 747 

The  Haystack  in  the  Floods 758 

Walter  Horatio  Pater 

Style     .            760 

Wordsworth 772 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

^s  Triplex 780 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 

y  The  Garden  of  Proserpine 784 

Atalanta  in  Calydon:  Choruses 785 

A  Match 787 

To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 787 

After  Sunset    .            789 

On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  George  Eliot 789 

Christopher  Marlowe 789 

Ben  Jonson • 790 

George  Meredith 

Love  in  the  Valley 79° 

Juggling  Jerry 794 

Lucifer  in  Starlight 795 


A  BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


A   BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  (1340  1400) 

THE  PROLOGUE 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the 

rote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour; 
Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth  5 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt1  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 
That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye,       10 
(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages2): 
Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages 
(And    palmers    for    to    seken    straunge 

strondes) 
To  feme3  halwes,4  couthe5  in  sondry  4on- 

des; 
And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende       15 
Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 
The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seke, 
That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they 

were  seke. 
Bifel  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay         20 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 
At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  companye, 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure6  y-falle7          25 
In   felawshipe,   and    pilgrims   were   they 

alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde ; 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste.8 
And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste, 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everichon,    31 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 
And  made  forward9  erly  for  to  ryse, 
To  take  our  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 
But  natheles,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and 

space,  35 

1  wood.  2  hearts.  3  distant.  4  shrines.  6  known. 
6 chance,  'fallen.  8  "entertained  in  the  best  manner." 
9  agreement. 


Er  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace, 

Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 

To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 

Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 

And   whiche   they   weren,    and   of   what 

degree;  40 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were 

inne: 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  biginne. 
A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy 

man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 
To  ryden  out,  he  loved  chivalrye,  45 

Trouthe   and   honour,    fredom   and   cur- 

teisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre,10 
And  therto  hadde  he  riden  (no  man  ferre11) 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse.     50 
At  Alisaundre  he  was,  whan  it  was  wonne; 
Ful   ofte   tyme   he   hadde   the   bord  bi- 

gonne12 
Aboven  alle  naciouns  in  Pruce. 
In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed13  and  in  Ruce, 
No  Cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.        55 
In  Gernade  at  the  sege  eek  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Belmarye. 
At  Lyeys  was  he,  and  at  Satalye, 
Whan  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  Grete 

See 
At  many  a  noble  ary  ve14  hadde  he  be.  60 
At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 
And  foughten  for  our  feith  at  Tramissene 
In  listes  thryes,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 
This  ilke  worthy  knight  hadde  been  also 
Somtyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye,  65 

Ageyn  another  hethen  in  Turkye: 
And    evermore    he    hadde     a    sovereyn 

prys.15 
And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was 

wys. 
And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vileinye  ne  sayde  70 

In  al  his  lyf,  un-to  no  maner  wight.16 
He  was  a  verray  parfit  gentil  knight. 

10  war.  "  farther. 

12  "he  had  been  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table." 

13  gone  on  an  expedition.  14  disembarkation. 
15  reputation.                                    16  no  sort  of  person. 


TEE. END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 
His  hors1  were  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipoun2  75 

Al  bismotered3  with  his  habergeoun;4 
For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage,5 
And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimage. 
With  him  ther  was  his  sone,  a  yong 

Squyer, 
A  lovyere,  and  a  lusty  bacheler,  80 

With  lokkes  crulle,6  as  they  were  leyd  in 

presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe,7 
And    wonderly    deliver,8    and    greet    of 

strengthe. 
And  he  had  been  somtyme  in  chivachye,9 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys,  and  Picardye,    86 
And  born  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space,10 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady11  grace. 
Embrouded12  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede13 
Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  whyte  and  rede.  90 
Singinge  he  was,  or  floytinge,14  al  the  day; 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  longe  and 

wyde. 
Wel  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde. 
He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endyte,    95 
Iuste15  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye16 

and  wryte. 
So  hote17  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale18 
He  sleep  namore  than  dooth  a  nightin- 
gale. 
Curteys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 
And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.    100 
A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servaunts  namo 
At  that  tyme,  for  him  liste19  ryde  so; 
And  he  was  clad  in  cote  and  hood  of  grene ; 
A  sheef  of  pecock-arwes  brighte  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bar  ful  thriftily,  105 

(Wel  coude  he  dresse  his  takel20  yemanly: 
His  arwes  drouped  noght  with  fetheres 

lowe) , 
And  in  his  hand  he  bar  a  mighty  bowe. 
A    not-heed21    hadde   he,    with   a   broun 

visage. 
Of  wode-craft  wel  coude  he  al  the  usage.no 
Upon  his  arm  he  bar  a  gay  bracer,22 
And  by  his  syde  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler, 
And  on  that  other  syde  a  gay  daggere, 

I  horses  (plural).  " doublet.    .  3  spotted. 
4  coat  of  mail.                 5  voyage.  6  curly. 

7 ordinary  height.  "active.     »  military  expedition. 

"■"considering  the  short  time  he  had  served." 

II  lady's.      I2  adorned.      13  meadow.  ll  fluting. 

16  joust.        "draw.  "hotly.     1S  in  the  night-time. 

19  it  pleased  him.  20take  care  of  his  weapons. 

*'  cropped  head.  22  guard. 


Harneised23  wel,  and  sharp  as  point  of 

spere ; 
A  Cristofre24  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene.115 
An  horn  he  bar,  the  bawdrik25  was  of  grene; 
A  forster26  was  he,  soothly,  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  ful  simple  and 

coy;  119 

Hir  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seynt  Loy, 
And  she  was  cleped27  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely; 
And  Frensh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  fetisly,28 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe,  125 
For  Frensh  of  Paris  was  to  hir  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fingres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel 

kepe,  130 

That  no  drope  ne  fille  up-on  hir  brest. 
In  curteisye  was  set  ful  moche  hir  lest.29 
Hir  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hir  coppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 
Of  grece,   whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir 

draughte.  135 

Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte,30 
And  sikerly31  she  was  of  greet  disport,32 
And  full  plesaunt,  and  amiable  of  port,33 
And  peyned  hir34  to  countrefete  chere35 
Of  court,  and  been  estatlich36  of  manere,i4o 
And  to  ben  holden  digne37  of  reverence. 
But,  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience,38 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 
She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 
Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or 

bledde.  145 

Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 
With   rosted   flesh,   or   milk   and   wastel 

breed.39 
But  sore  weep  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 
Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte: 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.150 
Ful  semely  hir  wimpel  pinched40  was; 
Hir  nose  tretys;41  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas; 
Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  ther- to  softe  and 

reed; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  forheed; 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe;  155 

23  equipped. 

24  "  figure  of  St.  Christopher  used  as  a  brooch." 
26  belt.  26  forester.     27  named.    2S  elegantly. 

29  pleasure.    30  reached.     31  truly.  32  fond  of  pleasure. 

33  behavior.  31  tried  hard.  36  deportment. 

36  dignified.  37  worthy.  38  tenderness  of  heart. 

39  fine  bread.  40  pleated.  ll  well  proportioned. 


CHA  UCER 


For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 
Ful  fetis1  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 
Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 
A  peire2  of  bedes,  gauded  al  with  grene; 
And  ther-on  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful 

shene,  160 

On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

Another  Nonne  with  hir  hadde  she, 
That  was  hir  chapeleyne,  and  Preestes 

thre. 
A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fair  for  the  mais- 

trye,3  165 

An  out-rydere,  that  lovede  venerye;4 
A  manly  man,  to  been  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deyntee  hors  hadde  he  in 

stable: 
And,  whan  he  rood,  men  mighte  his  brydel 

here 
Ginglen  in  a  whistling  wind  as  clere,        1 70 
And  eek  as  loude  as  dooth  the  chapel-belle, 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keper  of  the  celle. 
The  reule  of  seint  Maure  or  of  seint  Beneit, 
By-cause   that   it   was   old   and  som-del 

streit,5  174 

This  ilke6  monk  leet  olde  thinges  pace,7 
And  held  after  the  newe  world  the  space. 
He  yaf8  nat  of  that  text  a  pulled  hen, 
That  seith,  that  hunters  been  nat  holy 

men; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  cloisterlees, 
Is  lykned  til  a  fish  that  is  waterlees;         180 
This  is  to  seyn,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre. 
But  thilke  text  held  he  nat  worth  an  oistre. 
And  I  seyde,  his  opinioun  was  good. 
What  sholde  he  studie,  and  make  him- 

selven  wood,9 
Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alwey  to  poure,  185 
Or  swinken10  with  his  handes,  and  laboure, 
As  Austin  bit?     How  shal  the  world  be 

served? 
Lat  Austin  have  his  swink  to  him  reserved. 
Therfore  he  was  a  pricasour11  aright; 
Grehoundes  he  hadde,  as  swifte  as  fowel 

in  flight;  190 

Of  priking12  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  al  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 
I  seigh  his  sieves  purfiled13  at  the  hond 
With  grys,14  and  that  the  fyneste  of  a 

lond; 
And,  for  to  festne  his  hood  under  his  chin, 

1  handsome.  2  string.  3  a  superior  sort  of  fellow. 

4  hunting.  5  somewhat  strict.        6  same.  '  go. 

s  cared.  'mad.       I0  work.        "  hard  rider. 

12  riding.  >3  trimmed.  lt  gray  fur. 


He  hadde  of  gold  y-wroght  a  curious  pin: 
A  love-knotte  in  the  gretter  ende  ther  was. 
His  heed  was  balled,  that  shoon  as  any 

glas,  198 

And  eek  his  face,  as  he  had  been  anoint. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  point;15 
His  eyen  stepe,16  and  rollinge  in  his  heed, 
That  stemed17  as  a  forneys  of  a  leed;18 
His  botes  souple,  his  hors  in  greet  estat. 
Now  certeinly  he  was  a  fair  prelat ; 
He  was  nat  pale  as  a  for-pyned19  goost.  205 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  roost. 
His  palfrey  was  as  broun  as  is  a  berye. 
A  Frere  there  was,  a  wantown  and  a 

merye, 
A  limitour,20  a  ful  solempne21  man. 
In  alle  the  ordres  foure  is  noon  that  can22 
So  moche  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage.211 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen,  at  his  owne  cost. 
Un-to  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he        215 
With  frankeleyns23  over-al  in  his  contree, 
And  eek   with  worthy  wommen   of   the 

toun: 
For  he  had  power  of  confessioun, 
As  seyde  him-self,  more  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat.24  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 
And  plesaunt  was  his  absolucioun ; 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve25  penaunce 
Ther-as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitaunce; 
For  unto  a  povre  order  for  to  yive  225 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shrive. 
For  if  he  yaf,  he  dorste  make  avaunt,26 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 
He    may    nat    wepe    al-thogh    him    sore 

smerte.  230 

Therfore,  in  stede  of  weping  and  preyeres, 
Men  moot  yeve  silver  to  the  povre  freres. 
His  tipet  was  ay  farsed27  full  of  knyves 
And  pinnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wyves. 
And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  mery  note;       235 
Wel  coude  he  synge  and  pleyen  on  a  rote.28 
Of  yeddinges29  he  bar  utterly  the  prys. 
His  nekke  whyt  was  as  the  flour-de-lys; 
Ther-to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
He    knew    the    tavernes    well    in    every 

toun,  240 


'"  in  good  condition. 
18  fire  under  a  cauldron. 
20  licensed  beggar. 
23  country  gentlemen. 


5  give 


—  give. 

28  a  sort  of  fiddle 


16  glittering.         "glowed. 

19  wasted  away. 
21  important.       22  knows. 
24  licensed  to  hear  confessions. 
26  boast.  "  stuffed. 

29  songs. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere1 
Bet2  than  a  lazar3  or  a  beggestere;4 
For  unto  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  facultee,5 
To  have  with  seke  lazars  aqueyntaunce.245 
It  is  nat  honest,  it  may  nat  avaunce6 
For  to  delen  with  no  swich  poraille,7 
But  al  with  riche  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 
And  over-al,  ther  as  profit  sholde  aryse, 
Curteys  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servyse.      250 
Ther  nas8  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous. 
He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous; 
For  thogh  a  widwe  hadde  noght  a  sho, 
So  plesaunt  was  his  In  principio,9 
Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthing,  er  he  wente. 
His   purchas10   was   wel   bettre   than   his 

rente.11  256 

And  rage  he  coude  as  it  were  right  a 

whelpe. 
In  love-dayes  ther  coude  he  mochel  helpe. 
For  ther  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloisterer, 
With  a  thredbar  cope,  as  is  a  povre  scoler, 
But  he  was  lyk  a  maister  or  a  pope.         261 
Of  double  worsted  was  his  semi-cope, 
That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lipsed,  for  his  wantownesse, 
To   make   his   English   swete   up-on   his 

tonge;  265 

And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  had 

songe, 
His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  heed  aright, 
As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd. 
A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked 

berd,  270 

In  mottelee,  and  hye  on  horse  he  sat, 
Up-on  his  heed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat; 
His  botes  clasped  faire  and  fetisly. 
His  resons  he  spak  ful  solempnely, 
Souninge12  alway  thencrees  of  his  winning. 
He  wolde   the   see  were  kept13   for  any 

thing  276 

Bitwixe  Middlelburgh  and  Orewelle. 
Wel  coude  he  in  eschaunge  sheeldes14  selle. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  bisette;15 
Ther  wiste  no  wight  that  he  was  in  dette, 
So  estatly  was  he  of  his  governaunce,16  281 
With  his  bargaynes,  and  with  his  chev- 


lsaunce 


17^ 


1  barmaid.        -  better.  3  leper.  '  beggar  woman. 

»  considering  his  ability.  "profit.        '  poor  people. 

"  was  not. 

» the  beginning  of  the  Latin  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

10  proceeds  of  his  begging.  "  regular  income. 

12  tending  towards.  u  guarded. 

H  shields,  French  coins.  '  ■  rnipluvc-d. 

16  management.  >7  dealings. 


For  sothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  with-alle, 
But  sooth  to  seyn,  I  noot18  how  men  him 
calle. 
A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenford  also,     285 
That  un-to  logik  hadde  longe  y-go. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  nas  nat  right  fat,  I  undertake ; 
But  loked  hoi  we,  and  ther- to  soberly. 
Ful  thredbar  was  his  overest  courtepy;192c>o 
For  he  had  geten  him  yet  no  benefyce, 
Ne  was  so  worldly  for  to  have  offyce. 
For  him  was  lever  have  at  his  beddes  heed 
Twenty  bokes,  clad  in  blak  or  reed, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophye,  295 

Than  robes  riche,  or  fithele,20  or  gay  sau- 

trye.21 
But  al  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre; 
But   al   that  he   mighte  of  his  freendes 

hente,22 
On  bokes  and  on  lerninge  he  it  spente,     300 
And  bisily  gan  for  the  soules  preye 
Of  hem  that  yaf  him  wher-with  to  scoleye. 
Of  studie  took  he  most  cure  and  most 

hede. 
Noght  o  word  spak  he  more  than  was  nede, 
And  that  was  seyd  in  forme  and  rever- 
ence,23 3oS 
And  short  and  quik,  and  ful  of  hy  sen- 
tence.24 
Souninge25  in  moral  vertu  was  his  speche, 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,   and  gladly 
teche. 
A  Sergeant  of  the  La  we,  war26  and  wys, 
That  often  hadde  been  at  the  parvys,27    310 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discreet  he  was,  and  of  greet  reverence: 
He  semed  swich,  his  wordes  weren  so  wyse. 
Iustyce  he  was  ful  often  in  assyse, 
By  paten te,  and  by  pleyn  commissioun;3i5 
For28  his  science,  and  for  his  heigh  renoun , 
Of  fees  and  robes  hadde  he  many  oon. 
So  greet  a  purchasour29  was  nowher  noon. 
Al  was  fee  simple  to  him  in  effect, 
His  purchasing  mighte  nat  been  infect.  320 
Nowher  so  bisy  a  man  as  he  ther  nas, 
And  yet  he  semed  bisier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  caas30  and  domes31  alle, 
That  from  the  tyme  of  king  William  were 
falle. 


18  know  not.  "outer  coat.     20  fiddle.     21  psaltery. 

22  get.  23  "with  propriety  and  modesty." 

24  meaning.  26  conducing  to.  26  cautious. 

57  church-porch.  28  because  of.  29  conveyancer. 

30  cases.  31  judgments. 


CHA  UCER 


Therto  he  coude  endyte,  and  make  a  thing, 
Ther    coude    no    wight    pinche1    at    his 

wryting;  326 

And  every  statut  coude  he  pleyn  by  rote. 
He  rood  but  hoomly  in  a  medlee2  cote 
Girt  with  a  ceint3   of   silk,  with  barres 

smale; 
Of  his  array  telle  I  no  lenger  tale.  330 

A  Frankeleyn  was  in  his  companye; 
Whyt  was  his  berd,  as  is  the  dayesye. 
Of  his  complexioun  he  was  sangwyn.4 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe5  a  sop6  in 

wyn.6 
To  liven  in  delyt  was  ever  his  wone,7       335 
For  he  was  Epicurus  owne  sone, 
That  heeld  opinioun  that  pleyn  delyt8 
Was  verraily  felicitee  parfyt. 
An  housholdere,  and  that  a  greet,  was  he; 
Seynt  Iulian  he  was  in  his  contree.  340 

His  breed,  his  ale,  was  alwey  after  oon;9 
A  bettre  envyned10  man  was  no-wher  noon. 
With-oute  bake  mete  was  never  his  hous, 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plentevous, 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke, 
Of  alle  deyntees  that  men  coude  thinke.346 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yeer, 
So  chaunged  he  his  mete  and  his  soper. 
Ful   many  a   fat   partrich   hadde   he   in 

mewe,11 
And  many  a  breem12  and  many  a  luce13  in 

stewe.14  350 

Wo  was  his  cook,  but-if  his  sauce  were 
Poynaunt  and  sharp,  and  redy  al  his  gere. 
His  table  dormant15  in  his  halle  alway 
Stood  redy  covered  al  the  longe  day. 
At  sessiouns  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire.     355 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  was  knight  of  the  shire. 
An  anlas16  and  a  gipser17  al  of  silk 
Heng  at  his  girdel,  whyt  as  morne  milk. 
A  shirreve  hadde  he  been,  and  a  countour;18 
Was  no-wher  such  a  worthy  vavasour.19  360 
An  Haberdassher  and  a  Carpenter, 
A  Webbe,20  a  Dyere,  and  a  Tapicer,21 
Were  with  us  eek,  clothed  in  o22  liveree, 
Of  a  solempne  and  greet  fraternitee. 
Ful  fresh  and  newe  hir  gere  apyked23  was; 
Hir  knyves  were  y-chaped24  noght  with 

bras,  366 

1  find  fault  with.  2  of  mixed  colors.  3  girdle. 

4  ruddy.  6  in  the  morning. 

6  wine  with  bread  in  it.  7  custom. 

8  joy.  9  of  one  quality.  10  stored  with  wine, 

"coop.  I2  a  sort  of  fish.  13  pike. 

14  fish-pond.   l5  permanent  side  table.  ,6  short  dagger. 
17  purse.  1S  auditor.  19  landed  gentleman. 

20  weaver.       21  upholsterer.  —  one. 

23  trimmed.  24  capped. 


But  al  with  silver,  wroght  ful  clene  and 

weel, 
Hir  girdles  and  hir  pouches  every-deel. 
Wei  semed  ech  of  hem  a  fair  burgeys, 
To  sitten  in  a  yeldhalle25  on  a  deys.         370 
Everich,  for  the  wisdom  that  he  can, 
Was  shaply  for  to  been  an  alderman. 
For  catel26  hadde  they  y-nogh  and  rente, 
And  eek  hir  wy ves  wolde  it  wel  assente ; 
And  elles  certein  were  they  to  blame.      375 
It  is  ful  fair  to  been  y-clept  "ma  dame", 
And  goon  to  vigilyes  al  bifore, 
And  have  a  mantel  royalliche  y-bore. 
A  Cook  they  hadde  with  hem  for  the 

nones,27 
To  boille  the  chiknes  with  the  mary-bones, 
And  poudre-marchant  tart,28  and  galin- 


gale. 


381 


Wel  coude  he  knowe  a  draughte  of  London 

ale. 
He  coude  roste,  and  sethe,30  and  broille, 

and  frye, 
Maken  mortreux,31  and  wel  bake  a  pye. 
But  greet  harm  was   it,  as  it  thoughte 

me,  385 

That  on  his  shine  a  mormal32  hadde  he; 
For  blankmanger,33  that  made  he  with  the 

beste. 
A   Shipman  was   ther,   woning  fer  by 

weste: 
For  aught  I  woot,  he  was  of  Dertemouthe. 
He  rood  up-on  a  rouncy,34  as  he  couthe,35 
In  a  gowne  of  falding36  to  the  knee.  391 

A  daggere  hanging  on  a  laas3'  hadde  he 
Aboute  his  nekke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  hote  somer  had  maad  his  hewe  al 

broun ; 
And,  certeinly,  he  was  a  good  felawe.      395 
Ful   many  a   draughte   of   wyn    had   he 

y-drawe 
From  Burdeux-ward,  whyl  that  the  chap- 
man38 sleep. 
Of  nyce  conscience  took  he  no  keep.39 
If  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  hyer 

hond, 
By  water40  he  sente  hem  hoom40  to  every 

lond.  400 

But  of  his  craft41  to  rekene  wel  his  tydes, 
His  stremes42  and  his  daungers  him  bisydes, 

25  guild-hall.          26  property.  27  for  the  occasion. 

28  a  sharp  sort  of  flavoring.  29  sweet  cyperus. 

30  boil.              3I  pottages.  32  sore. 

33  a  sort  of  chicken  compote.  34  hackney. 

35  as  well  as  he  could.  36  coarse  cloth. 

37  string.              38  super-cargo.  39  cared  nothing  at  all. 

40 he  made  the  losers  "walk  the  plank." 

"  skill.  42  currents. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


His  herberwe1  and  his  mone,2  his  lode- 
menage,3 
Ther    nas    noon    swich    from    Hulle    to 

Cartage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wys  to  undertake ;     405 
With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  berd  been 

shake. 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havenes,  as  they 

were, 
From  Gootlond  to  the  cape  of  Finistere, 
And    every    cryke    in    Britayne    and    in 
Spayne ;  409 

His  barge  y-cleped  was  the  Maudelayne. 
With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisyk, 
In  al  this  world  ne  was  ther  noon  him  lyk 
To  speke  of  phisik  and  of  surgerye ; 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomye. 
He  kepte4  his  pacient  a  ful  greet  del         415 
In  houres,4  by  his  magik  naturel. 
Wel  coude  he  fortunen5  the  ascendent 
Of  his  images  for  his  pacient. 
He  knew  the  cause  of  everich  maladye, 
Were  it  of  hoot  or  cold,  or  moiste,  or 
drye,  420 

And  where  engendred,  and  of  what  hu- 
mour; 
He  was  a  verrey  parfit  practisour. 
The  cause  y-knowe,  and  of  his  harm  the 

rote,6 
Anon  he  yaf  the  seke  man  his  bote.7 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries,         425 
To  sende  him  drogges,  and  his  letuaries,8 
For  ech  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne; 
Hir  frendschipe  nas  nat  newe  to  biginne. 
Wel  knew  he  the  olde  Esculapius, 
And  Deiscorides,  and  eek  Rufus;  430 

Old  Ypocras,  Haly,  and  Galien; 
Serapion,  Razis,  and  Avicen; 
Averrois,  Damascien,  and  Constantyn; 
Bernard,  and   Gatesden,   and  Gilbertyn. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable9  was  he,  435 

For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee, 
But  of  greet  norissing  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  litel  on  the  Bible. 
In  sangwin10  and  in  pers11  he  clad  was  al, 
Lyned  with  taffata  and  with  sendal,12     440 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence;13 
He  kepte  that  he  wan  in  pestilence. 
For  gold  in  phisik  is  a  cordial, 
Therfore  he  lovede  gold  in  special. 

1  harbor.  2  position  of  the  moon.  3  pilotage. 

*  watched  for  his  patient's  favorable  star. 

'On  the  five  following  lines  consult  the  notes. 

'  root,  origin.       'remedy.  "remedies,      'temperate. 

10  red  cloth.        "blue  cloth.     n  thin  silk,     "expenditure. 


A  good  Wyf  was  ther  of  bisyde  Bathe, 
But  she  was  som-del  deef,  and  that  was 

scathe.14  446 

Of  clooth-making  she  hadde   swiche  an 

haunt,15 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wyf  ne  was  ther  noon 
That  to  the  off  ring  bifore  hir  sholde  goon; 
And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn,  so  wrooth  was 

she,  451 

That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hir  coverchiefs16  ful  fyne  were  of  ground  ;17 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound 
That  on  a  Sonday  were  upon  hir  heed.    455 
Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 
Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoes  ful  moiste18 

and  newe. 
Bold  was  hir  face,  and  fair,  and  reed  of 

hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  ly ve ; 
Housbondes   at    chirche-dore    she   hadde 

fyve,  460 

Withouten  other  companye  in  you  the; 
But  therof  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nouthe.19 
And  thryes  hadde  she  been  at  Ierusalem; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  streem ; 
At  Rome  she  hadde  been,  and  at  Boloigne, 
In  Galice  at  seint  lame,  and  at  Coloigne. 
She   coude   muche   of   wandring   by   the 

weye.  467 

Gat-tothed20  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 
Up-on  an  amblere  esily  she  sat, 
Y- wimpled21  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat  470 
As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe ; 
A  foot-mantel22  aboute  hir  hipes  large, 
And  on  hir  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 
In  felaweschip  wel  coude  she  laughe  and 

carpe.23  474 

Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  per-chaunce, 
For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 

A  good  man  was  ther  of  religioun, 
And  was  a  povre  Persoun24  of  a  toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thoght  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk,  480 

That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche; 
His  parisshens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent, 
And  in  adversitee  ful  pacient ;  484 

And  swich  he  was  y-preved25  ofte  sythes.26 
Ful  looth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tythes, 

14  a  pity.      "  skill.  I6  head-dresses.  17  texture. 

18  supple.      "  at  present.    M  with  teeth  far  apart. 

21  her  head  well  covered  with  a  wimple. 

22  cloth  to  protect  the  skirt.  *>  talk. 

24  parish  priest.  26  proved.  26  many  a  time. 


CHA  UCER 


But  rather  wolde  he  yeven,  out  of  doute, 
Un-to  his  povre  parisshens  aboute 
Of  his  offring,  and  eek  of  his  substaunce. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  han  suffisaunce.  490 
Wyd   was   his   parisshe,   and   houses   fer 

a-sonder, 
But  he  ne  lafte1  nat  for  reyn  ne  thonder, 
In  siknes  nor  in  meschief  to  visyte 
The  ferreste  in  his  parisshe,  muche2  and 

lyte,3 
Up-on  his  feet,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf .      495 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  sheep  he  yaf, 
That  first  he  wroghte,  and  afterward  he 

taughte; 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  tho  wordes  caughte; 
And  this  figure  he  added  eek  ther-to, 
That  if  gold  ruste,  what  shal  iren  do?      500 
For  if  a  preest  be  foul,  on  whom  we  truste, 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed4  man  to  ruste; 
And  shame  it  is,  if  a  preest  take  keep,5 
A  [spotted]  shepherde  and  a  clene  sheep. 
Wei  oghte  a  preest  ensample  for  to  yive,so5 
By  his  clennesse,  how  that  his  sheep  shold 

live. 
He  sette  nat  his  benefice  to  hyre, 
And   leet    his    sheep    encombred    in    the 

my  re, 
And  ran  to  London,  un-to  seynt  Poules, 
To  seken  him  a  chaunterie  for  soules,      510 
Or  with  a  bretherhed  to  been  withholde;6 
But  dwelte  at  hoom,  and  kepte  wel  his 

folde, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  nat  miscarie; 
He  was  a  shepherde  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous,5is 
He  was  to  sinful  man  nat  despitous,7 
Ne  of  his  speche  daungerous8  ne  digne,9 
But  in  his  teching  discreet  and  benigne. 
To  drawen  folk  to  heven  by  fairnesse 
By  good  ensample,  this  was  his  bisinesse: 
But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat,  521 

What  so  he  were,  of  heigh  or  lowe  estat, 
Him  wolde  he  snibben10  sharply  for  the 

nones. 
A  bettre  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher  noon 

is. 
He  way  ted  after  no  pompe  and  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  a  spyced11  conscience,      526 
But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taughte,  and  first  he  folwed  it  him- 

selve. 


1  ceased  not. 

2  high. 

3  low. 

1  ignorant. 

5  pay  attention  to  it. 

8  confined 

7  merciless. 

8  disdainful. 

' scornful 

10  reprove. 

11  over-scrupulous. 

With  him  ther  was  a  Plowman,  was  his 

brother, 
That  hadde  y-lad12  of  dong  ful  many  a 

fother;13  530 

A  trewe  swinkere14  and  a  good  was  he, 
Livinge  in  pees  and  parfit  charitee. 
God  loved  he  best  with  al  his  hole  herte 
At   alle    tymes,    thogh   him   gamed15   or 

smerte,16 
And  thanne  his  neighebour  right  as  him- 

selve.  535 

He  wolde  thresshe,  and  ther-to  dyke17  and 

delve, 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  povre  wight, 
Withouten  hyre,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 
His  tythes  payed  he  ful  faire  and  wel, 
Bothe  of  his  propre  swink18  and  his  catel.19 
In  a  tabard20  he  rood  upon  a  mere.  541 

Ther  was  also  a  Reve21  and  a  Millere, 
A  Somnour22  and  a  Pardoner  also, 
A   Maunciple,23  and   my-self;   ther  were 

namo. 
The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl,  for  the 

nones,  545 

Ful  big  he  was  of  braun,  and  eek  of  bones; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ther  he  cam, 
At  wrastling  he  wolde  have  alwey   the 

ram.24 
He  was  short-sholdred,  brood,  a  thikke 

knarre,25 
Ther  nas  no  dore  that  he  nolde26  heve  of 

harre,26  550 

Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed. 
His  berd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  reed, 
And  ther-to  brood,  as  though  it  were  a 

spade. 
Up-on  the  cop27  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  werte,  and  ther-on  stood  a  tuft  of  heres, 
Reed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres ;  556 
His  nose-thirles28  blake  were  and  wyde. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde; 
His  mouth  as  greet  was  as  a  greet  forneys. 
He  was  a  Ianglere29  and  a  goliardeys,30  560 
And  that  was  most  of  sinne  and  harlotryes. 
Wel    coude    he    stelen    corn,    and    tollen 

thryes ; 
And   yet   he   hadde   a   thombe   of   gold, 

pardee. 
A  whyt  cote  and  a  blew  hood  wered  he. 

12  carried  in  a  cart.  13  load.                    M  laborer. 

15  it  pleased.  16  pained.                "  dig. 

18  labor.  19  property.             M  loose  coat. 

21  bailiff.  -2  summoner  for  an  ecclesiastical  court. 

23  steward  of  a  college.  21  win  the  prize,  a  ram. 

25  a  sturdy  fellow.  *  could  not  lift  off  its  hinges. 

"top.             » nostrils.  29  talker.              *>  buffoon. 


8 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


A   baggepype   wel   coude   he   blowe   and 
sowne,  565 

And    therwithal    he    broghte    us    out    of 
towne. 
A  gentil  Maunciple  was  ther  of  a  tem- 

ple' 
Of  which  achatours1  mighte  take  exemple 

For  to  be  wyse  in  bying  of  vitaille. 

For  whether  that  he  payde,  or  took  by 

taille,2  570 

Algate3  he  wayted4  so  in  his  achat,0 
That  he  was  ay  biforn  and  in  good  stat. 
Now  is  nat  that  of  God  a  ful  fair  grace, 
That  swich  a  lewed6  mannes  wit  shal  pace 
The  wisdom  of  an  heep  of  lerned  men?    575 
Of  maistres  hadde  he  mo  than  thryes  ten, 
That  were  of  lawe  expert  and  curious; 
Of  which  ther  were  a  doseyn  in  that  hous, 
Worthy  to  been  stiwardes  of  rente  and 

lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Engelond,  580 

To  make  him  live  by  his  propre  good, 
In  honour  dettelees,7  but  he  were  wood,8 
Or  live  as  scarsly  as  him  list  desire; 
And  able  for  to  helpen  al  a  shire 
In  any  cas  that  mighte  falle  or  happe ;     585 
And  yit   this   maunciple  sette9  hir  aller 

cappe.9 
The  Reve  was  a  sclendre  colerik  man, 
His  berd  was   shave  as   ny  as  ever  he 

can. 
His  heer  was  by  his  eres  round  y-shorn. 
His  top  was  dokked  lyk  a  preest  biforn.590 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene, 
Y-lyk  a  staf,  ther  was  no  calf  y-sene. 
Wel  coude  he  kepe  a  gerner10  and  a  binne ; 
Ther  was  noon  auditour  coude  on  him 

winne. 
Wel  wiste  he,  by  the  droghte,  and  by  the 

reyn,  59S 

The  yelding  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  greyn. 
His  lordes  sheep,  his  neet,11  his  dayerye, 
His  swyn,  his  hors,  his  stoor,12  and  his 

pultrye, 
Was  hoolly  in  this  reves  governing, 
And  by  his  covenaunt  yaf  the  rekening,6oo 
Sin  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yeer  of  age; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bringe  him  in  arrerage. 
Ther  nas  baillif,  ne  herde,  ne  other  hyne,13 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleighte11  and  his 


covyne ; 


604 


■caterers.    2  on  credit,     'always.       *  took  precautions. 

'buying,     "ignorant.      7 free  from  debt. 

"mad.         •  over-reached  them  all.     w  granary. 

11  cattle.      n  stock,      "servant,      "trickery,     "deceit. 


They  were  adrad  of  him,  as  of  the  deeth. 
His  woning16  was  ful  fair  up-on  an  heeth, 
With  grene  trees  shadwed  was  his  place. 
He  coude  bettre  than  his  lord  purchace. 
Ful  riche  he  was  astored  prively, 
His  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly,  610 
To  yeve  and  lene17  him  of  his  owne  good, 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote  and 

hood. 
In  youthe  he  lerned  hadde  a  good  mister;18 
He  was  a  wel  good  wrighte,  a  carpenter. 
This  reve  sat  up-on  a  ful  good  stot,19       615 
That  was  al  pomely20  grey,  and  highte  Scot. 
A  long  surcote  of  pers21  up-on  he  hade, 
And  by  his  syde  he  bar  a  rusty  blade. 
Of  Northfolk  was  this  reve,  of  which  I  telle, 
Bisyde  a  toun  men  clepen  Baldeswelle.620 
Tukked22  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute, 
And  evere  he  rood  the  hindreste  of  our 

route. 
A  Somnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that 

place, 
That  hadde  a  fyr-reed  cherubinnes  face, 

****** 
Wel  loved  he  garleek,  oynons,  and  eek 

lekes, 
And  for  to  drynken  strong  wyn,  reed  as 

blood.  635 

Thanne  wolde  he  speke,  and  crye  as  he 

were  wood. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  hadde  the 

wyn, 
Than  wolde  he  speke  no  word  but  Latyn. 
A  fewe  termes  hadde  he,  two  or  three, 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  som  decree ;     640 
No  wonder  is,  he  herde  it  al  the  day ; 
And  eek  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  lay 
Can  clepen  "Watte,"23  as  well  as  can  the 

pope. 
But    who-so   coude    in  other  thing  him 

grope,24 
Thanne  hadde  he  spent  al  his  philosophye ; 
Ay  "Questio  quid  iuris"  wolde  he  crye.    646 
He  was  a  gentil  harlot25  and  a  kynde ; 
A  bettre  felawe  sholde  men  noght  fynde. 
He  wolde  suff re  for  a  quart  of  wyn 
A  good  felawe  to  have  his  [wikked  sin]     650 
A  twelf-month,  and  excuse  him  atte  fulle: 
And  prively  a  finch  eek  coude  he  pulle. 
And  if  he  fond  owher26  a  good  felawe, 
He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe, 

16  house.  "lend.  >8  trade.  19  horse. 

20  dappled.  21  blue  cloth.     —  tucked. 

'-'■'  jay  can  cry  "Wat."      21  "test  him  in  any  other  point." 
25  rogue.  26  anywhere. 


CHA  UCER 


In  swich  cas,  of  the  erchedeknes  curs,      655 
But-if1  a  mannes  soule  were  in  his  purs; 
For  in  his  purs  he  sholde  y-punisshed  be, 
"Purs  is  the  erchedeknes  helle,"  seyde  he. 
But  wel  I  woot  he  lyed  right  in  dede; 
Of  cursing  oghte  ech  gilty  man  him  drede — 
For   curs    wol    slee,    right   as    assoilling2 

saveth —  661 

And  also  war  him3  of  a  significavit. 
In  daunger4  hadde  he  at  his  owne  gyse5 
The  yonge  girles6  of  the  diocyse, 
And  knew  hir  counseil,  and  was  al  hir 

reed.7  665 

A  gerland  hadde  he  set  up-on  his  heed, 
As  greet  as  it  were  for  an  ale-stake; 
A  bokeler  hadde  he  maad  him  of  a  cake. 

With  him  ther  rood  a  gentil  Pardoner 
Of  Rouncival,  his  freend  and  his  compeer, 
That  streight  was  comen  fro  the  court  of 

Rome.  671 . 

Ful  loude  he  song,  "Com  hider,  love,  to 

me." 
This  somnour  bar  to  him  a  stif  burdoun, 
Was  never  trompe  of  half  so  greet  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  hadde  heer  as  yelow  as  wex, 
But  smothe  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike8  of 

flex;  676 

By  ounces9  henge  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 
And    ther-with    he    his    shuldres    over- 

spradde ; 
But  thinne  it  lay,  by  colpons10  oon  and 

oon; 
But  hood,  for  Iolitee,  ne  wered  he  noon, 680 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  walet. 
Him  thoughte,11  he  rood  al  of  the  newe 

let;12 
Dischevele,  save  his  cappe,  he  rood  al  bare. 
Swiche  glaringe  eyen  hadde  he  as  an  hare. 
A  vernicle  hadde  he  sowed  on  his  cappe. 685 
His  walet  lay  biforn  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful13  of  pardoun  come  from  Rome  al 

hoot. 
A  voys  he  hadde  as  smal  as  hath  a  goot. 
No  berd  hadde  he,  ne  never  sholde  have, 
As    smothe    it    was    as    it    were    late 

y-shave;  690 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwik  into  Ware, 

Ne  was  ther  swich  another  pardoner. 

For  in  his  male14  he  hadde  a  pilwe-beer,15 


1  unless.  2  absolution.  3  let  him  beware  of. 

4  in  his  jurisdiction.  5  way.      '    6  people. 

7  adviser.  8  hank  of  flax.  9  small  portions. 

10  shreds.  "  it  seemed  to  him.  12  fashion. 

13  brim-full.  u  wallet.  15  pillow-case. 


Which  that,  he  seyde,  was  our  lady  veyl:16 
He  seyde,  he  hadde  a  gobet17  of  the  seyl  696 
That  seynt  Peter  hadde,  whan  that  he 

wente 
Up-on  the  see,  til  Iesu  Crist  him  hente.18 
He  hadde  a  croys  of  latoun,19  ful  of  stones, 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones.        700 
But  with  thise  relikes,  whan  that  he  fond 
A  povre  person  dwelling  up-on  lond,20 
Up-on  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneye 
Than  that   the    person  got  in    monthes 

tweye. 
And  thus  with  feyned  flaterye  and  Iapes,21 
He  made  the  person  and  the  peple  his  apes. 
But  trewely  to  tellen,  atte  laste,  707 

He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiaste. 
Wel  coude  he  rede  a  lessoun  or  a  storie, 
But  alderbest22  he  song  an  off ertorie ;       710 
For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was 

songe, 
He  moste  preche,  and  wel  affyle23  his  tonge, 
To  winne  silver,  as  he  ful  wel  coude; 
Therefore  he  song  so  meriely  and  loude. 
Now  have  I  told  you  shortly,  in  a  clause, 
Thestat,24  tharray,  the  nombre,  and  eek 

the  cause  716 

Why  that  assembled  was  this  companye 
In  Southwerk,  at  this  gentil  hostelrye, 
That   highte   the   Tabard,   faste   by   the 

Belle. 
But  now  is  tyme  to  yow  for  to  telle  720 

How  that  we  baren  us  that  ilke  night, 
Whan  we  were  in  that  hostelrye  alight. 
And  after  wol  I  telle  of  our  viage, 
And  al  the  remenaunt  of  our  pilgrimage. 
But  first  I  pray  yow,  of  your  curteisye,   725 
That  ye  narette20  it  nat  my  vileinye,25 
Thogh  that  I  pleynly  speke  in  this  matere, 
To  telle  yow  hir  wordes  and  hir  chere,26 
Ne  thogh  I  speke  hir  wordes  properly.27 
For  this  ye  knowen  al-so  wel  as  I,  730 

Who-so  shal  telle  a  tale  after  a  man, 
He  moot  reherce,  as  ny  as  ever  he  can, 
Everich  a28  word,  if  it  be  in  his  charge, 
Al  speke  he29  never  so  rudeliche  and  large  ;30 
Or  elles  he  moot  telle  his  tale  untrewe,     735 
Or  feyne  thing,  or  fynde  wordes  newe. 
He  may  nat  spare,  al-thogh  he  were  his 

brother; 
He  moot  as  wel  seye  o  word  as  another. 

16  the  Virgin  Mary's  veil.  "  piece.  18  took. 

19  brass.  20  in  the  country. 

21  tricks.         22  best  of  all.         23  sharpen.      2*  the  estate. 
25  "ascribe  it  not  to  my  ill  breeding."  26  behavior. 

27  literally.  M  every. 

29  although  he  speak.  w  freely. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


Crist  spak  him-self  ful  brode  in  holy  writ, 
And  wel  ye  woot,  no  vileinye  is  it.  740 

Eek  Plato  seith,  who-so  that  can  him  rede, 
The  wordes  mote  be  cosin  to  the  dede. 
Also  I  prey  yow  to  foryeve  it  me, 
Al  have  I  nat  set  folk  in  hir  degree1 
Here   in   this   tale,   as   that   they  sholde 

stonde ;  745 

My  wit  is  short,  ye  may  wel  understonde. 
Greet  chere  made  our  hoste  us  everichon, 
And  to  the  soper  sette  he  us  anon ; 
And  served  us  with  vitaille  at  the  beste. 
Strong  was  the  wyn,  and  wel  to  drinke  us 

leste.2  750 

A  semely  man  our  hoste  was  with-alle 
For  to  han  been  a  marshal  in  an  halle; 
A  large  man  he  was  with  eyen  stepe,3 
A  fairer  burgeys  is  ther  noon  in  Chepe: 
Bold   of   his   speche,  and  wys,   and  wel 

y- taught,       _  755 

And  of  manhod  him  lakkede  right  naught. 
Eek  therto  he  was  right  a  mery  man, 
And  after  soper  pleyen4  he  bigan, 
And    spak    of    mirthe    amonges    othere 

thinges,  759 

Whan  that  we  hadde  maad  our  rekeninges; 
And  seyde  thus:  "Now,  lordinges,  trewely 
Ye  been  to  me  right  welcome  hertely: 
For  by  my  trouthe,  if  that  I  shal  nat  lye, 
I  ne  saugh5  this  yeer  so  mery  a  companye 
At  ones6  in  this  herberwe7  as  is  now.  765 
Fayn  wolde  I  doon  yow  mirthe,  wiste  I 

how. 
And  of  a  mirthe,  I  am  right  now  bithoght, 
To  doon  yow  ese,8  and  it  shal  coste  noght. 
Ye   goon    to    Caunterbury;    God    yow 

spede, 
The  blisful  martir  quyte  yow  your  mede.9 
And  wel  I  woot,  as  ye  goon  by  the  weye,77i 
Ye  shapen  yow  to  talen10  and  to  pleye; 
For  trewely,  confort  ne  mirthe  is  noon 
To  ryde  by  the  weye  doumb  as  a  stoon; 
And  therfore  wol  I  maken  yow  disport,  775 
As  I  seyde  erst,  and  doon  yow  som  confort. 
And  if  yow  lyketh  alle,  by  oon  assent, 
Now  for  to  stonden  at  my  Iugement, 
And  for  to  werken  as  I  shal  yow  seye, 
To-morwe,  whan  ye  ryden  by  the  weye, 780 
Now,  by  my  fader  soule,  that  is  deed, 
But  ye  be  merye,  I  wol  yeve  yow  myn 

heed. 


1  proper  rank. 
4  make  merry. 
7  inn. 
•  rcwartl  you  duly. 


2  it  pleased  us. 
6  have  not  seen. 
8  entertain  you. 
10  plan  to  talk. 


8  glittering. 
6  one  time. 


Hold  up  your  hond,  withoute  more  speche." 

Our  counseil  was  nat  longe  for  to  seche; 
Us  thoughte  it  was  noght  worth  to  make  it 

wys,11  785 

And  graunted  him  with-outen  more  avys,12 

And  bad  him  seye  his  verdit,  as  him  leste. 

"Lordinges,"  quod  he,  "now  herkneth 

for  the  beste; 
But  tak  it  not,  I  prey  yow,  in  desdeyn; 
This  is  the  poynt,  to  speken  short  and 

pleyn,  _  790 

That  ech  of  yow,   to  shorte  with  your 

weye. 
In  this  viage,  shal  telle  tales  tweye, 
To  Caunterbury- ward,  I  mene  it  so, 
And  hom-ward  he  shal  tellen  othere  two, 
Of  aventures  that  whylom14  han  bifalle.795 
And  which  of  yow  that  bereth  him  best  of 

alle, 
That  is  to  seyn,  that  telleth  in  this  cas 
Tales  of  best  sentence15  and  most  solas,16 
Shal  han  a  soper  at  our  aller  cost17 
Here  in  this  place,  sitting  by  this  post,    800 
Whan  that  we  come  agayn  fro  Caunter- 
bury. 
And  for  to  make  yow  the  more  mery, 
I  wol  my-selven  gladly  with  yow  ryde, 
Right  at  myn  owne  cost,  and  be  your  gyde. 
And  who-so  wol  my  Iugement  withseye  805 
Shal  paye  al  that  we  spenden  by  the  weye. 
And  if  ye  vouche-sauf  that  it  be  so, 
Tel  me  anon,  with-outen  wordes  mo, 
And  I  wol  erly  shape  me18  therfore." 

This  thing  was  graunted,  and  our  othes 

swore  810 

With  ful  glad  herte,  and  preyden  him  also 
That  he  wold  vouche-sauf  for  to  do  so, 
And  that  he  wolde  been  our  governour, 
And  of  our  tales  luge  and  reportour, 
And  sette  a  soper  at  a  certeyn  prys;         815 
And  we  wold  reuled  been  at  his  devys,19 
In  heigh  and  lowe;  and  thus,  by  oon  assent, 
We  been  acorded  to  his  Iugement. 
And  ther-up-on  the  wyn  was  fet20  anon; 
We  dronken,  and  to  reste  wente  echon,   820 
With-outen  any  lenger  taryinge. 

A-morwe,    whan    that    day    bigan    to 

springe, 
Up  roos  our  host,  and  was  our  aller  cok,21 
And  gadrede  us  togidre,  alle  in  a  flok, 


1  deliberate  about  it. 

3  make  the  journey  short. 

6  meaning. 

7  the  expense  of  us  all. 

9  according  to  his  decision. 
21  cock  of  us  all. 


12  consideration. 

14  formerly. 
16  amusement. 
18  get  myself  ready. 
20  brought. 


CHA  UCER 


And  forth  we  riden,   a  litel   mdre   than 

pas,1  825 

Un-to  the  watering  of  seint  Thomas. 
And  there  our  host  bigan  his  hors  areste,2 
And  seyde;  "Lordinges,  herkneth  if  yow 

leste. 
Ye  woot  your  forward,3  and  I  it  yow  re- 
corded 
If  even-song  and  morwe-song  acorde,     830 
Lat  se  now  who  shal  telle  the  firste  tale. 
As  ever  mote  I  drinke  wyn  or  ale, 
Who-so  be  rebel  to  my  Iugement 
Shal   paye   for  al   that  by   the   weye  is 

spent. 
Now    draweth    cut,    er    that    we    ferrer5 

twinne;6  835 

He  which  that  hath  the  shortest  shal  be- 

ginne. 
Sire  knight,"  quod  he,  "my  maister  and 

my  lord, 
Now  draweth  cut,  for  that  is  myn  acord.7 
Cometh  neer,"  quod  he,  "my  lady  prior- 

esse; 
And  ye,  sir  clerk,  lat  be  your  shamfast- 

nesse,8  840 

Ne  studieth  noght;  ley  hond  to,  every 

man." 
Anon  to  drawen  every  wight  bigan, 
And  shortly  for  to  tellen,  as  it  was, 
Were  it  by  aventure,9  or  sort,10  or  cas,11 
The  sothe12  is  this,  the  cut  fil  to  the  knight, 
Of  which  ful  blythe  and  glad  was  every 

wight;  846 

And  telle  he  moste  his  tale,  as  was  resoun, 
By  forward  and  by  composicioun,13 
As   ye   han   herd;    what   nedeth   wordes 

mo? 
And  whan  this  goode  man  saugh  it  was  so, 
As  he  that  wys  was  and  obedient  851 

To  kepe  his  forward  by  his  free  assent, 
He    seyde:    "Sin14    I    shal    beginne    the 

game, 
What,  welcome  be  the  cut,  a15  Goddes 

name! 
Now  lat  us  ryde,  and  herkneth  what  I 

seye."  855 

And  with  that  word  we  riden  forth  our 

weye; 
And  he  bigan  with  right  a  mery  chere16 
His  tale  anon,  and  seyde  in  this  manere. 


1  a  little  faster  than  a  walk. 

2  stop. 

3  agreement. 

4  remind  you  of  it. 

6  farther. 

6  depart. 

7  judgment. 

8  modesty. 

9  accident. 

10  destiny. 

11  chance. 

12  truth. 

13  compact. 

14  since. 

16  in. 

16  countenance. 

THE   NUN'S   PRIEST'S  TALE 

Here  biginneth  the  Nonne  Preestes  Tale  of 
the  Cok  and  Hen,  Chauntecleer  and 
Pertelote. 

A  povre  widwe  somdel  stope17  in  age, 
Was  whylom  dwelling  in  a  narwe  cotage, 
Bisyde  a  grove,  stondyng  in  a  dale. 
This  widwe,  of  which  I  telle  yow  my  tale, 
Sin  thilke18  day  that  she  was  last  a  wyf,      5 
In  pacience  ladde  a  ful  simple  lyf, 
For  litel  was  hir  catel19  and  hir  rente;20 
By  housbondrye,  of  such  as  God  hir  sente, 
She  fond21  hir-self,  and  eek  hir  doghtren 

two. 
Three  large  sowes  hadde  she,  and  namo,  10 
Three  kyn,  and  eek  a  sheep  that  highte 

Malle. 
Ful  sooty  was  hir  bour,22  and  eek  hir  halle, 
In  which  she  eet  ful  many  a  sclendre  meel. 
Of  poynaunt  sauce  hir  neded  never  a  deel. 
No    deyntee    morsel    passed    thurgh    hir 

throte;  15 

Hir  dyete  was  accordant  to23  hir  cote. 
Repleccioun24  ne  made  hir  never  syk; 
Attempree25  dyete  was  al  hir  phisyk, 
And  exercyse,  and  hertes  suffisaunce.26 
The    goute    lette27    hir    no-thing    for    to 

daunce,  20 

Napoplexye28  shente29  nat  hir  heed ; 
No  wyn  ne  drank  she,  neither  whyt  ne 

reed; 
Hir  bord  was  served  most  with  whyt  and 

blak, 
Milk  and  broun  breed,  in  which  she  fond 

no  lak, 
Seynd30  bacoun,  and  somtyme  an  ey31  or 

tweye,  25 

For  she  was  as  it  were  a  maner  deye.32 

A  yerd  she  hadde,  enclosed  al  aboute 
With  stikkes,  and  a  drye  dich  with-oute, 
In  which  she  hadde  a  cok,  hight  Chaunte- 
cleer, 
In  al  the  land  of  crowing  nas33  his  peer.  30 
His  vois  was  merier  than  the  mery  orgon 
On  messe-dayes  that  in  the  chirche  gon; 
Wei  sikerer34  was  his  crowing  in  his  logge,35 
Than  is  a  clokke,  or  an  abbey  orlogge.36 
By  nature  knew  he  ech  ascensioun  35 

Of  equinoxial  in  thilke  toun; 


17  advanced.        1S  that.  19  chattels.  2"  income 

21  provided  for.  22  bed-chamber.     23  in  keeping  with 

24  over-eating.    M  a  temperate. 

27  hindered.         M  nor  apoplexy 

30  broiled.  31  egg. 

33  was  not.  54  more  certain. 


26  contentment. 

29  injured. 

32  sort  of  dairywoman. 

36  lodge.  »  clock. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


For  whan  degrees  fiftene  were  ascended, 
Thanne  crew  he,  that  it  mighte  nat  ben 

amended.1 
His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fyn  coral, 
And  batailed,2  as  it  were  a  castel-wal.       40 
His  bile3  was   blak,  and  as  the  Ieet4  it 

shoon ; 
Lyk  asur  were  his  legges,  and  his  toon;5 
His  nayles  whytter  than  the  lilie  flour, 
And  lyk  the  burned  gold  was  his  colour. 
This  gentil  cok  hadde  in  his  governaunce  45 
Sevene  hennes,  for  to  doon  al  his  plesaunce, 
Whiche  were  his   sustres  and  his  para- 
mours, 
And  wonder  lyk  to  him,  as  of  colours. 
Of    whiche    the    faireste    hewed    on    hir 

throte 
Was  cleped6  faire  damoysele  Pertelote.    50 
Curteys  she  was,  discreet,  and  debonaire, 
And    compaignable,    and    bar   hirself    so 

faire, 
Syn  thilke  day  that  she  was  seven  night 

old, 
That  trewely  she  hath  the  herte  in  hold7 
Of  Chauntecleer  loken8  in  every  lith  ;9        55 
He  loved  hir  so,  that  wel  was  him  ther- 

with. 
But  such  a  Ioye  was  it  to  here  hem  singe, 
Whan    that    the    brighte    sonne    gan    to 

springe, 
In  swete  accord,  "My  lief  is  faren10  in 

londe." 
For  thilke  tyme,  as  I  have  understonde,   60 
Bestes  and  briddes  coude  speke  and  singe. 

And  so  bifel,  that  in  a  daweninge,11 
As  Chauntecleer  among  his  wyves  alle 
Sat  on  his  perche,  that  was  in  the  halle, 
And  next  him  sat  this  faire  Pertelote,        65 
This  Chauntecleer  gan  gronen  in  his  throte, 
As  man  that  in  his  dreem  is  drecched12 

sore. 
And  whan  that  Pertelote  thus  herde  him 

rore, 
She  was  agast,  and  seyde,  "O  herte  dere, 
What  eyleth  yow,  to  grone  in  this  manere? 
Ye  been  a  verray13  sleper,  fy  for  shame!  "71 
And  he  answerde  and  seyde  thus,  "ma- 
dame, 
I  pray  yow,  that  ye  take  it  nat  agrief : 
By  god,  me  mette14 1  was  in  swich  mes- 

chief 


1  improved.  2  indented. 

6  toes.  •  named. 

8  locked.  9  limb. 

12  troubled.  13  true. 


•  bill.  4jet. 

7  possession,  safe-keeping. 
111  gone.  ndawn. 

14  I  dreamed. 


Right  now,  that  yet  myn  herte  is  sore 

afright.  75 

Now  god,"  quod  he,  "my  sweven15  rede16 

aright, 
And  keep  my  body  out  of  foul  prisoun ! 
Me  mette,  how  that  I  romed  up  and  doun 
Withinne  our  yerde,  wher  as  I  saugh  a 

beste, 
Was  lyk  an  hound,  and  wolde  han  maad 

areste  80 

Upon  my  body,  and  wolde  han  had  me 

deed. 
His  colour  was  bitwixe  yelwe  and  reed; 
And  tipped  was  his  tail,  and  bothe  his  eres, 
With  blak,    unlyk   the   remenant   of  his 

heres; 
His    snowte    smal,    with    glowinge    eyen 

tweye.  85 

Yet  of  his  look  for  fere  almost  I  deye; 
This  caused  me  my  groning,  doutelees." 
"Avoy!"  quod  she,  "fy  on  yow,  hert- 

elees ! 
Alias! "  quod  she,  "for,  by  that  god  above, 
Now  han  ye  lost  myn  herte  and  al  my  love; 
I  can  nat  love  a  coward,  by  my  feith.        91 
For  certes,  what  so  any  womman  seith, 
We  alle  desyren,  if  it  mighte  be, 
To  han  housbondes  hardy,  wyse,  and  free,17 
And  secree,  and  no  nigard,  ne  no  fool,       95 
Ne  him  that  is  agast  of  every  tool,18 
Ne  noon  avauntour,19  by  that  god  above! 
How  dorste  ye  seyn  for  shame  unto  your 

love, 
That  any  thing  mighte  make  yow  aferd? 
Have  ye  no  mannes  herte,  and  han  a  berd? 
Alias!  and  conne  ye  been  agast  of  swevenis? 
No-thing,  god  wot,  but  vanitee,  in  sweven 

is.  102 

Swevenes  engendren  of20  replecciouns, 
And  ofte  of  fume,21  and  of  complecciouns,22 
Whan  humours  been  to  habundant  in  a 

wight.  105 

Certes  this  dreem,  which  ye  han  met  to- 
night, 
Cometh  of  the  grete  superfluitee 
Of  youre  rede23  colera,u  pardee, 
Which   causeth   folk   to   dreden   in   here 

dremes 
Of  arwes,25  and  of  fyr  with  rede  lemes,26  no 
Of  grete  bestes,  that  they  wol  hem  byte, 
Of  contek,27  and  of  whelpes  grete  and  lyte; 


16  dream.         16  explain. 
19  boaster. 
22  temperaments. 
26  arrows. 


17  generous. 
20  are  caused  by. 
23  red. 
26  flames. 


18  weapon. 
21  vapor. 
24  choler. 
27  strife. 


CHA  UCER 


13 


Right  as  the  humour  of  malencolye 
Causeth  ful  many  a  man,  in  sleep,  to  crye, 
For  fere  of  blake  beres,1  or  boles2  blake, 
Or  elles,  blake  develes  wole  hem  take.      116 
Of  othere  humours  coude  I  telle  also, 
That  werken  many  a  man  in  sleep  ful  wo; 
But  I  wol  passe  as  lightly  as  I  can. 

Lo  Catoun,  which  that  was  so  wys  a 

man,  120 

Seyde  he  nat  thus,   ne   do   no   fors   of3 

dremes? 
Now,  sire,"  quod  she,  "whan  we  flee  fro 

the  bemes, 
For  Goddes  love,  as  tak  som  laxatyf ; 
Up  peril  of  my  soule,4  and  of  my  lyf, 
I   counseille   yow   the   beste,   I   wol   nat 

lye,  125 

That  both  of  colere,  and  of  malencolye 
Ye  purge  yow;  and  for  ye  shul  nat  tarie, 
Though  in  this  toun  is  noon  apotecarie, 
I  shal  my-self  to  herbes  techen  yow, 
That  shul  ben  for  your  hele,5  and  for  your 

prow;6  130 

And  in  our  yerd  tho  herbes  shal  I  finde, 
The   whiche   han   of  here  propretee,   by 

kinde,7 
To  purgen  yow  binethe,  and  eek  above. 
Forget  not  this,  for  goddes  owene  love! 
Ye  been  ful  colerik  of  compleccioun.        135 
Ware8  the  sonne  in  his  ascencioun 
Ne   fynde  yow   nat   repleet  of   humours 

hote; 
And  if  it  do,  I  dar  wel  leye  a  grote, 
That  ye  shul  have  a  fevere  terciane, 
Or  an  agu,  that  may  be  youre  bane.9        140 
A  day  or  two  ye  shul  have  digestyves 
Of  wormes,  er  ye  take  your  laxatyves, 
Of  lauriol,  centaure,  and  fumetere, 
Or  elles  of  ellebor,   that  groweth  there. 
Of  catapuce,  or  of  gaytres  beryis,10  145 

Of  erbe  yve,11  growing  in  our  yerd,  that 

mery  is; 
Pekke  hem  up  right  as  they  growe,  and 

ete  hem  in. 
Be  mery,  housbond,  for  your  fader  kin! 
Dredeth  no  dreem ;  I  can  say  yow  namore." 
'Madame,"  quod  he,  " graunt  mercy  of 

your  lore.  150 

But  natheles,  as  touching  daun12  Catoun, 
That  hath  of  wisdom  such  a  greet  renoun, 


1  bears.  2  bulls. 

4  by  my  soul.      5  healing. 

7  nature.  8  take  care  lest. 

10  berries  of  the  gay-tree. 

12  dominus,  lord. 


3  pay  no  attention  to. 
6  profit. 
9  death. 
11  ground  ivy. 


Though  that  he  bad  no  dremes  for  to 

drede, 
By  god,  men  may  in  olde  bokes  rede 
Of  many  a  man,  more  of  auctoritee         155 
Than  ever  Catoun  was,  so  moot  I  thee,13 
That  al  the  revers  seyn  of  his  sentence, 
And  han  wel  founden  by  experience, 
That  dremes  ben  significaciouns, 
As  wel  of  Ioye  as  tribulaciouns  160 

That  folk  enduren  in  this  lyf  present. 
Ther  nedeth  make  of  this  noon  argument; 
The  verray  preve14  sheweth  it  in  dede. 
Oon  of  the  grettest  auctours  that  men 

rede 
Seith   thus,   that   whylom   two   felawes15 

wente  165 

On  pilgrimage,  in  a  full  good  intente; 
And  happed  so,  they  come  into  a  toun, 
Wher  as  ther  was  swich  congregacioun 
Of  peple,  and  eek  so  streit16  of  herber- 

gage,17  169 

That  they  ne  founde  as  muche  as  o18  cotage, 
In  which  they  bothe  mighte  y-logged  be. 
Wherfor  thay  mosten,  of  necessitee, 
As  for  that  night,  departen  compaignye; 
And  ech  of  hem  goth  to  his  hostelrye, 
And  took  his  logging  as  it  wolde  falle.    175 
That  oon  of  hem  was  logged  in  a  stalle, 
Fer  in  a  yerd,  with  oxen  of  the  plough ; 
That  other  man  was  logged  wel  y-nough, 
As  was  his  aventure,19  or  his  fortune, 
That  us  governeth  alle  as  in  commune.20 180 
And  so  bifel,  that,  long  er  it  were  day, 
This  man  mette21  in  his  bed,  ther-as  he 

lay, 
How  that  his  felawe  gan  up-on  him  calle, 
And  seyde,  'alias !  for  in  an  oxes  stalle 
This  night  I  shal  be  mordred  ther22  I  lye. 
Now  help  me,  dere  brother,  er  I  dye;       186 
In  alle  haste  com  to  me,'  he  sayde. 
This  man  out  of  his  sleep  for  fere  abrayde  ;23 
But  whan  that  he  was  wakned  of  his  sleep, 
He  turned  him,  and  took  of  this  no  keep;24 
Him  thoughte  his  dreem  nas  but  a  vanitee. 
Thus  twyes  in  his  sleping  dremed  he.       192 
And  atte  thridde  tyme  yet  his  felawe 
Cam,  as  him  thoughte,  and  seide  T  am  now 

slawe;25 
Bihold    my    blody    woundes,    depe    and 

wyde!  195 

Arys  up  erly  in  the  morwe-tyde, 


13  may  I  prosper. 
17  lodging. 
20  commonly. 
23  started. 


14  proof.       15  companions.  16  little. 
18  one.           19  chance. 

21  dreamed.  •  22  where. 

24  thought,  care.  2S  slain. 


14 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


And  at  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,'  quod 

he, 
'  A  carte  ful  of  donge  ther  shaltow1  see, 
In  which  my  body  is  hid  ful  prively; 
Do  thilke  carte  aresten  boldely.  200 

My   gold   caused   my   mordre,    sooth   to 

sayn ; ' 
And  tolde  hym  every  poynt  how  he  was 

slayn, 
With  a  ful  pitous  face,  pale  of  hewe. 
And  truste  wel,  his  dreem  he  fond  ful 

trewe; 
For  on  the  morwe,  as  sone  as  it  was  day,2o5 
To  his  f elawes  in2  he  took  the  way ; 
And  whan  that  he  cam  to  this  oxes  stalle, 
After  his  felawe  he  bigan  to  calle. 

The  hostiler  answered  hym  anon, 
And  seyde,  'sire,  your  felawe  is  agon,      210 
As  sone  as  day  he  wente  out  of  the  toun.' 
This  man  gan  fallen  in  suspecioun, 
Remembring  on  his  dremes  that  he  mette, 
And  forth  he  goth,  no  lenger  wolde  he 

lette,3 
Unto  the  west  gate  of  the  toun,  and  fond 
A  dong-carte,  as  it  were  to  donge  lond,   216 
That  was  arrayed  in  that  same  wyse 
As  ye  han  herd  the  dede  man  devyse; 
And  with  an  hardy  herte  he  gan  to  crye 
Vengeaunce  and  Iustice  of  this  felonye:— 
'My  felawe  mordred  is  this  same  night,  221 
And  in  this  carte  he  lyth  gapinge  upright.4 
I  crye  out  on  the  ministres,'  quod  he, 
'That  sholden  kepe  and  reulen  this  citee; 
Harrow !  alias !  her  lyth  my  felawe  slayn ! ' 
What  sholde  I  more  unto  this  tale  sayn?226 
The  peple  out-sterte,  and  cast  the  cart  to 

grounde, 

And  in  the  middel  of  the  dong  they  founde 

The  dede  man  that  mordred  was  al  newe. 

0  blisful  god,  that  art  so  lust  and  trewe! 

Lo,    how    that    thou    biwreyest5    mordre 


alway! 


231 


Mordre  wol  out,  that  se  we  day  by  day. 
Mordre  is  so  wlatsom6  and  abhominable 
To  god,  that  is  so  lust  and  resonable, 
That  he  ne  wol  nat  suffre  it  heled7  be;      235 
Though  it  abyde  a  yeer,  or  two,  or  three, 
Mordre  wol  out,  this8  my  conclusioun. 
And  right  anoon,  ministres  of  that  toun 
Han  hent   the  carter,   and  so  sore  him 

pyned,9 
And  eek  the  hostiler  so  sore  engyned,10    240 


1  shalt  thou. 

2  inn. 

3  delay. 

*  on  his  back 

6  revealest. 

6  heinous. 

7  concealed. 

8  this  is. 

*  tortured. 

10  racked. 

That    thay    biknewe11    hir    wikkednesse 

anoon, 
And  were  an-hanged  by  the  nekke-boon. 
Here  may  men  seen  that  dremes  been  to 

drede. 
And  certes,  in  the  same  book  I  rede, 
Right  in  the  nexte  chapitre  after  this,     245 
(I  gabbe12  nat,  so  have  I  Ioye  or  blis), 
Two   men   that   wolde   han  passed   over 

see, 
For  certeyn  cause,  in-to  a  fer  contree, 
If  that  the  wind  ne  hadde  been  contrarie, 
That  made  hem  in  a  citee  for  to  tarie,      250 
That  stood  ful  mery  upon  an  haven-syde. 
But  on  a  day,  agayn13  the  even-tyde, 
The  wind  gan  chaunge,  and  blew  right  as 

hem  leste. 
Iolif  and  glad  they  wente  un-to  hir  reste, 
And  casten  hem14  ful  erly  for  to  saille;     255 
But  to  that  oo15  man  fel  a  greet  mer- 

vaille. 
That  oon  of  hem,  in  sleping  as  he  lay, 
Him  mette  a  wonder  dreem,  agayn  the 

day; 
Him  thoughte  a  man  stood  by  his  beddes 

syde, 
And    him    comaunded,    that    he    sholde 

abyde,  260 

And  seyde  him  thus,  'if  thou  to-morwe 

wende, 
Thou  shalt  be  dreynt;16  my  tale  is  at  an 

ende.' 
He  wook,  and  tolde  his  felawe  what  he 

mette, 
And  preyde  him  his  viage  for  to  lette;17 
As  for  that  day,  he  preyde  him  to  abyde. 
His  felawe,  that  lay  by  his  beddes  syde,  266 
Gan  for  to  laughe,  and  scorned  him  ful 

faste. 
'No  dreem,'  quod  he,  'may  so  myn  herte 

agaste,18 
That  I  wol  lette  for  to  do  my  thinges.19 
I  sette  not  a  straw  by  thy  dreminges,      270 
For    swevenes    been    but    vanitees    and 

Iapes.20 
Men  dreme  al-day  of  owles  or  of  apes, 
And  eke  of  many  a  mase21  therwithal; 
Men  dreme  of  thing  that  nevere  was  ne 

shal. 
But  sith22 1  see  that  thou  wolt  heer  abyde, 
And  thus  for-sleuthen23  wilfully  thy  tyde, 


11  acknowledged.  12  lie. 

16  one.  16  drowned. 

18  terrify.  "  business. 

21  bewilderment.  "  since. 


13  towards. 


14  planned. 
17  delay. 
20  jests. 
23  waste. 


CHA  UCER 


i5 


God  wot  it  reweth  me;1  and  have  good 

day.'  277 

And  thus  he  took  his  leve,  and  wente  his 

way. 
But   er   that   he   hadde   halfe   his   cours 

y-seyled, 
Noot  I  nat  why,  ne  what  mischaunce  it 

eyled,  280 

But  casuelly2  the  shippes  botme  rente, 
And  ship  and  man  under  the  water  wente 
In  sighte  of  othere  shippes  it  byside, 
That  with  hem  seyled  at  the  same  tyde. 
And  therfor,  faire  Pertelote  so  dere,        285 
By  swiche  ensamples  olde  maistow3  lere4 
That  no  man  sholde  been  to  recchelees5 
Of  dremes,  for  I  sey  thee,  doutelees, 
That  many  a  dreem  ful  sore  is  for  to  drede. 
Lo,  in  the  lyf  of  seint  Kenelm,  I  rede,  290 
That  was  Kenulphus  sone,  the  noble  king 
Of    Mercenrike,6    how    Kenelm   mette   a 

thing; 
A  lyte7  er  he  was  mordred,  on  a  day, 
His  mordre  in  his  avisioun  he  say.8 
His  norice9  him  expouned  every  del         295 
His  sweven,  and  bad  him  for  to  kepe  him 

wel 
For10  traisoun;  but  he  nas  but  seven  yeer 

old, 
And  therfore  litel  tale11  hath  he  told12 
Of  any  dreem,  so  holy  was  his  herte. 
By  god,  I  hadde  lever13  than  my  sherte  300 
That  ye  had  rad  his  legende,  as  have  I. 
Dame  Pertelote,  I  sey  yow  trewely, 
Macrobeus,  that  writ  the  avisioun 
In  Affrike  of  the  worthy  Cipioun, 
Affermeth  dremes,   and   seith   that   they 

been  305 

Warning  of  thinges  that  men  after  seen. 
And  forther-more,  I  pray  yow  loketh  wel 
In  the  olde  testament,  of  Daniel, 
If  he  held  dremes  any  vanitee. 
Reed  eek  of  Ioseph,  and  ther  shul  ye  see  310 
Wher14  dremes  ben  somtyme  (I  sey  nat 

alle) 
Warning  of  thinges  that  shul  after  falle. 
Loke  of  Egipt  the  king,  daun  Pharao, 
His  bakere  and  his  boteler  also,  314 

Wher  they  ne  felte  noon  effect  in  dremes. 
Who  so  wol  seken  actes15  of  sondry  remes16 
May  rede  of  dremes  many  a  wonder  thing. 


1 1  am  sorry. 

4  learn. 

'  little. 
10  for  fear  of. 
13  rather. 
15  records. 


2  accidentally. 
6  careless. 
8  saw. 
11  importance. 


3  mayest  thou. 

6  Mercia. 

9  nurse. 
12  placed. 
14  whether. 
16  realms. 


Lo  Cresus,  which  that  was  of  Lyde17  king, 
Mette  he  nat  that  he  sat  upon  a  tree, 
Which  signified  he  sholde  anhanged  be?32o 
Lo  heer  Andromacha,  Ectores  wyf , 
That  day  that  Ector  sholde  lese18  his  lyf. 
She  dremed  on  the  same  night  biforn, 
How  that  the  lyf  of  Ector  sholde  be  lorn,19 
If  thilke  day  he  wente  in-to  bataille ;       325 
She  warned  him,  but  it  mighte  nat  availle ; 
He  wente  for  to  fighte  nathelees, 
But  he  was  slayn  anoon  of  Achilles. 
But  thilke  tale  is  al  to  long  to  telle, 
And  eek  it  is  ny20  day,  I  may  nat  dwelle.  330 
Shortly  I  seye,  as  for  conclusioun, 
That  I  shal  han  of  this  avisioun 
Adversitee ;  and  I  seye  forther-more, 
That  I  ne  telle  of  laxatyves  no  store,21 
For  they  ben  venimous,  I  woot  it  wel ;     335 
I  hem  defye,  I  love  hem  never  a  del.22 

Now  let  us  speke  of  mirthe,  and  stinte23 
al  this; 
Madame  Pertelote,  so  have  I  blis,24 
Of  o  thing  God  hath  sent  me  large  grace;25 
For  whan  I  see  the  beautee  of  your  face,34o 
Ye  ben  so  scarlet-reed  about  your  yen,26 
It  maketh  al  my  drede  for  to  dyen ; 
For,  also  siker27  as  In  principio, 
Mulier  est  hominis  confusio; 
Madame,  the  sentence28  of  this  Latin  is — 
Womman  is  mannes  Ioye  and  al  his  blis  5346 


I  am  so  ful  of  Ioye  and  of  solas  350 

That  I  defye  bothe  sweven  and  dreem." 
And  with  that  word  he  fley29  doun  fro  the 

beem, 
For  it  was  day,  and  eek  his  hennes  alle; 
And  with  a  chuk  he  gan  hem  for  to  calle, 
For  he  had  founde  a  corn,  lay  in  the  yerd. 
Royal  he  was,  he  wasnamoreaferd;        356 


He  loketh  as  it  were  a  grim  leoun ; 

And  on  his  toos  he  rometh  up  and  doun,36o 

Him    deyned   not-  to    sette   his    foot    to 

grounde. 
He  chukketh,   whan  he  hath  a  corn  y- 

founde, 
And   to   him   rennen    thanne    his   wyves 

alle. 
Thus  royal,  as  a  prince  is  in  his  halle, 


»  Lydia.                  «  lose. 

19  lost. 

20  almost. 

21  take  no  faith  in. 

22  never  a  bit. 

23  cease. 

24  as  I  hope  for  heaven. 

26  favor. 

26  eyes. 

27  as  surely  as. 

28  meaning. 

29  flew. 

i6 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


Leve  I  this  Chauntecleer  in  his  pasture  5365 
And  after  wol  I  telle  his  aventure. 

Whan   that   the   month  in  which   the 

world  bigan, 
That  highte  March,  whan  god  first  maked 

man, 
Was  complet,  and  y-passed  were  also, 
Sin  March  bigan,  thritty  dayes  and  two, 
Bifel  that  Chauntecleer,  in  al  his  pryde,37i 
His  seven  wyves  walking  by  his  syde, 
Caste  up  his  eyen  to  the  brighte  sonne, 
That  in  the  signe  of  Taurus  hadde  y-ronne 
Twenty  degrees  and  oon,  and  somwhat 

more;  375 

And  knew  by  kynde,1  and  by  noon  other 

lore,2 
That  it  was  pryme,3  and  crew  with  blisful 

stevene.4 
"The  sonne,"  he  sayde,  "is  clomben  up  on 

hevene 
Fourty  degrees  and  oon,  and  more,  y-wis.5 
Madame  Pertelote,  my  worldes  blis,       380 
Herkneth  thise  blisful  briddes  how  they 

singe, 
And    see    the    fresshe   floures   how    they 

springe; 
Ful  is  myn  hert  of  revel  and  solas." 
But  sodeinly  him  fil  a  sorweful  cas;6 
For  ever  the  latter  ende  of  Ioye  is  wo.     385 
God  woot  that  worldly  Ioye  is  sone  ago;7 
And  if  a  rethor8  coude  faire  endyte, 
He  in  a  chronique  saufly9  mighte  it  write, 
As  for  a  sovereyn  notabilitee.10 
Now  every  wys  man,  lat  him  herkne  me; 
This  storie  is  al-so  trewe,  I  undertake,    391 
As  is  the  book  of  Launcelot  de  Lake, 
That  wommen  holde  in  ful  gret  reverence. 
Now  wol  I  torne  agayn  to  my  sentence. 

A  col-fox,11  ful  of  sly  iniquitee,  395 

That  in  the  grove  hadde  woned12  yeres 

three, 
By  heigh  imaginacioun  forn-cast,13 
The  same  night  thurgh-out  the  hegges14 

brast15 
Into  the  yerd,  ther  Chauntecleer  the  faire 
Was  wont,  and  eek  his  wyves,  to  repaire; 
And  in  a  bed  of  wortes16  stille  he  lay,  401 
Til  it  was  passed  undern17  of  the  day, 
Wayting  his  tyme  on  Chauntecleer  to  falle, 
As  gladly  doon  thise  homicydes  alle, 


1  nature.  2  teaching. 

*  voice.  6  certainly. 

7  gone.  8  rhetorician. 

11  Mack  fox.  12  lived. 

16  burst.  "  herbs. 


3  nine  o'clock  A.M. 

e  a  sa«l  accident  befell  him. 

9  safely.  10  wonder. 

13  premeditated.  H  hedges. 
17  the  middle  of  the  forenoon. 


That  in  awayt  liggen18  to  mordre  men.  405 

O  false  mordrer,  lurking  in  thy  den! 

O  newe  Scariot,  newe  Genilon ! 

False  dissimilour,19  O  Greek  Sinon, 

That  broghtest  Troye  al  outrely20  to  sorwe! 

0  Chauntecleer,  acursed  be  that  morwe,4io 
That  thou  into  that  yerd  flough  fro  the 

bemes! 
Thou  were  ful  wel  y- warned  by  thy  dremes, 
That  thilke  day  was  perilous  to  thee. 
But  what  that  god  forwot21  mot  nedes22 

be, 
After  the  opinioun  of  certeyn  clerkis.      415 
Witnesse  on  him23  that  any  perfit  clerk  is, 
That  in  scole  is  gret  altercacioun 
In  this  matere,  and  greet  disputisoun, 
And  hath  ben  of  an  hundred  thousand 

men. 
But  I  ne  can  not  bulte  it  to  the  bren,24     420 
As  can  the  holy  doctour  Augustyn, 
Or  Boece,  or  the  bishop  Bradwardyn, 
Whether  that  goddes  worthy  forwiting 
Streyneth25  me   nedely26  for   to   doon   a 

thing, 
(Nedely  clepe  I  simple  necessitee) ;  425 

Or  elles,  if  free  choys  be  graunted  me 
To  do  that  same  thing,  or  do  it  noght, 
Though   god   forwot   it,   er   that   it   was 

wroght ; 
Or  if  his  witing  streyneth  nevere  a  del 
But  by  necessitee  condicionel.  430 

1  wol  not  han  to  do  of  swich  matere ; 
My  tale  is  of  a  cok,  as  ye  may  here, 

That  took  his  counseil  of  his  wyf,  with 

sorwe, 
To  walken  in  the  yerd  upon  that  morwe 
That  he  had  met  the  dreem,  that  I  yow 

tolde.  435 

Wommennes     counseils     been     ful     ofte 

colde;27 
Wommannes  counseil  broghte  us  first  to 

wo, 
And  made  Adam  fro  paradys  to  go, 
Ther  as  he  was  ful  mery,  and  wel  at  ese. 
But  for  I  noot,  to  whom  it  mighte  displese, 
If  I  counseil  of  wommen  wolde  blame,    441 
Passe  over,  for  I  seyde  it  in  my  game.28 
Rede  auctours,29  wher  they  trete  of  swich 

matere, 
And  what  thay  seyn  of  wommen  ye  may 

here. 

18  lie.         19  dissembler.         -°  absolutely.         21  foresees. 

22  necessarily.  23  let  him  witness  it. 

24  sift  the  matter.  20  constrains. 

26  necessarily.     27  baneful.   <2S  in  sport.  29  authors. 


CHA  UCER 


17 


Thise  been  the  cokkes  wordes,  and  nat 

myne;  445 

I  can  noon  harm  of  no  womman  divyne.1 

Faire  in  the  sond,2  to  bathe  hir  merily, 

Lyth  Pertelote,  and  alle  hir  sustres  by, 

Agayn   the  sonne;   and   Chauntecleer  so 

free 
Song  merier  than  the  mermayde  in  the 

see; 
For  Phisiologus  seith  sikerly,  451 

How  that  they  singen  wel  and  merily. 
And  so  bifel,  that  as  he  caste  his  ye, 
Among  the  wortes,3  on  a  boterflye, 
He  was  war  of  this  fox  that  lay  ful  lowe.455 
No-thing  ne  liste  him  thanne  for  to  crowe, 
But  cryde  anon,  "cok,  cok,"  and  up  he 

sterte, 
As  man  that  was  affrayed  in  his  herte. 
For  naturelly  a  beest  desyreth  flee 
Fro  his  contrarie,  if  he  may  it  see,  460 

Though  he  never  erst4  had  seyn  it  with  his 

ye- 

This  Chauntecleer,  whan  he  gan  him 

espye, 
He  wolde  han  fled,  but  that  the  fox  anon 
Seyde,   "Gen til  sire,  alias!  wher  wol  ye 

gon? 
Be  ye  affrayed  of  me  that  am  your  freend? 
Now  certes,  I  were  worse  than  a  feend,  466 
If  I  to  yow  wolde  harm  or  vileinye. 
I  am  nat  come  your  counseil5  for  tespye;6 
But  trewely,  the  cause  of  my  cominge 
Was  only  for  to  herkne  how  that  ye  singe. 
For  trewely  ye  have  as  mery  a  stevene,7  471 
As  eny  aungel  hath,  that  is  in  hevene; 
Therwith  ye  han  in  musik  more  felinge 
Than  hadde  Boece,  or  any  that  can  singe. 
My  lord  your  fader  (god  his  soule  blesse!) 
And  eek  your  moder,  of  hir  gentilesse,     476 
Han  in  myn  hous  y-been,  to  my  gret  ese,8 
And  certes,  sire,  ful  fayn  wolde  I  yow  plese. 
But  for  men  speke  of  singing,  I  wol  saye, 
So  mote  I  brouke9  wel  myn  eyen10  tweye,48o 
Save  yow,  I  herde  never  man  so  singe, 
As  dide  your  fader  in  the  morweninge ; 
Certes,  it  was  of  herte,  al  that  he  song. 
And  for  to  make  his  voys  the  more  strong, 
He  wolde  so  peyne  him,11  that  with  both 

his  yen10  485 

He   moste12   winke,    so   loude   he   wolde 

cry  en, 

I  declare.  2  sand.  3  herbs.  *  before. 

5  secrets.  s  to  spy  out.      7  voice.  8  pleasure. 

9  have  the  use  of.  ">  eyes. 

II  take  such  pains.  >2  needed  to. 


And  stonden  on  his  tiptoon13  therwithal. 
And  strecche  forth  his  nekke  long  and  smal. 
And  eek  he  was  of  swich  discrecioun, 
That  ther  nas  no  man  in  no  regioun         490 
That  him  in  song  or  wisdom  mighte  passe. 
I  have  weel  rad  in  daun  Burnel  the  Asse, 
Among  his  vers,  how  that  ther  was  a  cok, 
For  that  a  preestes  sone  yaf  him  a  knok 
Upon  his  leg,  whyl  he  was  yong  and  nyce, 
He  made  him  for  to  lese14  his  benefyce.  496 
But  certeyn,  ther  nis  no  comparisoun 
Bitwix  the  wisdom  and  discrecioun 
Of  youre  fader,  and  of  his  subtiltee. 
Now  singeth,  sire,  for  seinte15  charitee,  500 
Let   see,   conne  ye  your   fader  countre- 

fete?"16 
This  Chauntecleer  his  winges  gan  to  bete,17 
As  man  that  coude  his  tresoun  nat  espye, 
So  was  he  ravisshed  with  his  flaterye. 

Alias!  ye  lordes,  many  a  fals  flatour185o5 
Is  in  your  courtes,  and  many  a  losen- 

geour,19 
That  plesen  yow  wel  more,  by  my  feith, 
Than  he  that  soothfastnesse20  unto  yow 

seith. 
Redeth  Ecclesiaste  of  flaterye; 
Beth21  war,22  ye  lordes,  of  hir  trecherye.510 
This  Chauntecleer  stood  hye  up-on  his 

toos, 
Strecching  his  nekke,  and  heeld  his  eyen 

cloos, 
And  gan  to  crowe  loude  for  the  nones; 
And  daun   Russel  the  fox  sterte  up  at 

ones,23 
And  by  the  gargat24  hente25  Chauntecleer, 
And  on  his  bak  toward  the  wode  him 

beer,26  516 

For  yet  ne  was  ther  no  man   that  him 

sewed.27 
O  destinee,  that  mayst  nat  ben  eschewed!28 
Alias,    that    Chauntecleer   fleigh   fro   the 

bemes! 
Alias,  his  wyf  ne  roghte29  nat  of  dremes!  520 
And  on  a  Friday  fil  al  this  meschaunce. 
O  Venus,  that  art  goddesse  of  plesaunce,30 
Sin  that  thy  servant  was  this  Chauntecleer, 
And  in  thy  service  dide  al  his  poweer, 
More  for  delyt,  than  world  to  multiplye, 
Why  woldestow31  suffre  him  on  thy  day  to 

dye?  526 


13  tip-toes.  M  lose.         ' 

18  flatterer.  19  deceiver. 

22  wary.  23  at  once. 

*  bore.  «  followed. 

29  cared.  3«  delight. 


holy. 


16  imitate.        "  flap. 
29  truth.  2l  be. 

24  throat.  26  seized. 

28  avoided. 
31  wouldst  thou. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


O  Gaufred,  dere  mayster  soverayn, 

That,  whan  thy  worthy  king  Richard  was 

slayn 
With  shot,  compleynedest  his  deth  so  sore, 
Why  ne  hadde  I1  now  thy  sentence2  and 

thy  lore,3  53° 

The  Friday  for  to  chide,  as  diden  ye? 
(For  on  a  Friday  soothly  slayn  was  he.) 
Than  wolde  I  shewe  yow  how  that  I  coude 

pleyne4 
For   Chauntecleres    drede,5   and    for    his 

peyne.6 
Certes,  swich7  cry  ne  lamentacioun    535 
Was  never  of  ladies  maad,  whan  Ilioun 
Was  wonne,  and  Pirrus  with  his  streite8 

swerd, 
Whan  he  hadde  hent9  king  Priam  by  the 

berd, 
And  slayn  him  (as  saith  us  Eneydos), 
As  maden  alle  the  hennes  in  the  clos,10  540 
Whan  they  had  seyn  of  Chauntecleer  the 

sighte. 
But  sovereynly  dame  Pertelote  shrighte, 
Ful  louder  than  dide  Hasdrubales  wyf, 
Whan  that  hir  housbond  hadde  lost  his  lyf, 
And   that   the   Romayns  hadde   brend11 

Cartage.  545 

She  was  so  ful  of  torment  and  of  rage, 
That  wilfully  into  the  fyr  she  sterte,12 
And    brende   hir-selven   with   a   stedfast 

herte. 
0  woful  hennes,  right  so  cryden  ye, 
As,  whan  that  Nero  brende  the  citee       550 
Of  Rome,  cryden  senatoures  wyves, 
For  that  hir  housbondes  losten  alle  hir 

lyves; 
Withouten  gilt  this  Nero  hath  hem  slayn. 
Now  wol  I  torne  to  my  tale  agayn. 

This  sely13  widwe,  and  eek  hir  doghtres 

two,    _  555 

Herden  thise  hennes  crye  and  maken  wo, 
And  out  at  dores  sterten  thay  anoon, 
And  syen14  the  fox  toward  the  grove  goon, 
And  bar  upon  his  bak  the  cok  away;  559 
And  cryden,  "  Out!  harrow!  and  weylaway ! 
Ha,  ha,  the  fox!"  and  after  him  they  ran, 
And  eek  with  staves  many  another  man; 
Ran  Colle  our  dogge,  and  Talbot,  and 

Gerland, 
And  Malkin,  with  a  distaf  in  hir  hand; 


1  had  I  not. 

2  learning. 

3  knowledge 

4  lament. 

6  fear. 

6  grief. 

7  such. 

8  drawn. 

9  seized. 

10  enclosure. 

11  burned. 

12  leaped. 

13  simple. 

11  saw. 

Ran  cow  and  calf,  and  eek  the  verray 

hogges,  _  565 

So  were  they  fered  for15  berking  of  the 

dogges 
And  shouting  of  the  men  and  wimmen  eke, 
They  ronne  so,  hem  thoughte  hir  herte 

breke. 
They  yelleden  as  feendes  doon16  in  helle; 
The  dokes  cryden  as17  men  wolde  hem 

quelle;18  570 

The  gees  for  fere  flowen  over  the  trees; 
Out  of  the  hyve  cam  the  swarm  of  bees; 
So  hidous  was  the  noyse,  a!  benedicite! 
Certes,  he  Iakke  Straw,  and  his  meynee,19 
Ne  maden20  never  shoutes  half  so  shrille, 
Whan  that  they  wolden  any  Fleming  kille, 
As  thilke  day  was  maad  upon  the  fox.  577 
Of  bras  thay  broghten  bemes,21  and  of 

box,22 
Of  horn,  of  boon,  in  whiche  they  blewe  and 

pouped,23 
And   therwithal  they  shryked  and  they 

houped;24  580 

It  semed  as  that  heven  sholde  falle. 
Now,  gode  men,  I  pray  yow  herkneth 

alle! 
Lo,  how  fortune  turneth  sodeinly 
The  hope  and  pryde  eek  of  hir  enemy! 
This  cok,  that  lay  upon  the  foxes  bak,     585 
In  al  his  drede,  un-to  the  fox  he  spak, 
And  seyde,  "  sire,  if  that  I  were  as  ye, 
Yet  sholde  I  seyn  (as  wis25  god  helpe  me) , 
'  Turneth  agayn,  ye  proude  cherles  alle! 
A  verray  pestilence  up-on  yow  falle !        590 
Now  am  I  come  un-to  this  wodes  syde, 
Maugree  your  heed,26  the  cok  shal  heer 

abyde; 
I  wol  him  ete  in  feith,  and  that  anon.'  " 
The  fox  answerde,  "in  feith,  it  shal  be 

don,"— 
And  as  he  spak  that  word,  al  sodeinly     595 
This  cok  brak27  from  his  mouth  deliverly,28 
And  heighe29  up-on  a  tree  he  fleigh  anon. 
And  whan   the  fox   saugh  that   he   was 

y-gon, 
"Alias!"  quod  he,  "O  Chauntecleer,  alias! 
I  have  to  yow,"  quod  he,  "y-doon  trespas, 
In-as-muche  as  I  maked  yow  aferd,         601 
Whan  I  yow  hente,  and  broghte  out  of  the 

yerd; 

15  frightened  by.      I6  do.     "  as  if.      1S  kill.      >'  company. 
20  did  not  make.  21  trumpets.  22  box-wood. 

23  puffed.  2<  whooped.  "  surely. 

26  in  spite  of  your  head;  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do. 

27  broke.  m  nimbly.  29  high. 


CHA  UCER 


19 


But,  sire,  I  dide  it  in  no  wikke1  entente; 
Com  doun,  and  I  shal  telle  yow  what  I 

mente. 
I  shal  seye  sooth  to  yow,  god  help  me  so." 
"Nay  than,"  quod  he,  "  I  shrewe2  us  bothe 

two,  606 

And  first  I  shrewe  my-self,  bothe  blood  and 

bones, 
If  thou  bigyle  me  ofter  than  ones. 
Thou  shalt  namore,  thurgh  thy  flaterye 
Do  me   to3  singe   and  winke  with  myn 

ye.  610 

For  he  that  winketh,  whan  he  sholde  see, 
Al  wilfully,  god  lat  him  never  thee!"4 
"Nay,"  quod  the  fox,  "but  god  yeve5  him 

meschaunce,6 
That  is  so    undiscreet    of   governaunce,7 
That  iangleth8  whan  he  sholde  holde  his 

pees."  615 

Lo,  swich  it  is  for  to  be  recchelees,9 
And  necligent,  and  truste  on  flaterye. 
But  ye  that  hoi  den  this  tale  a  folye,10 
As  of  a  fox,  or  of  a  cok  and  hen, 
Taketh  the  moralitee,  good  men.  620 

For  seint  Paul  seith,  that  al  that  writen  is, 
To11  our  doctryne12  it  is  y-write,  y-wis. 
Taketh  the  fruyt,  and  lat  the  chaf  be  still e. 

Now,  gode  god,  if  that  it  be  thy  wille, 
As  seith  my  lord,  so  make  us  alle  good  men; 
And  bringe  us  to  his  heighe  blisse.    Amen. 

LE 


Vi 


Heere  bigynneth  the  Pardoners  Tale 

In  Flaundres  whylom  was  a  companye 
Of  yonge  folk,  that  haunteden13  folye,  136 
As  ryot,  hasard,14  stewes,15  and  tavernes, 
Wher-as,  with  harpes,  lutes,  and  giternes,16 
They  daunce  and  pleye  at  dees  bothe  day 

and  night, 
And  ete  also  and  drinken  over  hir  might, 
Thurgh    which    they    doon     the    devel 

sacrifyse  141 

With-in  that  develes  temple,  in  cursed 

wyse, 
By  superfluitee  abhominable; 
Hir  othes  been  so  gret  and  so  dampnable, 
That  it  is  grisly  for  to  here  hem  swere ;     145 
Our  blissed  lordes  body  they  to-tere;17 


1  wicked. 
5  give. 
9  careless. 
12  teaching. 
15  brothels. 


2  curse. 

6  bad  luck. 
i°  silly  thing. 
13  practised. 
16  guitars. 


3  make  me.  A  prosper. 

7  self-control.         8  prattles. 

«  for. 

14  gambling. 

17  tear  in  pieces 


Hem  thoughte18  Iewes  rente  him   noght 

ynough; 
And  ech  of  hem  at  otheres  sinne  lough. 
And  right  anon  than  comen  tombesteres19 
Fetys20  and  smale,  and  yonge  fruytesteres,21 
Singers  with  harpes  [eek,  and]  wafereres,22 
Whiche  been  the  verray  develes  officeres 
To  kindle  and  blowe  the  fyr  of  [luxurye], 
That  is  annexed  un-to  glotonye; 
The  holy  writ  take  I  to  my  witnesse,       155 
That  luxurie  is  in  wyn  and  dronkenesse. 


Herodes  (who  so  wel  the  stories  soughte ) 
Whan  he  of  wyn  was  replet  at  his  feste,  161 
Ryght  at  his  owene  table  he  yaf  his  heste23 
To  sleen  the  Baptist  John  ful  giltelees. 

Senek24  seith  eek  a  good  word  doutelees; 
He  seith,  he  can  no  difference  finde  165 

Bitwix  a  man  that  is  out  of  his  minde 
And  a  man  which  that  is  dronkelewe,25 
But  that  woodnesse,26  yfallen  in  a  shrewe,27 
Persevereth   lenger   than   doth   dronken- 
esse. 
O  glotonye,  ful  of  cursednesse,  1 70 

O  cause  first  of  our  confusioun, 
O  original  of  our  dampnacioun, 
Til   Crist  had  boght  us  with  his  blood 

agayn! 
Lo,  how  dere,  shortly  for  to  sayn, 
Aboght28  was  thilke  cursed  vileinye;       175 
Corrupt  was  al  this  world  for  glotonye! 

Adam  our  fader,  and  his  wyf  also, 
Fro  Paradys  to  labour  and  to  wo 
Were  driven  for  that  vyce,  it  is  no  drede;29 
For  whyl  that  Adam  fasted,  as  I  rede,     180 
He  was  in  Paradys ;  and  whan  that  he 
Eet  of  the  fruyt  defended30  on  the  tree, 
Anon  he  was  out-cast  to  wo  and  peyne. 
O  glotonye,  on  thee  wel  oghte  us  pleyne!31 
O,  wiste  a  man  how  many  maladyes        185 
Folwen  of  excesse  and  of  glotonyes, 
He  wolde  been  the  more  mesurable32 
Of  his  diete,  sittinge  at  his  table. 
Alias!  the  shorte  throte,  the  tendre  mouth, 
Maketh  that,  Est  and  West,  and  North 
and  South,  190 

In  erthe,  in  eir,  in  water  men  to-swinke33 
To   gete   a   glotoun   deyntee   mete   and 
drinke ! 


13  it  seemed  to  them. 

21  fruit  sellers. 

24  Seneca. 

27  wretch.      a  bought. 

31  complain. 


19  dancing  girls.  20  graceful. 

22  confectioners.  23  command. 

25  a  drunkard.  ->6  madness. 

29  without  doubt.  30  forbidden. 

32  temperate.  33  labor  hard. 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


Of  this  matere,  0  Paul,  wel  canstow  trete, 
"Mete   un-to   wombe,1   and   wombe   eek 

un-to  mete, 
Shal   god   destroyen    bothe,"    as    Paulus 

seith.  195 

Alias!  a  foul  thing  is  it,  by  my  feith, 
To  seye  this  word,  and  fouler  is  the  dede, 
Whan  man  so  drinketh  of  the  whyte  and 

rede, 

That  of  his  throte  he  maketh  his  privee, 

Thurgh  thilke  cursed  superfluitee.  200 

The  apostel  weping  seith  ful  pitously, 

"Ther  walken  many  of  whiche  yow  told 

have  I, 
I  seye  it  now  weping  with  pitous  voys, 
That  they  been  enemys  of  Cristes  croys,2 
Of  whiche  the  ende  is  deeth,  wombe1  is  her 

god."  205 


How   gret    labour   and    cost   is    thee    to 

fynde!3 
Thise    cokes,    how    they    stampe,    and 

streyne,4  and  grinde,  210 

And  turnen  substaunce  in-to  accident, 
To  fulfil le  al  thy  likerous5  talent!6 
Out  of  the  harde  bones  knokke  they 
The  mary,7  for  they  caste  noght  a-wey 
That  may  go  thurgh  the  golet  softe  and 

swote;8  215 

Of  spicerye,  of  leef,  and  bark,  and  rote9 
Shal  been  his  sauce  ymaked  by  delyt, 
To  make  him  yet  a  newer  appetyt. 
But    certes,    he    that    haunteth    swich 

delyces10 
Is  deed,  whyl  that  he  liveth  in  tho  vyces. 
A  [cursed]  thing  is  wyn,  and  dronken- 

esse  221 

Is  ful  of  stryving11  and  of  wrecchednesse. 
O  dronke  man,  disfigured  is  thy  face, 
Sour  is  thy  breeth,  foul  artow  to  embrace, 
And  thurgh  thy  dronke  nose  semeth  the 

soun12  225 

As  though  thou  seydest  ay  "Sampsoun, 

Sampsoun," 
And  yet,  god  wot,  Sampsoun  drank  never 

no  wyn. 
Thou  fallest,  as  it  were  a  stiked  swyn; 
Thy  tonge  is  lost,   and  al   thyn  honest 

cure;13 
For  dronkenesse  is  verray  sepulture         230 

1  belly.  2  cross.  3  maintain.  *  labor. 

6  dainty.  'appetite.  'marrow.  'sweetly. 

9  root.  ,0  pleasures.        "strife.  n  sound. 

13  care  for  honorable  reputation. 


Of  mannes  wit  and  his  discrecioun. 
In  whom  that  drinke  hath  dominacioun, 
He  can  no  conseil  kepe,  it  is  no  drede. 
Now  kepe  yow  fro  the  whyte  and  fro  the 

rede, 
And  namely  fro  the  whyte  wyn  of  Lepers 
That  is  to  selle  in  Fishstrete  or  in  Chepe. 
This  wyn  of  Spayne  crepeth  subtilly 
In  othere  wynes,  growing  faste  by, 
Of  which  ther  ryseth  swich  fumositee,14 
That  whan  a  man  hath  dronken  draughtes 

three,  240 

And  weneth15  that  he  be  at  hoom  in  Chepe, 
He  is  in  Spayne,  right  at  the  toune  of 

Lepe, 
Nat  at  the  Rochel,  ne  at  Burdeux  toun; 
And    thanne   wol    he   seye,    "Sampsoun, 

Sampsoun." 
But  herkneth,  lordings,  o  word,  I  yow 

preye,  245 

That  alle  the  sovereyn  actes,  dar  I  seye, 
Of  victories  in  the  olde  testament, 
Thurgh  verray16  god,  that  is  omnipotent, 
Were  doon  in  abstinence  and  in  preyere; 
Loketh  the  Bible,  and  ther  ye  may  it  lere. 
Loke,  Attila,  the  grete  conquerour,     251 
Deyde17  in  his  sleep,  with  shame  and  dis- 
honour, 
Bledinge  ay  at  his  nose  in  dronkenesse; 
A   capitayn   shoulde   live   in   sobernesse. 
And  over  al  this,  avyseth  yow18  right  wel  255 
What  was  comaunded  un-to  Lamuel — 
Nat  Samuel,  but  Lamuel,  seye  I — 
Redeth  the  Bible,  and  finde  it  expresly 
Of  wyn-yeving19  to  hem  that  han  Iustyse; 
Namore  of  this,  for  it  may  wel  suffyse.    260 
And  now  that  I  have  spoke  of  glotonye, 
Now  wol  I  yow  defenden20  hasardrye.21 
Hasard  is  verray  moder  of  lesinges,22 
And  of  deceite,  and  cursed  forsweringes,23 
Blaspheme  of   Crist,   manslaughtre,   and 

wast24  also  265 

Of  catel25  and  of  tyme;  and  forthermo, 
It  is  repreve26  and  contrarie  of  honour 
For  to  ben  holde27  a  commune  hasardour. 
And  ever  the  hyer  he  is  of  estaat, 
The  more  is  he  holden  desolaat.28  270 

If  that  a  prince  useth  hasardrye, 
In  alle  governaunce  and  policye 
He  is,  as  by  commune  opinoun, 
Yholde  the  lasse  in  reputacioun. 


11  confusing  fumes.  15  thinks, 

"died.  "consider.  ,9  giving. 

21  gambling.      22  lies.  23  perjury. 

26  wealth.  26  a  reproach.  27  known  as. 


16  the  true. 
20  forbid. 
2J  waste. 
-n  shunned. 


CHA  UCER 


21 


Stilbon,  that  was  a  wys  embassadour,275 
Was  sent  to  Corinthe,  in  ful  greet  honour, 
Fro  Lacidomie,  to  make  hir  alliaunce. 
And   whan   he   cam,   him   happede,    par 

chaunce, 
That  alle  the  grettest  that  were  of  that 

lond, 
Pleyinge  atte  hasard  he  hem  fond.  280 

For  which,  as  sone  as  it  mighte  be, 
He  stal1  him  hoom1  agayn  to  his  contree, 
And  seyde,   "Ther  wol  I  nat   lese2   my 

name; 
Ne  I  wol  nat  take  on  me  so  greet  defame,3 
Yow  for  to  allye  un-to  none  hasardours.  285 
Sendeth  othere  wyse  embassadours; 
For,  by  my  trouthe,  me  were  lever4  dye, 
Than  I  yow  sholde  to  hasardours  allye. 
For  ye  that  been  so  glorious  in  honours 
Shul  nat  allyen  yow  with  hasardours       290 
As  by  my  wil,  ne  as  by  my  tretee." 
This  wyse  philosophre  thus  seyde  he. 

Loke  eek  that  to  the  king  Demetrius 
The  king  of  Parthes,  as  the  book  seith 

us, 
Sente  him  a  paire  of  dees5  of  gold  in  scorn, 
For  he  hadde  used  hasard  ther-biforn ;    296 
For  which  he  heeld  his  glorie  or  his  renoun 
At  no  value  or  reputacioun. 
Lordes  may  fynden  other  maner  pley 
Honeste  ynough  to  dry ve  the  day  awey.  300 
Now  wol  I  speke  of  othes  false  and  grete 
A  word  or  two,  as  olde  bokes  trete. 
Gret  swering  is  a  thing  abhominable, 
And  fals  swering  is  yet  more  reprevable. 
The  heighe  god  forbad  swering  at  al,       305 
Witnesse  on  Mathew;  but  in  special 
Of  swering  seith  the  holy  Ieremye, 
"Thou  shalt  seye  sooth6  thyn  othes,  and 

nat  lye, 
And  swere  in  dome,7   and  eek  in  right- 

wisnesse;" 
But  ydel  swering  is  a  cursednesse.  310 

Bihold  and  see,  that  in  the  firste  table 
Of  heighe  goddes  hestes8  honurable, 
How   that  the  seconde  heste  of  him  is 

this— 
"  Tak  nat  my  name  in  ydel9  or  amis." 
Lo,  rather  he  forbedeth  swich  swering     315 
Than  homicyde  or  many  a  cursed  thing; 
I  seye  that,  as  by  ordre,  thus  it  stondeth; 
This    knowen,    that10    his   hestes   under- 

stondeth, 

1  returned.  2  lose.  3  dishonor.    4 1  would  rather. 

s  dice.  6  truthfully.  7  judgment. 

8  commandments.         •  in  vain.  10  those  who. 


How  that  the  second  heste  of  god  is  that. 
And  forther  over,  I  wol  thee  telle  al  plat,11 
That  vengeance  shal  nat  parten12  from  his 

hous,  321 

That  of  his  othes  is  to  outrageous. 
"By  goddes  precious  herte,  and  by  his 

navies, 
And  by  the  blode  of  Crist,  that  it  is  in 

Hayles, 
Seven  is  my  chaunce,  and  thyn  is  cmk?3 

and  treye;14  325 

By  goddes  armes,  if  thou  falsly  pleye, 
This  dagger  shal  thurgh-out  thyn  herte 

go"- 
This  fruyt  cometh  of  the  bicched15  bones 

two, 
Forswering,  ire,  falsnesse,  homicyde. 
Now,  for  the  love  of  Crist  that  for  us  dyde, 
Leveth  your  othes,  bothe  grete  and  smale; 
But,  sirs,  now  wol  I  telle  forth  my  tale.   332 
Thise  ryotoures  three,  of  whiche  I  telle, 
Longe  erst  er  pryme16  rong  of  any  belle, 
Were  set  hem  in  a  taverne  for  to  drinke;  335 
And  as  they  satte,  they  herde  a  belle  clinke 
Biforn  a  cors,  was  caried  to  his  grave; 
That  oon  of  hem  gan  callen  to  his  knave, 
"  Go  bet,"17  quod  he,  "  and  axe  redily, 
What  cors  is  this  that  passeth  heer  forby; 
And   look   that   thou   reporte   his   name 

wel."  341 

"Sir,"    quod    this    boy,     "it    nedeth 

neveradel.18 
It  was  me  told,  er  ye  cam  heer,  two  houres; 
He  was,  pardee,  an  old  felawe19  of  youres; 
And  sodeynly  he  was  yslayn  to-night,     345 
For-dronke,20    as    he    sat    on    his    bench 

upright; 
Ther  cam  a  privee  theef,  men  clepeth21 

Deeth, 
That  in  this  contree  al  the  peple  sleeth, 
And  with  his  spere  he  smoot  his  herte 

atwo,  349 

And  wente  his  wey  with-outen  wordes  mo. 
He  hath  a  thousand  slayn  this  pestilence: 
And,  maister,  er  ye  come  in  his  presence, 
Me  thinketh  that  it  were  necessarie 
For  to  be  war  of  swich  an  adversarie : 
Beth  redy  for  to  mete  him  evermore.       355 
Thus  taughte  me  my  dame,  I  sey  namore." 
"  By  seinte  Marie,"  seyde  this  taverner, 
"The  child  seith  sooth,22  for  he  hath  slayn 

this  yeer, 

11  plainly.       l2  depart.     I3  five.       M  three.  I5  cursed. 

16  nine  o'clock  A.  M.        n  quickly.    I8  there  is  no  need  of  it. 
19  companion.         2°  dead  drunk.       21  name.        —  truth. 


22 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


Henne1  over  a  myle,  with-in  a  greet  village, 
Both  man  and  womman,  child  and  hyne,2 

and  page.  360 

I  trowe  his  habitacioun  be  there; 
To  been  avysed3  greet  wisdom  it  were, 
Er  that  he  dide  a  man  a  dishonour." 
y  Ye,  goddes  armes,"  quod  this  ryotour, 
"  Is  it  swich  peril  with  him  for  to  mete?  365 
I  shal  him  seke  by  wey  and  eek  by  strete, 
I  make  avow  to  goddes  digne4  bones ! 
Herkneth,  felawes,  we  three  been  al  ones;5 
Lat  ech  of  us  holde  up  his  hond  til  other, 
And  ech  of  us  bicomen  otheres  brother,  370 
And  we  wol  sleen  this  false  tray  tour  Deeth; 
He  shal  be  slayn,  which  that  so  many 

sleeth, 
By  goddes  dignitee,  er  it  be  night." 
Togidres  han  thise  three  her  trouthes 

plight, 
To  live  and  dyen  ech  of  hem  for  other,    375 
As   though  he   were  his   owene   yboren6 

brother. 
And  up  they  sterte  al  dronken,  in  this  rage, 
Arid  forth  they  goon  towardes  that  village, 
Of  which  the  taverner  had  spoke  biforn, 
And  many  a  grisly  ooth  than  han  they 

sworn,  380 

And  Cristes  blessed  body  they  to-rente — 
"Deeth  shal  be  deed,  if  that  they  may  him 

hente."7 
Whan  they  han  goon  nat  fully  half  a 

myle, 
Right  as  they  wolde  han  troden  over  a 

style, 
An  old  man  and  a  povre  with  hem  mette. 
This  olde  man  ful  mekely  hem  grette,     386 
And  seyde  thus,  "now,  lordes,  god  yow 

see!"8 
The  proudest  of  thise  ryotoures  three 
Answerde  agayn,  "what?  carl,9  with  sory 

grace,10 
Why  artow11  al  forwrapped12  save  thy  face? 
Why  lyvestow  so  longe  in  so  greet  age?  "391 
This  olde  man  gan  loke13  in  his  visage, 
And  seyde  thus,  "for  I  ne  can  nat  finde 
A  man,  though  that  I  walked  in- to  Inde, 
Neither  in  citee  nor  in  no  village,  395 

That  wolde  chaunge  his  youthe  for  myn 

age; 
And  therfore  moot14  I  han  myn  age  stille, 
As  longe  time  as  it  is  goddes  wille. 

1  hence.        2  servant.  3  forewarned.        4  honorable. 

6  of  one  mind.  "  born.  7  seize, 

'protect.     » churl.  10  bad  luck  to  you. 

11  art  thou.  ,2  wrapped  up.  13  looked.  H  must. 


Ne  deeth,  alias!  ne  wol  nat  han  my  lyf; 
Thus  walke  I,  lyk  a  restelees  caityf ,  400 
And  on  the  ground,  which  is  my  modres 

gate, 
I  knokke  with  my  staf,  bothe  erly  and  late, 
And  seye,  'leve15  moder,  leet  me  in! 
Lo,  how  I  vanish,  flesh,  and  blood,  and 

skin! 
Alias!  whan  shul  my  bones  been  at  reste? 
Moder,  with  yow  wolde  I  chaunge  my 

cheste,  406 

That  in  my  chambre  longe  tyme  hath  be, 
Ye!  for  an  heyre  clowt16  to  wrappe  me!' 
But  yet  to  me  she  wol  nat  do  that  grace, 
For  which  ful  pale  and  welked17  is  my 

face.  410 

But,  sirs,  to  yow  it  is  no  curteisye 
To  speken  to  an  old  man  vileinye, 
But18  he  trespasse  in  worde,  or  elles  in 

dede. 
In  holy  writ  ye  may  your-self  wel  rede,    414 
'Agayns19  an  old  man,  hoor  upon  his  heed, 
Ye  sholde  aryse,'  wherfor  I  yeve  yow  reed,20 
Ne  dooth  un-to  an  old  man  noon  harm 

now, 
Namore  than  ye  wolde  men  dide  to  yow 
In  age,  if  that  ye  so  longe  abyde; 
And  god  be  with  yow,  wher21  ye  go22  or 

ryde.  420 

I  moot  go  thider  as  I  have  to  go." 
"Nay,  olde  cherl,  by  god,  thou  shalt  nat 

so," 
Seyde  this  other  hasardour  anon, 
"Thou  partest  nat  so  lightly,   by  seint 

Iohn! 
Thou  spak  right  now  of  thilke  traitour 

Deeth,  425 

That  in  this  contree  alle  our  frendes  sleeth. 
Have  heer  my  trouthe,  as  thou  art  his 

aspye,23 
Tel  wher  he  is,  or  thou  shalt  it  abye,24 
By  god,  and  by  the  holy  sacrament! 
For  soothly  thou  art  oon  of  his  assent,25  430 
To  sleen  us  yonge  folk,  thou  false  theef!" 
"Now,  sirs,"  quod  he,  "if  that  yow  be  so 

leef26 
To  finde  Deeth,  turne  up  this  croked  wey, 
For  in  that  grove  I  lafte  him,  by  my  fey, 
Under  a  tree,  and  ther  he  wol  abyde;    435 
Nat  for27  your  boost28  he  wol  him  no-thing 

hyde. 


15  dear.           1B  hair  cloth. 
19  before.       m  advice. 

17  withered. 
21  whether. 

18  unless 
22  walk. 

23  spy.            -4  rue. 
27  on  account  of. 

26  conspiracy. 
28  boasting. 

26  eager. 

V 


\v 


V^vV^ 


rs» 


Ir-^ 


CHA  UCER 


23 


£ 


See  ye  that  00k?  right  ther  ye  shul  him 

finde. 
God  save  yow,  that  boghte  agayn  man- 

kinde, 
And  yow  amende!" — thus  seyde  this  olde 

man. 
And  everich  of  thise  ryotoures  ran,        440 
Til  he  cam  to  that  tree,  and  ther  they 

founde 
Of  florins  fyne  of  golde  ycoyned  rounde 
Wei    ny    an    eighte1    busshels,    as    hem 

thoughte. 
No  lenger  thanne  after  Deeth  they  soughte, 
But  ech  of  hem  so  glad  was  of  that  sighte, 
For   that   the  florins  been   so  faire  and 

brighte,  446 

That  doun  they  sette  hem  by  this  precious 

hord. 
The  worste  of  hem  he  spak  the  firste  word. 
"Brethren,"  quod  he,  "tak  kepe2  what 

I  seye; 
My  wit  is  greet,  though  that  I  bourde3 

and  pleye.  450 

This  tresor  hath  fortune  un-to  us  yiven, 
In  mirthe  and  Iolitee  our  lyf  to  liven, 
And  lightly  as  it  comth,  so  wol  we  spende. 
Ey!  goddes  precious  dignitee!  who  wende4 
To-day,   that  we  sholde  han  so  faire  a 

grace?  455 

But  mighte  this  gold  be  caried  fro  this 

place 
Hoom  to  myn  hous,  or  elles  un-to  youres — 
For  wel  ye  woot  that  al  this  gold  is  oures — 
Than  were  we  in  heigh  felicitee. 
But  trewely,  by  daye  it  may  nat  be;     460 
Men   wolde   seyn   that   we   were   theves 

stronge, 
And  for  our  owene  tresor  doon  us  honge.0 
This  tresor  moste  ycaried  be  by  nighte 
As  wysly  and  as  slyly  as  it  mighte.        464 
Wherfore  I  rede  that  cut  among  us  alle 
Be  drawe,  and  lat  se  wher  the  cut  wol  f alle ; 
And  he  that  hath  the  cut  with  herte  blythe 
Shal   renne  to  the   toune,   and   that  ful 

swythe,6 
And  bringe  us  breed  and  wyn  ful  prively. 
And  two  of  us  shul  kepen  subtilly  470 

This  tresor  wel;  and,  if  he  wol  nat  tarie, 
Whan  it  is  night,  we  wol  this  tresor  carie 
By  oon  assent,  wher-as  us  thinketh7  best." 
That  oon  of  hem  the  cut  broughte  in  his 

fest,8 


And  bad  hem  drawe,  and  loke  wher  it 

wol  falle;  475 

And  it  fil  on  the  youngest  of  hem  alle; 
And  forth  toward  the  toun  he  wente  anon. 
And  al-so  sone  as  that  he  was  gon, 
That  oon  of  hem  spak  thus  un-to  that 

other: 
"Thou  knowest  wel  thou  art  my  sworne 

brother,  480 

Thy  profit  wol  I  telle  thee  anon. 
Thou  woost  wel  that  our  felawe  is  agon; 
And  heer  is  gold,  and  that  ful  greet  plentee, 
That  shal  departed  been  among  us  three. 
But  natheles,  if  I  can  shape  it  so  485 

That  it  departed  were  among  us  two, 
Hadde  I  nat  doon  a  frendes  torn  to  thee?  " 
That  other  answerde,  "I  noot9  how  that 

may  be; 
He  woot10  how  that  the  gold  is  with  us 

tweye; 
What  shal  we  doon,  what  shal  we  to  him 


seyer 


490 


1  eight. 

' have  us  hanged. 


2  note  of. 
6  quickly. 


1  jest.  *  thought. 

it  seems  best.       8  fist. 


"Shal  it  be  conseil?"11  seyde  the  firste 

shrewe,12 
"And  I  shal  tellen  thee,  in  wordes  fewe, 
What  we  shal  doon,  and  bringe  it  wel 

aboute." 
"I  graunte,"  quod  that  other,  "out  of 

doute, 
That,   by   my   trouthe,   I   wol   thee   nat 

biwreye."13  495 

"Now,"  quod  the  firste,   "thou  woost 

wel  we  be  tweye, 
And  two  of  us  shul  strenger  be  than  oon. 
Look  whan  that  he  is  set,  and  right  anoon 
Arys,  as  though  thou  woldest  with  him 

pleye; 
And  I  shal  ryve  him  thurgh  the  sydes 

tweye  500 

Whyl  that  thou  strogelest  with  him  as  in 

game, 
And  with  thy  dagger  look  thou  do  the 

same;  , 
And  than  shal  al  this  gold  departed  be, 
My  dere  freend,  bitwixen  me  and  thee; 
Than  may  we  bothe  our  lustes  al  fulfille,505 
And  pleye  at  dees  right  at  our  owene 

wille." 
And   thus   acorded14  been   thise   shrewes 

tweye 
To  sleen  the  thridde,  as  ye  han  herd  me 

seye. 


9  know  not. 
12  scoundrel. 


10  knows 
13  betray. 


"  a  secret. 
14  agreed. 


24 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


This  yongest,  which  that  wente  un-to 

the  toun, 
Ful  ofte  in  herte  he  rolleth  up  and  doun  510 
The   beautee   of   thise   florins   newe   and 

brighte. 
"O  lord!"  quod  he,  "if  so  were  that  I 

mighte 
Have  al  this  tresor  to  my-self  allone, 
Ther  is   no   man   that  liveth   under  the 

trone1 
Of  god,  that  sholde  live  so  mery  as  I! "  515 
And  atte  laste  the  feend,  our  enemy, 
Putte  in  his  thought  that  he  shold  poyson 

beye,2 
With  which  he  mighte  sleen  his  felawes 

tweye; 
For  why 3  the  feend  fond  him  in  swich 

lyvinge, 
That  he  had  leve4  him  to  sorwe  bringe,    520 
For  this  was  outrely5  his  ful  entente 
To  sleen  hem  bothe,  and  never  to  repente. 
And  forth  he  gooth,  no  lenger  wolde  he 

tarie, 
Into  the  toun,  un-to  a  pothecarie, 
And    preyed    him,    that    he    him   wolde 

selle  525 

Som  poyson,   that  he  mighte  his  rattes 

quelle;6 
And  eek  ther  was  a  polcat  in  his  hawe,7 
That,   as   he   seyde,   his   capouns   hadde 

yslawe. 
And   fayn   he   wolde   wreke8  him,   if   he 

mighte, 
On  vermin,  that  destroyed  him  by  nighte. 
The   pothecarie   answerde,    "and   thou 

shalt  have  ^  j  K~r++-'  531 

A  thing  that,  af-SQ  god  my  soule  save, 
In  al  this  world  ther  nis  no  creature, 
That  ete  or  dronke  hath  of  this  confiture9 
Noght  but  the  mountance10  of  a  corn  of 

whete,  535 

That  he  ne  shal  his  lyf  anon  forlete;11 
Ye,  sterve12  he  shal,  and  that  ui  lasse  whyle 
Than  thou  wolt  goon  a  paas13  nat  but  a 

myle; 
This  poyson  is  so  strong  and  violent." 
This    cursed    man    hath    in    his    hond 

yhent14  540 

This  poyson  in  a  box,  and  sith  he  ran 
In-to  the  nexte  strete,  un-to  a  man, 
And  borwed  of  him  large  hotels  three; 
And  in  the  two  his  poyson  poured  he; 


1  throne, 
•kill. 
11  lose. 


2  buy. 
7  yard. 
'2die.- 


•  because 
"  avenge. 
13  al  a  foot  pace 


permission. 
»  mixture. 


5  entirely. 
10  amount. 
M  seized. 


The  thridde  he  kepte  clene  for  his  drinke. 
For  all  the  night  he  shoop  him15  for  to 

swinke16  546 

In  caryirige  of  the  gold  °>&J^thjitpkce^ 
And  whan  this  ryotour,  iaaJtS_so^gjace/, 
Had  filled  with  wyn  his  grete  hotels  three, 
To  his  felawes  agayn  repaireth  he.  550 

What  nedeth  it  to  sermone17  of  it  more? 
For  right  as  they  had  cast  his  deeth  bifore, 
Right  so  they  han  him  slayn,  and  that 

anon. 
And  whan  that  this  was  doon,  thus  spak 

that  oon, 
"Now  lat  us  sitte  and  drinke,  and  make  us 

merie,  555 

And  afterward  we  wol  his  body  berie." 
And  with  that  word  it  happed  him,  par 

cas,18 
To  take  the  botel  ther  the  poyson  was, 
And   drank,   and  yaf   his   felawe   drinke 

also, 
For  which  anon  they  storven19  bothe  two. 
But,  certes,  I  suppose  that  Avicen       561 
Wroot  never  in  no  canon,20  ne  in  no  fen,20 
Mo21  wonder22  signes  of  empoisoning 
Than  hadde  thise  wrecches  two,  er  hir 

ending. 
Thus  ended  been  thise  homicydes  two,  565 
And  eek  the  false  empoysoner  also. 

O  cursed  sinne,  ful  of  cursednesse! 
O  tray  tours  homicyde,  o  wikkednesse! 
O  glotonye,  luxurie,  and  hasardrye! 
Thou  blasphemour  of  Crist  with  vileinye 
And  othes  grete,  of  usage23  and  of  pryde  1571 
Alias !  mankynde,  how  may  it  bityde, 
That   to   thy   creatour   which   that   thee 

wroghte, 
And  with  his  precious  herte -blood  thee 

boghte,  u/^YVjWvM. 

Thou  art  so  fals  and  sojunkincle,  alias !     575 
Now,  goode  men,  god  forgeve  yow  your 

trespas, 
And  ware  yow24  fro  the  sinne  of  avaryce. 
Myn  holy  pardoun  may  yow  alle  waryce,25 
So  that  ye  offre  nobles  or  sterlinges, 
Or  elles  silver  broches,  sponesj  ringes.  580 
Boweth  your  heed  under  this  holy  bulle! 
Cometh   up,   ye  wyves,   offreth   of  your 

wolle!26 
Your  name  I  entre  heer  in  my  rolle  anon; 
In-to  the  blisse  of  hevene  shulje^on; 


15  planned. 
19  died. 
M  habit. 


,6  labor. 
20  See  notes. 
24  keep  you. 


17  speak. 
21  more. 
26  cure. 


18  by  chance. 
22  wonderful. 
26  wool. 


CHA  UCER 


25 


I  yow  assoile,  by  myn  heigh  power,  585 

Yow  that  wol  offre,  as  clene  and  eek  as 

cleer 
As  ye  were  born;  and,  lo,  sirs,   thus  I 
„  preche.  ^U^^t^^.. 

,,  And  Iesu  Crist,  that  is  our  soules  lecHe^. 
'  So  graunte_yow  his  pardon  to  receyve; 
>^Fbr  that  is  best;  I  wol  yow  nat  deeeyve.590 

,  But  sirs,  o  word  forgat  I  in  my  tale; 
/l  have  reliks  and  pardon  in  my  male,1 
J  As  faire  as  any  man  in  Engelond, 
,  Whiche   were    me   yeven    by   the   popes 

$       hond- 

1  If  any  of  yow  wol,  of  devocioun,  595 

Offren,  and  han  myn  absolucioun, 

Cometh    forth    anon,    and    kneleth   heer 

adoun, 
And  mekely  receyveth  my  pardoun : 
Or  elles,  taketh  pardon  as  ye  wende, 
Al  newe  and  fresh,  at  every  tqunes  ende, 
So  that  ye  offren  alwey  newe  and  newe  601 
Nobles  and  pens,  which,  that  be  gode'and 

trew'e.' 
It  is  an  honour  to  everich  that  is  heer, 
That  ye  raowe  have  a  suf&sant  pardoneer 
Tassoille2-yow,  .in  contree  as  ye  ryde,       605 
For  a  ventures  which  that  may  bityde. 
Peraventure  ther  may  falle  oon  or  two 
Doun  of  his  hors,  and  breke  his  nekke 

atwo. 
Look  which  a  seuretee  is  it  to  yow  alle 
That  I  am  in  your  felaweship  yfalle,        610 
That  may  assoille  yow,  both  more3  and 

lasse,4 
Whan  that  the  soule  shal  fro  the  body 

passe. 
I  rede5  that  our  host  heer  shal  biginne, 
'  For  he  is  most  envoluped  in  sinne.  614 

Com  forth,  sir  hoste,  and  offre  first  anon. 
And  thou  shaltrkisse  the  reliks  everichon,6 
Ye,  for  a  grote!  unbokel  anon  thy  purs. 


BALADE   DE  BON  CONSEYL 

Fie  fro  the  prees,7  and  dwelle  with  soth- 

f  astnesse  ;8 
Suffyce  unto  thy  good,  though  hit  be  smal; 
For  hord  hath  hate,  and  clymbing  tikel- 

nesse,9 
Prees  hath  envye,  and  wele10  blent11  overal; 
Savour12  no  more  than  thee  bihove  shal ;     s 


1  wallet.  2  to  absolve. 

6  advise.  6  each  one. 

9  uncertainty.     10  wealth. 


3  high.  4  low. 

7  the  crowd.  8  truth. 

11  blinds.      '-  have  relish  for. 


Werk  wel  thy-self,  that  other  folk  canst 

rede;13 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede. 

Tempest  thee  noght  al  croked  to  redresse, 
In  trust  of  hir  that  turneth  as  a  bal; 
Gret  reste14  stant15  in  litel  besinesse,          10 
And  eek  be  war  to  sporne16  ageyn  an  al; 
Stryve  noght,  as  doth   the   crokke  with 

the  wal. 
Daunte17   thyself,   that  dauntest  otheres 

dede; 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede. 

That  thee  is  sent,  receyve  in  buxumnesse,i5 
The  wrastling  for  this  world  axeth18  a  fal. 
Her  nis  non  horn,  her  nis  but  wildernesse; 
Forth,  pilgrim,  forth!     Forth,  beste,  out 

of  thy  stal! 
Know  thy  countree;  lok  up,  thank  God  of 

al; 
Hold  the  hye-way,  and  lat  thy  gost19  thee 

lede!  20 

And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede. 

Envoy 

Therefore,   thou  Vache,   leve20   thyn   old 

wrecchednesse ; 
Unto  the  world  leve  now  to  be  thral; 
Crye  Him  mercy  that  of  His  hy  goodnesse 
Made  thee  of  noght,  and  in  especial  25 

Draw  unto  Him,  and  pray  in  general 
For  thee,  and  eek  for  other,   hevenlich 

mede;21 
And  trouthe  shal  delivere,  hit  is  no  drede. 

THE  COMPLAINT  OF  CHAUCER  TO 
HIS   EMPTY  PURSE 

To  you,  my  purse,  and  to  non  other  wight22 
Compleyne  I,  for  ye  be  my  lady  dere! 
I  am  so  sory,  now  that  ye  be  light ; 
For  certes,  but23  ye  make  me  hevy  chere,24 
Me  were  as  leef  be  leyd  up-on  my  bere ;  5 
For  whiche  un-to  your  mercy  thus  I  crye : 
Beth25  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye! 

Now  voucheth  sauf  this  day,  or26  hit  be 

night, 
That  I  of  you  the  blisful  soun  may  here, 
Or  see  your  colour  lyk  the  sonne  bright,    10 


13  advise. 
17  subdue. 
21  reward. 
25  be. 


14  peace. 
18  asks. 
22  person. 


15  resides, 
"spirit. 
23  unless. 


is  kick. 

20  cease. 

21  appearance. 
25  before. 


26 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


That  of  yelownesse  hadde  never  pere. 
Ye  be  my  lyf ,  ye  be  myn  hertes  stere,1 
Quene  of  comfort  and  of  good  companye: 
Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye! 

Now  purs,  that  be  to  me  my  lyves  light,   15 
And  saveour,  as  doun2  in  this  worlde  here, 
Out  of  this  toune  help  me  through  your 

might, 
Sin  that  ye  wole  nat  been  my  tresorere; 
For  I  am  shave  as  nye3  as  any  frere.4 
But  yit  I  pray  un-to  your  curtesye:  20 

Beth  hevy  ageyn,  or  elles  mot  I  dye! 

Lenvoy  de  Chaucer 

0  conquerour  of  Brutes  Albioun! 
Which  that  by  lyne  and  free  eleccioun 
Ben5  verray  king,  this  song  to  you  I  sende; 
And    ye,    that    mowen6    al    myn    harm 

amende,  25 

Have  mynde  up-on  my  supplicacioun ! 

ANONYMOUS 
PIERS  THE  PLOWMAN 

From  the  Prologue 

In  a  somer  sesun  '  whon  softe  was  the 
sonne, 

1  schop7  me  in-to  a  schroud8  '  a  scheep9 

as  I  were; 
In  habite  of  an  hermite  '  unholy  of  werkes, 
Wende10  I  wyde  in  this  world  '  wondres  to 

here. 
Bote  on  a  May  mornynge  '  on  Malverne 

hulles11  5 

Mebi-fel12  a  ferly13'of  fairy,14  me  thoughte. 

I  was  wery,  forwandred,15 '  and  went  me 

to  reste 
Under  a  brod  banke  '  bi  a  bourne16  syde, 
And  as  I  lay  and  leonede17 '  and  lokede  on 

the  watres, 
I  slumberde  in  a  slepyng  '  hit  sownede18  so 

murie.19  10 

Thenne  gon20  I  meeten21   '   a  mervelous 

swevene,22 
That  I  was  in  a  wildernesse  '  wuste23  I 

never  where; 
And  as  I  beheold  into  the  est '  an  heigh21 

to  the  sonne, 


1  guide.           -  down. 

:|  close. 

4  friar.           6  at 

n  have  power  to. 

7  clothed. 

8  garment. 

9  shepherd. 

10  went. 

"hills. 

12  happened. 

"  wonder. 

l*  enchantment. 

'"  tired  with  wandering. 

Ifi  brook. 

17  leaned. 

18  sounded. 

18  merry. 

m  did. 

21  dream. 

22  dream. 

23  knew. 

24  on  high. 

toft2 


trielich27 


I   sauh"0   a  tour 

ymaked;28 
A  deop  dale  bineothe '  a  dongeon  ther-inne, 
With  deop  dich  and  derk  "  and  dredful 

of  siht.29  16 

A  feir  feld  ful  of  folk  "  fond  I  ther  bitwene, 
Of  alle  maner  of  men '  the  mene30  and  the 

riche, 
Worchinge31  and  wandringe  '  as  the  world 

asketh.32 
Summe  putten  hem33  to  the  plow  "  and 

pleiden34  ful  selde;35  20 

In  settyng36  and  in  sowyng  '  swonken37 

ful  harde, 
And  wonnen  that  theos38  wasturs39  '  in 

glotonye  distruen.40 
And  summe  putten  hem  to  pruide41  "  ap- 

parayld42  hem  ther-after, 
In  continaunce43  of  clothinge  '  comen  dis- 

gised. 
To  preyere44  and  to  penaunce  ■   putten 

hem  monye,45  25 

For  love  of  ur46  lorde  '  lyveden47  ful  streite, 
In  hope  for  to  have  '  hevenriche48  blisse; 
As  ancres49  and  hermytes  '   that  holdeth 

hem50  in  heore51  celles, 
Coveyte  not  in  cuntre52 '  to  cairen53  aboute, 
For  non  likerous54  lyflode55  *  heore  licam56 

to  plese.  30 

And  summe  chosen  chaffare57 '  to  cheeven58 

the  bettre, 
As  hit  semeth  to  owre  siht  "  that  suche 

men  thryveth; 
And  summe  murthes59  to  maken  '  as  mun- 

strals  cunne,60 
And  get  gold  with  here  gle61 '  giltles  I  trowe. 
Bote  japers62  and  jangelers,63  "  Iudas  chil- 
dren, 
Founden64  hem  fantasyes65 

hem  maaden, 
And    habbeth   wit    at    heor 

worchen67  gif  hem  luste ; 
That68  Poul  precheth  of  hem 

preoven69  heere; 

25  saw.  26  cleared  space.  2'  choicely. 

28  made.         29  sight.  30  poor. 

31  working.    32  requires.  33  gave  themselves. 

31  played.      35  seldom.  36  planting. 

37  labored.     38  these.  39  wasters. 

40  destroy.     41  pride.  42  clothed. 

43  outward  appearance.  44  prayer. 

4S  many.        46  our.  *'  lived. 

48  happiness  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

49  nuns.          50  keep  themselves.     "  their.         f>2  country. 
63  wander.     M  luxurious.  66  diet.  56  body. 
67  trade.         68  prosper.  69  amusements. 

61  glee.  62  fools. 


and 


wille6 


35 
fooles 


to 


I  dar  not 


110  know  how. 

M  buffoons.  64  feigned. 

86  at  command. 

68  what. 


"■  giee.  »•  ioois. 

66  tricks. 
67  work  if  it  pleased  them. 
69  prove,  explain. 


PIERS  THE  PLOWMAN 


27 


Qui  loquitur  turpiloquium    '    is  Luciferes 

hyne. 
Bidders1  and  beggers  '  faste  aboute  eoden,2 
Til  heor  bagges  and  heor  belies  "  weren 

bretful  ycrammed;3  41 

Feyneden  hem4  for  heore  foode  '  foughten 

atte5  ale; 
In   glotonye,    God   wot,    '    gon    heo6    to 

bedde, 
And  ryseth  up  with  ribaudye7  "  this  rober- 

des8  knaves; 
Sleep  and  sleuthe  '  suweth9  hem  evere.    45 
Pilgrimes  and  palmers  "  plihten10  hem 

togederes 
For  to  seche11  Seint  Jame  *  and  seintes  at 

Roome; 
Wenten  forth  in  heore  wey  *  with  mony 

wyse  tales, 
And  hadden  leve  to  lyen  '  al  heore  lyf  aftir. 


I  fond  there  freres '  all  the  foure  ordres,  55 
Prechinge  the  peple  '  for  profyt  of  heore 

wombes,12 
Glosynge13  the  Gospel  *   as  hem14  good 

liketh,14 
For  covetyse15  of  copes  "  construeth16  hit 

ille; 
For  monye17  of  this  maistres  '  mowen18 

clothen  hem  at  lyking,19 
For  moneye20  and  heore  marchaundie21  * 

meeten  oft  togedere.  60 


Ther  prechede  a  pardoner  *   as22  he  a 

prest  were,  65 

And  brought  forthe  a  bulle   *   with  bis- 

schopes  seles, 
And  seide  that  himself  mighte  '  asoylen23 

hem  alle 
Of  falsnesse  and  fastinge  '  and  of  vowes 

y-broken. 
The  lewede24  men  leved23  him  wel  "  and 

lyked  his  wordes, 
And  comen  up  knelynge  '  and  cusseden26 

his  bulle;  70 

He  bonchede27  hem  with  his  brevet28 '  and 

blered  heore  eiyen,29 


1  beggars.  -  went. 

5  at  the.  6  they. 

8  these  robber. 

11  seek.  12  bellies. 

14  as  it  pleased  them. 

17  many.  18  may.  »•  as  tney  . 

20  money.  21  merchandise.      22  as  if 

24  ignorant.        25  believed. 

27  banged.  28  letter  of  indulgence. 


3  crammed. 

7  ribaldry. 

'follow. 
13  interpreting. 
15  covetousness. 
,9  as  they  please. 


4  shammed. 

10  plighted. 

16  construe. 

23  shrive. 
26  kissed. 
29  eyes. 


And  rauhte30  with  his  ragemon31  '  ringes 

and  broches. 
Thus  ye  giveth  oure32  gold  "  glotonye  to 

helpen, 
And  leveth  hit  to  losels33  '  that  lecherie 

haunten.34 
Weore  the  bisschop  y-blessed  '  and  worth 

bothe  his  eres,35  75 

His  seel  shulde  not  be  sent  '  to  deceyve 

the  peple. 
Ac37  hit  is  not  bi36  the  bisschop  "   that 

the  boye  precheth; 
Bote37  the  parisch  prest  and  he  '  parten 

the  selver 
That  the  poraille38  of  the  parisch  '  schold 

have  yif  thei  nere.39 


ANONYMOUS 
NOAH'S  FLOOD 

THE  WATERLEADERS  AND  DRAWERS 
OF  DEE 

First  God,  sitting  in  some  high  place,  or  in 
clouds,  if  it  can  be  done,  speaks  to  Noah, 
standing  with  all  his  family  outside  the 
ark. 

God.  I,   God,   that   all   the   world  have 

wrought, 
Heaven  and  earth,  and  all  of  nought, 
I  see  my  people  in  deed  and  thought 

Are  foully  set  in  sin. 
My  spirit  shall  not  remain  in  any  man        5 
That  through  fleshly  liking  is  my  fone,40 
But  till  six  score  years  be  gone, 

To  look  if  they  will  blynne.41 

Man  that  I  made  I  will  destroy, 

Beast,  man,  and  fowl  that  fly,  10 

For  on  earth  they  do  me  annoy, 

The  folk  that  are  thereon ; 
It  harms  me  so  hurtfully, 
The  malice  now  that  does  multiply, 
That  sore  it  grieveth  me  inwardly  15 

That  ever  I  made  man. 

Therefore,  Noah,  my  servant  free, 
That  righteous  man  art,  as  I  see, 
A  ship  soon  thou  shalt  make  thee 

Of  trees  dry  and  light ;  20 


30  reached,  got. 
33  rascals. 
36  all  the  fault  of. 
38  poor  people. 
40  foe. 


31  bull.  32  your. 

34  practise.  36  ears. 

37  but. 
39  if  it  were  not  for  them. 

41  cease. 


28 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES   } 


Little  chambers  therein  do  thou  make, 
And  binding  pitch  also  do  thou  take : 
Within  and  without  do  thou  not  slake1 
To  annoint  it  with  all  thy  might. 

Three  hundred  cubits  it  shall  be  long,       25 
And  fifty  of  breadth,  to  make  it  strong, 
Of    height    fifty,    the    measure    do    thou 
fonge:2 

Thus  measure  it  about. 
One  window  work  by  thy  wit, 
One  cubit  of  length  and  breadth  make  it;  30 
Upon  the  side  a  door  shall  sit, 

For  to  come  in  and  out. 

Eating  places  do  thou  make  also, 

Three  roofed  chambers,  one  or  two, 

For  with  water  I  think  to  flow3  35 

Man  that  I  did  make; 
Destroyed  all  the  world  shall  be, 
Save  thou,  thy  wife,  thy  sons  three, 
And  all  their  wives  also  with  thee, 

Shall  saved  be  for  their  sake.  40 

Noah.  Ah,  Lord,  I  thank  thee  loud  and 

still, 
That  to  me  art  in  such  will, 
And  sparest  me  and  my  house  to  spill,4 

As  now  I  soothly  find; 
Thy  bidding,  Lord,  I  shall  fulfil,  45 

And  never  more  thee  grieve  nor  grill,5 
That  such  grace  hast  sent  me  till, 

Among  all  mankind. 


Have  done,  you  men  and  women  all ! 

Help,  for  aught  that  may  befall, 

To  make  this  ship,  chamber  and  hall, 

As  God  hath  bidden  us  do. 
Shem.  Father,  lam  already  bowne:6 
An  axe  I  have,  by  my  crown, 
As  sharp  as  any  in  all  this  town, 

For  to  go  thereto. 

Ham.  I  have  a  hatchet  wonder  keen 
To  bite  well,  as  may  be  seen; 
A  better  ground,  as  I  ween, 

Is  not  in  all  this  town. 
Japhet.  And  I  can  well  make  a  pin, 
And  with  this  hammer  knock  it  in; 
Go  and  work  without  more  din, 

And  I  am  ready  bowne. 


5° 


55 


Noah's  Wife.  And  we  shall  bring  timber 
too,  65 

For  we  may  nothing  else  do: 
Women  be  weak  to  undergo 

Any  great  travail. 
Shem's  Wife.  Here  is  a  good  hackstock,7 
On  this  you  may  hew  and  knock ;  70 

Shall  none  be  idle  in  this  flock, 

Nor  now  may  no  man  fail. 

Ham's  Wife.  And   I   will   go   to  gather 

slich8 
The  ship  for  to  clean  and  pitch: 
Annointed  it  must  be  every  stitch,9  75 

Board,  tree  and  pin. 
Japhet's  Wife.  And  I  will  gather  chips 

here 
To  make  a  fire  for  you  in  fere,10 
And  for  to  dight11  your  dinner 

Against  you  come  in.  80 

Then  they  make  signs  as  though  they  were 
working  with  various  implements. 

Noah.  Now  in  the  name  of  God  I  will 

begin 
To  make  the  ship  that  we  shall  go  in, 
That  we  be  ready  for  to  swim 

At  the  coming  of  the  flood : 
These  boards  I  join  here  together  85 

To  keep  us  safe  from  the  weather, 
That  we  may  row  both  hither  and  thither, 

And  safe  be  from  this  flood. 


1  be  not  slack. 
*  destroy. 


2  take. 


3  flood. 
6  prepared. 


Of  this  tree  will  I  make  the  mast, 
Tied  with  cables  that  will  last, 
With  a  sailyard  for  each  blast, 

And  each  thing  in  their  kind; 
With  topcastle  and  bowsprit, 
With  cords  and  ropes  I  have  all  meet 
To  sail  forth  at  the  next  weete:12 

This  ship  is  at  an  end. 


90 


95 


Then  Noah  and  all  his  family  again  make 
signs  of  working  with  various  imple- 
ments. 

Wife,  in  this  castle  we  shall  be  kept; 
My  children  and  thou  I  would  in  leapt. 
Noah's  Wife.  In  faith,  Noah,  I  had  as 
lief  thou  slept. 
For  all  thy  frankish  fare,  100 


choppin^-block. 
10  all  together. 


!  pitch, 
prepare. 


9  stick. 
12  wet  weather. 


NOAH'S  FLOOD 


29 


I  will  not  do  after  thy  rede.1 
Noah.  Good  wife,  do  now  as  I  thee  bid. 
Noah's  Wife.  By  Christ!  not  ere  I  see 
more  need, 
Though  thou  stand  all  the  day  and  stare. 

Noah.  Lord,  that  women  be  crabbed  aye, 
And  never  are  meek,  that  dare  I  say;  106 
This  is  well  seen  by  me  today 

In  witness  of  you  each  one. 
Good  wife,  let  be  all  this  bere2 
That  thou  makest  in  this  place  here,        no 
For  all  they  ween  thou  art  master — 

And  so  thou  art,  by  St.  John ! 

God.  Noah,  take  thou  thy  company, 

And  in  the  ship  hie  that  you  be, 

For  none  so  righteous  man  to  me  115 

Is  now  on  earth  living. 
Of  clean  beasts  do  thou  with  thee  take 
Seven  and  seven,  ere  thou  slake, 
He  and  she,  make  to  make,3 

Quickly  in  do  thou  bring.  1 20 

Of  beasts  unclean,  two  and  two, 
Male  and  female,  without  mo;4 
Of  clean  fowls  seven  also, 

The  he  and  she  together; 
Of  fowls  unclean,  two  and  no  more,         125 
As  I  of  beasts  said  before, 
That  shall  be  saved  through  my  lore, 

Against  I  send  the  weather. 


Of  all  meats  that  must  be  eaten 
Into  the  ship  look  there  be  getten, 
For  that  no  way  may  be  forgetten, 

And  do  all  this  bydene,5 
To  sustain  man  and  beast  therein, 
Aye  till  this  water  cease  and  blynne. 
This  world  is  filled  full  of  sin, 

And  that  is  now  well  seen. 


130 


135 


Seven  days  be  yet  coming, 
;  You  shall  have  space  them  in  to  bring ; 
After  that  is  my  liking 

Mankind  for  to  annoy :  140 

:  Forty  days  and  forty  nights 

Rain  shall  fall  for  their  unrights, 
I  And    what    I    have    made    through    my 
mights, 
Now  think  I  to  destroy. 


1  counsel. 
1  more. 


2  noise. 


3  mate. 
6  quickly. 


Noah.  Lord,  at  your  bidding  I  am  bayne;6 
Since  none  other  your  grace  will  gain,  146 
It  will  I  fulfil  fain, 

For  gracious  I  thee  find. 
A  hundred  winters  and  twenty 
This  ship  making  tarried  have  I,  150 

If  through  amendment  any  mercy 

Would  fall  unto  mankind. 

Have  done,  you  men  and  women  all! 

Hie  you,  lest  this  water  fall. 

That  each  beast  were  in  his  stall,  155 

And  into  the  ship  brought! 
Of  clean  beasts  seven  shall  be, 
Of  unclean  two,  this  God  bade  me. 
This  flood  is  nigh,  well  may  we  see; 

Therefore  tarry  you  not.  160 

Then  Noah  shall  enter  the  ark,  and  his 
family  shall  exhibit  and  name  all  the 
animals  depicted  on  sheets  of  parch- 
ment, and  after  each  one  has  spoken  his 
part,  he  shall  go  into  the  ark,  except 
Noah's  wife.  The  animals  depicted 
ought  to  correspond  to  the  descriptions; 
ami  thus  let  the  first  son  begin. 

Shem.  Sir,  here  are  lions,  leopards  in, 
Horses,  mares,  oxen,  and  swine, 
Goats,  calves,  sheep,  and  kine, 

Here  sitting  thou  mayst  see. 
Ham.  Camels,  asses,  men  may  find,        165 
Buck,  doe,  hart,  and  hind, 
And  beasts  of  all  manner  of  kind 

Here  be,  as  thinks  me. 

Japhet.  Take  here  cats,  and  dogs  too, 
Otter,  fox,  fulmart7  also,  1 70 

Hares  hopping  gaily  can  go, 

Have  cowle  here  for  to  eat. 
Noah's  Wife.  And  here  are  bears,  wolves 

set, 
Apes,  owls,  marmoset, 
Weasels,  squirrels,  and  ferret;  175 

Here  they  eat  their  meat. 

Shem's  Wife.  Yet  more  beasts  are  in  this 

house : 
Here  cats  make  it  full  crowse,8 
Here  a  rat,  here  a  mouse, 

They  stand  nigh  together.  180 

6  ready.  '  skunk.  8  jolly. 


3° 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


Ham's  Wife.  And  here  are  fowls,  less  and 

more: 
Herons,  cranes,  and  bittour,1 
Swans,  peacocks;  and  them  before 
Meat  for  this  weather. 

Japhet's   Wife.  Here   are   cocks,   kites, 
crows,  1 85 

Rooks,  ravens,  many  rows; 
Ducks,  curlews:  whoever  knows 

Each  one  in  his  kind? 
And  here  are  doves,  ducks,  drakes, 
Redshanks,  running  through  the  lakes;  190 
And  each  fowl  that  language  makes 

In  this  ship  men  may  find. 

Noah.  Wife,  come  in!  why  standest  thou 

here? 
Thou  art  ever  froward,  that  dare  I  swear. 
Come  in,  on  God's  half!2  time  it  were,    195 

For  fear  lest  that  we  drown. 
Noah's  Wife.  Yea,  sir,  set  up  your  sail, 
And  row  forth  with  evil  hail! 
For  without  any  fail 

I  will  not  out  of  this  town.  200 

Unless  I  have  my  gossips  every  one 
One  foot  further  I  will  not  gone;3 
They  shall  not  drown,  by  St.  John! 

If  I  may  save  their  life! 
They  loved  me  full  well,  by  Christ!       205 
Unless  thou  wilt  let  them  in  thy  chest, 
Row  forth,  Noah,  whither  thou  list, 

And  get  thee  a  new  wife. 


Noah.  Shem,    son,    lo!    thy    mother    is 

wraw  :4 
Forsooth,  such  another  I  do  not  know!  210 
Shem.  Father,    I    shall    fetch    her   in,    I 
trow, 

Without  any  fail. 
Mother,  my  father  after  thee  sent, 
And  bids  thee  into  yonder  ship  wend. 
Look  up  and  see  the  wind,  215 

For  we  be  ready  to  sail. 

Noah's  Wife.  Son,  go  again  to  him  and 

say 
I  will  not  come  therein  today. 
Noah.  Come  in,  wife,  in  twenty  devils' 


way 


Or  else  stand  there  without. 


1  bittern. 

*  go — an  infinitive. 


2  for  God's  sake. 
1  angry. 


Ham.  Shall  we  all  fetch  her  in? 

Noah.  Yea,    sons,    in    Christ's    blessing 

and  mine! 
I  would  you  hied  you  betime, 
For  of  this  flood  I  am  in  doubt.5 


The  Good  Gossips.     [They  sing.} 
The  flood  comes  in  full  fleeting  fast, 
On  every  side  it  spreadeth  full  far; 
For  fear  of  drowning  I  am  aghast, 
Good  gossip,  let  us  draw  near. 
And  let  us  drink  ere  we  depart, 
For  oftentimes  we  have  done  so; 
For  at  a  draught  thou  drink'st  a  quart, 
And  so  will  I  do,  ere  I  go. 


225 


230 


Japhet.  Mother,  we  pray  you  altogether, 
For  we  are  here,  your  own  children, 
Come  into  the  ship  for  fear  of  the  weather, 

For  his  love  that  you  bought.  236 

Noah's  Wife.  That  will  I  not  for  all  your 

call, 
Unless  I  have  my  gossips  all. 
Shem.  In  faith,  mother,  yet  you  shall, 

Whether  you  will  or  not!  240 

[Then  she  will  go.] 

Noah.  Welcome,  wife,  into  this  boat! 
Noah's  Wife.  And  have  thou  that  for 
thy  mote!6 

[She  deals  Noah  a  blow.] 
Noah.  Aha,  marry,  this  is  hot! 

It  is  good  to  be  still. 
Ah,  children,  methinks  my  boat  removes! 
Our  tarrying  here  hugely  me  grieves;     246 
Over  the  land  the  water  spreads — 

God  do  as  he  will! 


Ah,  great  God  that  art  so  good, 
He  that  works  not  thy  will  is  wood7. 
Now  all  this  world  is  in  a  flood, 

As  I  see  well  in  sight; 
This  window  I  will  shut  anon, 
And  into  my  chamber  will  I  gone, 
Till  this  water,  so  great  one, 

Be  slaked  through  thy  might. 


250 


255 


Then  let  Noah  shut  the  window  of  the  ark, 
and  let  them,  remaining  within  for  a 
short  lime,  sing  the  psalm  "Save  me, 
O  God;"  then  let  Noah  open  the  win- 
dow and  look  around. 


: 


5  fear. 


8  chatter. 


7  mad. 


NOAH'S  FLOOD 


3i 


Now  forty  days  are  fully  gone. 

Send  a  raven  I  will  anon, 

To  see  if  anywhere,  earth,  tree,  or  stone, 

Be  dry  in  any  place;  260 

And  if  this  fowl  come  not  again, 
It  is  a  sign,  sooth  to  sayne,1 
That  dry  it  is  on  hill  or  plain, 

And  God  hath  done  some  grace. 

Then  let  him  send  out  the  raven,  and  taking 
a  dove  in  his  hands,  let  him  speak. 

Ah,  Lord,  wherever  this  raven  be,  265 

Somewhere  is  dry,  well  I  see. 
But  yet  a  dove,  by  my  loyalty, 

After  I  will  send. 
Thou  wilt  turn  again  to  me, 

*        *        *        *         *         * 

For  of  all  fowls  that  may  fly,  270 

Thou  art  most  meek  and  hend.2 

Then  he  shall  put  forth  the  dove,  and  there 
shall  be  on  the  ship  another  dove  bearing 
an  olive  branch  in  her  mouth,  which 
someone  shall  let  down  from  the  mast 
by  a  cord  into  Noah's  hand,  and 
afterwards  let  Noah  speak. 

Ah,  Lord,  blessed  be  thou  aye, 
That  me  hast  comforted  thus  today! 
By  this  sight  I  may  well  say 

This  flood  begins  to  cease:  275 

My  sweet  dove  to  me  brought  has 
A  branch  of  olive  from  some  place; 
This  betokeneth  God  has  done  us  some 
grace, 

And  is  a  sign  of  peace. 

Ah,  Lord,  honored  may  thou  be!  280 

All  earth  dries  now,  I  see, 

But  yet  till  thou  commandest  me, 

Hence  will  I  not  hie. 
All  this  water  is  away; 
Therefore  as  soon  as  I  may,  285 

Sacrifice  I  shall  do  in  fay3 
1   To  thee  devoutly. 


iOD.  Noah,  take  thy  wife  anon, 
ind  thy  children  every  one; 
)ut  of  the  ship  thou  shalt  gone 
And  they  all  with  thee; 


290 


1  say. 


2  gentle. 


3  faith. 


Beasts  and  all  that  can  fly 
Out  anon  they  shall  hie, 
On  earth  to  grow  and  multiply; 
I  will  that  it  so  be. 


295 


Noah.  Lord,  I  thank  thee,  through  thy 

might, 
Thy  bidding  shall  be  done  in  hight,4 
And  as  fast  as  I  may  dight 

I  will  do  thee  honor, 
And  to  thee  offer  sacrifice.  300 

Therefore  comes  in  all  wise, 
For  of  these  beasts  that  be  his 
Offer  I  will  this  store. 

Then  coming  out  of  the  ark  with  all  his 
family  Noah  shall  take  his  animals 
and  fowls  and  make  an  offering,  and 
sacrifice. 

Lord  God  in  majesty, 

That  such  grace  hast  granted  me  305 

Where  all  was  lost,  safe  to  be, 

Therefore  now  I  am  bowne, 
My  wife,  my  children,  my  company, 
With  sacrifice  to  honor  thee, 
With  beasts,  fowls,  as  thou  mayst  see,  310 

Which  I  offer  here  right  soon. 

God.  Noah,  to  me  thou  art  full  able,5 

And  thy  sacrifice  acceptable, 

For  I  have  found  thee  true  and  stable; 

On  thee  must  I  now  mind.6 
Curse  earth  will  I  no  more 
For  man's  sin  that  grieves  me  sore, 
For  of  youth  man  full  yore 

Has  been  inclined  to  sin. 

You  shall  now  grow  and  multiply,        320 
And  earth  again  you  shall  edify; 
Each  beast  and  fowl  that  may  fly 

Shall  be  afraid  of  you; 
And  fish  in  sea  that  may  flytte7 
Shall  sustain  you,  I  you  behite;8  325 

To  eat  of  them  do  not  let,9 

That  clean  be  you  may  know. 

Whereas  you  have  eaten  before 
Grass  and  roots  since  you  were  born, 
Of  clean  beasts,  less  and  more,  330 

I  give  you  leave  to  eat; 


315 


1  haste. 
'  swim. 


1  pleasing. 
'•  promise. 


6  think. 

9  hesitate. 


i 


32 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


Save  blood  and  flesh  both  in  fere1 
Of  wrong  dead  carrion  that  is  here : 
Eat  not  of  that  in  no  manner, 

For  that  aye  shall  you  let.2  335 

Manslaughter  also  you  shall  flee, 
For  that  is  not  pleasant  to  me. 
That  sheds  blood,  he  or  she, 

Anywhere  amongst  mankind, 
That  blood  foully  shed  shall  be,  340 

And  vengeance  have  that  men  shall  see. 
Therefore  beware  now  all  ye, 

You  fall  not  in  that  sin. 

A  foreword3  now  with  thee  I  make, 

And  all  thy  seed  for  thy  sake,  345 

From  such  vengeance  for  to  slake, 

For  now  I  have  my  will ; 
Here  I  promise  thee  a  hest:4 
That  man,  woman,  fowl  nor  beast 
With  water,  while  the  world  shall  last,    350 

I  will  no  more  spill.5 

My  bow  between  you  and  me 

In  the  firmament  shall  be, 

For  very  token  that  you  may  see 

That  such  vengeance  shall  cease;         355 
That  man  nor  woman  shall  never  more 
Be  wasted  by  water,  as  before; 
But  for  sin,  that  grieveth  me  sore, 

Therefore  this  vengeance  was. 

Where  clouds  in  the  welkin  been6  360 

That  same  bow  shall  be  seen, 
In  token  that  my  wrath  and  teen7 

Shall  never  thus  wreaked  be; 
The  string  is  turned  toward  you, 
And  toward  me  is  bent  the  bow,  365 

That  such  weather  shall  never  show, 

And  this  promise  I  thee. 

My  blessing  now  I  give  thee  here, 

To  thee,  Noah,  my  servant  dear, 

For  vengeance  shall  no  more  appear.       370 

And  now,  farewell,  my  darling  dear. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH 
POPULAR  BALLADS 

EDWARD 

1.  "Why  dois  your  brand  sae  drap  wi 
bluid, 

Edward,  Edward. 


1  together. 
4  assurance. 


2  leave  alone. 

6  destroy.  e  be. 


3  covenant. 
7  anger. 


Why   dois   your    brand    sae   drap   wi 
bluid, 
And  why  sae  sad  gang  yee  O?  " 
"01  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid, 
Mither,  mither, 
O I  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid, 
And  I  had  nae  mair  bot8  hee  O." 

2.  "Your  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Your  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

My  deir  son  I  tell  thee  O." 
"O  I  hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 

Mither,  mither, 
O  I  hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 
That  erst  was  sae  fair  and  frie  O." 

3.  "Your  steid  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got 

mair, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Your  steid  was  auld,  and  ye  hae  got 
mair, 
Sum  other  dule9  ye  drie10  O." 
"01  hae  killed  my  fadir  deir, 

Mither,  mither, 
O  I  hae  killed  my  fadir  deir, 
Alas,  and  wae  is  mee  O ! " 

4.  "And  whatten  penance  wul  ye  drie  for 

that, 

Edward,  Edward, 
And  whatten  penance  will  ye  drie  for 
that? 
My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  O." 
"He  set  my  feit  in  yonder  boat, 

Mither,  mither, 
He  set  my  feit  in  yonder  boat, 
And  He  fare  ovir  the  sea  O." 

5.  "And  what  wul  ye  doe  wi  your  towirs 

and  your  ha, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  what  wul  ye  doe   wi  your  towirs 
and  your  ha, 
That  were  sae  fair  to  see  O?  " 
"He  let  thame  stand  tul  they  doun  fa. 

Mither,  mither, 
He  let  thame  stand  tul  they  down  fa, 
For  here  nevir  mair  maun11 1  bee  O."  J 

6.  "And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  bairns 

and  your  wife, 

Edward,  Edward? 

8  but.  'grief.  10  suffer.  "must- 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


33 


And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  bairns 
and  your  wife, 
Whan  ye  gang  ovir  the  sea  O?  " 
"The   warldis    room,    late    them    beg 
thrae1  life, 

Mither,  mither, 
The  warldis  room,  late  them  beg  thrae 
life, 
For  thame  nevir  mair  wul  I  see  O." 

7.  "And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  ain 
mither  deir, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  what  wul  ye  leive  to  your  ain 
mither  deir? 
My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  O." 
"The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  beir, 

Mither,  mither, 
The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ye  beir, 
Sic  counseils  ye  gave  to  me  O." 


KEMP  OWYNE 

1.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was  young, 

Which  gave  her  cause  to  make  great 
moan; 
Her  father  married  the  warst  woman 
That  ever  lived  in  Christendom. 

2.  She  served  her  with  foot  and  hand, 

In  every  thing  that  she  could  dee,2 
Till  once,  in  an  unlucky  time, 

She  threw  her  in  ower  Craigy's  sea. 

3.  Says,   "Lie  you  there,   dove  Isabel, 

And  all  my  sorrows  lie  with  thee; 
Till  Kemp  Owyne  come  ower  the  sea, 

And  borrow3  you  with  kisses  three 
Let  all  the  warld  do  what  they  will, 

Oh  borrowed  shall  you  never  be!" 

4.  Her  breath  grew  Strang,  her  hair  grew 

lang,  _ 
And  twisted  thrice  about  the  tree, 
And  all  the  people,  far  and  near, 

Thought  that  a  savage  beast  was 
she. 

5.  These  news  did  come  to  Kemp  Owyne, 

Where  he  lived,  far  beyond  the  sea; 
He  hasted  him  to  Craigy's  sea, 

And  on  the  savage  beast  lookd  he. 


1  through. 


J  do. 


6.  Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was 

lang,  _ 
And  twisted  was  about  the  tree, 
And  with  a  swing  she  came  about: 
"Come  to  Craigy's  sea,   and  kiss 

with  me. 

7.  "  Here  is  a  royal  belt,"  she  cried, 

"That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea; 
And  while  your  body  it  is  on, 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be; 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  vow  my  belt  your  death  shall  be." 

8.  He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss, 

The  royal  belt  he  brought  him  wi; 

Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was 

lang, 

And  twisted  twice  about  the  tree, 

And  with  a  swing  she  came  about: 

"Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss 

with  me. 

9.  "  Here  is  a  royal  ring,"  she  said, 

"  That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea; 
And  while  your  finger  it  is  on, 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be; 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  swear  my  ring  your  death  shall  be." 

10.  He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss, 

The  royal  ring  he  brought  him  wi; 
Her  breath  was  Strang,  her  hair  was 
lang, 
And  twisted  ance  about  the  tree, 
And  with  a  swing  she  came  about: 
"Come  to  Craigy's  sea,  and  kiss 
with  me. 

1 1.  "  Here  is  a  royal  brand,"  she  said, 

"That  I  have  found  in  the  green  sea ; 
And  while  your  body  it  is  on, 

Drawn  shall  your  blood  never  be; 
But  if  you  touch  me,  tail  or  fin, 

I  swear  my  brand  your  death  shall 
be." 

12.  He  stepped  in,  gave  her  a  kiss, 

The  royal  brand  he  brought  him  wi ; 
Her  breath  was  sweet,  her  hair  grew 
short, 

And  twisted  nane  about  the  tree, 
And  smilingly  she  came  about, 

As  fair  a  woman  as  fair  could  be. 


34 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS 

1.  The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 

Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine: 
"  O  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 
To  sail  this  schip  of  mine?" 

2.  Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 

Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor, 
That  sails  upon  the  se." 

3.  The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signd  it  wi  his  hand,   , 
And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

4.  The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  lauched  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 
The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

5.  "O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid, 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 
To  sail  upon  the  se! 

6.  "  Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men 

all, 
Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne:" 
"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 
For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 

7.  "Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new 

moone, 
Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 
And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 
That  we  will  cum  to  harme." 

8.  O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  richt  laith 

To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone; 
Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone.1 

9.  0  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand, 
Or  eir2  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 
Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

to.  O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 
Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they'll  se  thame  na  mair. 

1  above.  '-'  before. 


Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 


THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL 

1.  There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well, 

And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she; 
She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  oer  the  sea. 

2.  They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
When  word  came  to  the  carline3  wife 
That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

3.  They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three, 
When  word  came  to  the  carlin  wife 
That  her  sons  she'd  never  see. 

4.  "I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fashes4  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me, 
In  earthly  flesh  and  blood." 

5.  It  fell  about  the  Martinmass, 

When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk,5 
The  carlin  wife's  three  sons  came  hame. 
And  their  hats  were  o  the  birk.6 

6.  It  neither  grew  in  syke7  nor  ditch, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh,8 
But  at  the  gates  o  Paradise, 
That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 

****** 

7.  "Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens, 

Bring  water  from  the  well; 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night. 
Since  my  three  sons  are  well." 

8.  And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 

She's  made  it  large  and  wide, 
And  she's  taen  her  mantle  her  about 
Sat  down  at  the  bed-side. 

****** 

9.  Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray; 

The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 

"  'Tis  time  we  were  away." 

3  peasant.    *  storms.    6  dark.    6  birch.    7  trench.    s  furrow. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


35 


10.  The  cock  he  hadna  craw'd  but  once, 
And  clappd  his  wings  at  a', 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 
"Brother,  we  must  awa. 

n.  "The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth 
daw, 
The  channerin1  worm  doth  chide; 
Gin2  we  be  mist  out  o  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide. 

12.  "Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear! 
Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre!3 
And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 
That  kindles  my  mother's  fire!" 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  GUY  OF  GIS- 
BORNE 

i.  When    shawes4    beene    sheene,5    and 
shradds6  full  fayre, 
And  leeves  both  large  and  longe, 
Itt  is   merry,   walking   in   the   fayre 
fforrest, 
To  heare  the  small  birds  songe. 

2.  The  woodweele7  sang,  and  wold  not 

cease, 
Amongst  the  leaves  a  lyne:8 
And  it  is  by  two  wight9  yeomen, 

By  deare  God,  that  I  meane. 
****** 

3.  "Me    thought    they   did    mee    beate 

and  binde, 
And  tooke  my  bowe  mee  froe; 
If  I  bee  Robin  alive  in  this  lande, 
I'le   be   wrocken10   on    both    them 
towe." 

4.  "Sweavens11  are  swift,  master,"  quoth 

John, 
"As  the  wind  that  blowes  ore  a  hill; 
Ffor  if  itt  be  never  soe  lowde  this 
night, 
To-morrow  it  may  be  still." 

5.  "Buske12  yee,  bowne13  yee,  my  merry 

men  all, 
Ffor  John  shall  goe  with  mee ; 
For  I'le  goe  seeke  yond  wight  yeomen 
In  greenwood  where  the14  bee." 

1  impatient.  2  if  3  stable. 

4  thickets.  s  beautiful.  s  copses. 

7woodlark.  8  of  Linn  ("a  stock  ballad  locality"), 

'sturdy.  10  avenged.  "dreams. 

12  make  ready.  13  dress  yourselves.  14  they. 


6.  The  cast  on  their  gowne  of  greene, 

A  shooting  gone  are  they, 
Untill  they  came  to  the  merry  green- 
wood, 
Where  they  had  gladdest  bee; 
There  were  they  ware  of  [a]   wight 
yeoman, 
His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 

7.  A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his 

side, 
Had  beene  many  a  man's  bane, 
And  he  was  cladd  in  his  capull-hyde,15 
Topp,  and  tayle,  and  mayne. 

8.  "Stand    you    still,    master,"    quoth 

Litle  John, 
"Under  this  trusty  tree, 
And  I  will  goe  to  yond  wight  yeoman, 
To  know  his  meaning  truly e." 

9.  "A,  John,  by  me  thou  setts  noe  store, 

And  that's  a  ffarley16  thinge; 

How  offt  send  I  my  men  beffore, 

And  tarry  my-selfe  behinde? 

10.  "It  is  noe  cunning  a  knave  to  ken, 

And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake; 
And  itt  were  not  for  bursting  of  my 
bowe, 
John,  I  wold  thy  head  breake." 

11.  But  often  words  they  breeden  bale;17 

That  parted  Robin  and  John ; 
John  is  gone  to  Barn[e]sdale, 
The  gates18  he  knowes  eche  one. 

12.  And  when  hee  came  to  Barnesdale, 

Great  heavinesse  there  hee  hadd ; 
He  ffound  two  of  his  fellowes 
Were  slaine  both  in  a  slade,19 

13.  And  Scarlett  a- ffoote  flyinge  was, 

Over  stockes  and  stone, 
For  the  sheriffe  with  seven  score  men 
Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

14.  "Yett  one  shoote  I'le  shoote,"  sayes 

Litle  John, 
"With  Crist  his  might  and  mayne; 
I'le  make  yond  fellow  that  flyes  soe 

fast 
To  be  both  glad  and  ffaine." 

15  horse-hide.     16  wonderful.     "  evil.     >8  ways.     19  valley. 


36 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


15.  John  bent  up  a  good  veiwe1  bow, 

And  ffetteled2  him  to  shoote; 
The  bow  was  made  of  a  tender  boughe, 
And  fell  downe  to  his  foote. 

16.  "  Woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood,"  sayd 

Litle  John, 
"That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree! 
Ffor  this  day  thou  art  my  bale, 
My  boote3  when  thou  shold  bee! " 

17.  This  shoote  it  was  but  looselye  shott, 

The  arrowe  flew  in  vaine, 
And  it  mett  one  of  the  sheriff es  men; 
Good  William  a  Trent  was  slaine. 

18.  It  had  beene  better  for  William  a 

Trent 
To  hange  upon  a  gallowe 
Then  for  to  lye  in  the  greenwoode, 
There  slaine  with  an  arrowe. 

19.  And  it  is  sayd,  when  men  be  mett, 

Six  can  doe  more  then  three: 
And  they  have  tane  Litle  John, 
And  bound  him  ffast  to  a  tree. 

20.  "Thou  shalt  be  drawen  by  dale  and 

downe,"  quoth  the  sheriff e, 
"  And  hanged  hye  on  a  hill ; " 
"But  thou  may  ffayle,"  quoth  Litle 
John, 
" If  itt  be  Christ's  owne  will." 

21.  Let  us  leave  talking  of  Litle  John, 

For  hee  is  bound  fast  to  a  tree, 
And  talke  of  Guy  and  Robin  Hood 
In  the  green  woode  where  they  bee. 

22.  How  these  two  yeomen  together  they 

mett, 
Under  the  leaves  of  lyne, 
To  see  what  marchandise4  they  made 
Even  at  that  same  time. 

23.  "Good  morrow,  good  fellow,"  quoth 

Sir  Guy; 
"Good  morrow,  good  ffellow,"  quoth 

hee; 
"Methinkes  by  this  bow  thou  beares 

in  thy  hand, 
A  good  archer  thou  seems  to  bee." 

1  yew.  2  made  ready.  3  help.  *  dealing. 


24.  "I  am  wilfull  of  my  way,"  quoth  Sir 

Guye, 
"And  of  my  morning  tyde: " 
"I'le  lead  thee  through  the  wood," 

quoth  Robin, 
"Good  ffellow,  I'le  be  thy  guide." 

25.  "I  seeke  an  outlaw,"  quoth  Sir  Guye, 

"Men  call  him  Robin  Hood; 
I  had  rather  meet  with  him  upon  a  day 
Than  forty  pound  of  golde." 

26.  "If  you  tow  mett,  itt  wold  be  seene 

whether  were  better 
Afore  yee  did  part  awaye; 
Let  us  some  other  pastime  find, 
Good  ffellow,  I  thee  pray. 

27.  "Let  us  some  other  masteryes  make, 

And  wee  will  walke  in  the  woods 

even; 
Wee  may  chance  mee[t]  with  Robin 

Hoode 
Att  some  unsett  steven."8 

28.  They  cutt  them  downe  the  summer 

shroggs6 
Which  grew  both  under  a  bryar, 
And  sett   them  three  score  rood  in 

twinn,7 
To  shoote  the  prickes  full  neare. 

29.  "Leade  on,  good  ffellow,"  sayd   Sir 

Guye, 
"Lead  on,  I  doe  bidd  thee:" 
"Nay,  by  my  faith,"   quoth  Robin 

Hood, 
"The  leader  thou  shalt  bee." 

30.  The  first  good  shoot  that  Robin  ledd, 

Did  not  shoote  an  inch  the  pricke 
ffroe; 
Guy  was  an  archer  good  enoughe, 
But  he  cold  neere  shoote  soe. 

31.  The  second  shoote  Sir  Guy  shott, 

He  shott  within  the  garlande; 
But  Robin  Hoode  shott  it  better  than 

hee, 
For    he    clove    the    good    pricke- 

wande. 


6  time  not  fixed. 


8  rods. 


'  apart. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


37 


32.  "Gods  blessing  on  thy  heart!"  sayes 

Guye, 
"Goode    ffellow,    thy    shooting    is 
goode; 
For  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy 
hands, 
Thou  were  better  than  Robin  Hood. 

33.  "Tell   me  thy  name,  good  ffellow," 

quoth  Guy, 
"  Under  the  leaves  of  lyne: " 
"Nay,    by    my    faith,"    quoth    good 
Robin, 
"  Till  thou  have  told  me  thine." 

34.  "I  dwell  by  dale  and  downe,"  quoth 

Guye, 
"And  I  have  done  many  a  curst 

turne ; 
And  he  that  calles  me  by  my  right 

name, 
Calles  me  Guye  of  good  Gysborne." 

35.  "My  dwelling  is  in  the  wood,"  sayes 

Robin; 
"By  thee  I  set  right  nought; 
My  name  is  Robin  Hood  of  Barnes-* 

dale, 
A  ffellow  thou  has  long  sought." 

36.  He  that  had  neither  beene  a  kithe  nor 

kin 
Might  have  seene  a  full  fayre  sight, 
To  see  how   together  these  yeomen 

went, 
With    blades    both    browne    and 

bright; 

37.  To  have  seene  how  these  yeomen  to- 

gether foug[ht] 
Two  howers  of  a  summer's  day; 
Itt  was  neither  Guy  nor  Robin  Hood 
That  ffettled1  them  to  flye  away. 

38.  Robin  was  reacheles  on2  a  roote, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tyde, 
And    Guy    was    quicke    and    nimble 
with-all, 
And  hitt  him  ore  the  left  side. 

39.  "Ah,     deere     Lady!"     sayd     Robin 

Hoode, 
"Thou  art  both  mother  and  may! 3 
I  thinke  it  was  never  mans  destinye 
To  dye  before  his  day." 

1  prepared.  2  careless  of.  3  maid. 


40.  Robin  thought  on  Our  Lady  deere, 

And  soone  leapt  up  againe, 
And  thus  he  came  with  an  awkwarde4 
stroke ; 
Good  Sir  Guy  hee  has  slayne. 

41.  He  tooke  Sir  Guys  head  by  the  hay  re, 

And  sticked  itt  on  his  bowes  end: 

"Thou  hast  beene  tray  tor  all  thy  liffe, 

Which  thing  must  have  an  ende." 

42.  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  kniffe, 

And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  fface, 
That  hee  was  never  on  a  woman  borne 
Cold  tell  who  Sir  Guye  was. 

43.  Saies,  "Lye  there,  lye  there,  good  Sir 

Guye, 
And  with  me  be  not  wrothe; 
If  thou  have  had  the  worse  stroakes  at 
my  hand, 
Thou  shalt  have  the  better  cloathe." 

44.  Robin  did  off  his  gowne  of  greene, 

Sir  Guye  hee  did  it  throwe; 

And  hee  put  on  that  capull-hyde 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 

45.  "The   bowe,   the   arrowes,   and   litle 

home, 
And  with  me  now  Fie  beare ; 
For  now  I  will  goe  to  Barne[s]dale, 
To  see  how  my  men  doe  ffare." 

46.  Robin  sette  Guyes  home  to  his  mouth, 

A  lowd  blast  in  it  he  did  blow; 
That  beheard  the  sheriffe  of  Notting- 
ham, 
As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe.5 

47.  "  Hearken !  hearken ! ' '  sayd  the  sheriffe , 

"  I  heard  noe  ty dings  but  good; 
For  yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guyes  home 
blowe, 
For  he  hath  slaine  Robin  Hoode. 

48.  "For  yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guyes  home 

blow, 

Itt  blowes  soe  well  in  tyde, 
For  yonder  comes  that  wighty  yeo- 
man, 

Cladd  in  his  capull-hyde. 

*  backhanded.  *  hill. 


3« 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


49.  "Come  hither,  thou  good  Sir  Guy, 

Aske  of  mee  what  thou  wilt  have:" 
'Tie  none  of  thy  gold,"  sayes  Robin 
Hood, 
"Nor  I'le  none  of  itt  have. 


5°- 


Si- 


"But  now  I  have  slaine  the  master," 
he  sayd, 

"Let  me  goe  strike  the  knave; 
This  is  all  the  reward  I  aske, 

Nor  noe  other  will  I  have." 

"Thou    art    a    madman,"    said    the 
shiriffe, 
"Thou  sholdest  have  had  a  knights 
See; 
Seeing   thy  asking   [hath]   beene  soe 
badd, 
Well  granted  it  shall  be." 


52.  But    Litle    John    heard    his    master 

speake, 
Well  he  knew  that  was  his  Steven;1 
"Now  shall  I  be  loset,"  quoth  Litle 
John, 
"With  Christ's  might  in  heaven." 

53.  But  Robin  hee  hyed  him  towards  Litle 

John, 
Hee  thought  hee  wold  loose   him 

belive  ;2 
The  sheriffe  and  all  his  companye 
Fast  after  him  did  drive. 

54.  "Stand  abacke!  stand  abacke!"  sayd 

Robin; 
"  Why  draw  you  mee  soe  neere? 
Itt  was  never  the  use  in  our  countrye 
One's  shrift  another  shold  heere." 

55.  But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irysh  kniffe, 

And  losed  John  hand  and  ffoote, 
And  gave  him  Sir  Guyes  bow  in  his 
hand, 
And  bade  it  be  his  boote.'* 

56.  But  John   tooke   Guyes  bow   in   his 

hand — 
His  arrowes  were  rawstye4  by  the 

roote; 
The  sherriffe  saw  Litle  John  draw  a 

bow 
And  ffettle  him  to  shoote.  . 

'voice.  • 'niickly.  3  help.  'soiled. 


57.  Towards  his  house  in  Nottingam 

He  riled  ful  fast  away, 
And  soe  did  all  his  companye, 
Not  one  behind  did  stay. 

58.  But  he  cold  neither  soe  fast  goe, 

Nor  away  soe  fast  runn, 
But  Litle  John,  with  an  arrow  broade, 
Did  cleave  his  heart  in  twinn. 

ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND 
BURIAL 

1.  When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 

Down  a  down  a  down  a  down 
Went  oer  yon  bank  of  broom 

Said   Robin   Hood   bold    to   Little 
John, 
"We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound." 

Hey,  etc. 

2.  "But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot 

more, 
My  broad  arrows  will  not  flee; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below, 
Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me." 

3.  Now  Robin  he  is  to  fair  Kirkly  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  win; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do 
hear, 
He  was  taken  very  ill. 

4.  And  when  he  came  to  fair  Kirkly-hall, 

He  knockd  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin 
herself 
For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

5.  "Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin 

Robin,"  she  said, 
"And  drink  some  beer  with  me?" 
"No,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink, 
Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee." 

6.  "Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin," 

she  said, 
"  Which  you  did  never  see, 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein, 
You  blooded  by  me  shall  be." 

7.  She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand, 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room, 
And   there  she  blooded   bold  Robin 

Hood, 
While  one  drop  of  blood  would  run 

down. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


3Q 


8.  She  blooded  him  in  a  vein  of  the  arm, 

And  locked  him  up  in  the  room; 
Then  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day, 
Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

9.  He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement 

there, 
Thinking  for  to  get  down; 
But  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 
He  could  not  get  him  down. 

10.  He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle- 

horn, 
Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee; 
He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth, 
And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 

11.  Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  a  tree, 
"I  fear  my  master  is  now  near  dead, 
He  blows  so  wearily." 

12.  Then  Little  John  to  fair  Kirkly  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  dree; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkly-hall, 
He  broke  locks  two  or  three: 


1 13- 


14. 


15- 


16. 


17. 


Until  he  came  bold  Robin  to  see, 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee; 
"A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  Little  John, 

"Master,  I  beg  of  thee." 

"What   is    that    boon,"    said    Robin 
Hood, 

"Little  John,  [thou]  begs  of  me?" 
"It  is  to  burn  fair  Kirkly-hall, 

And  all  their  nunnery." 

"Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin 
Hood, 

"That  boon  I'll  not  grant  thee; 
I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  men  in  woman's  company. 

"I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 
Nor  at  mine  end  shall  it  be; 

But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand, 
And  a  broad  arrow  I'll  let  flee, 

And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up, 
There  shall  my  grave  digged  be. 

"Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head, 
And  another  at  my  feet; 


And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side, 
Which  was  my  music  sweet; 

And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and 
green, 
Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

18.  "Let   me   have   length   and   breadth 

enough, 
With  a  green  sod  under  my  head ; 
That  they  may  say,  when  I  am  dead, 
Here  lies  bold  Robin  Hood." 

19.  These  words  they  readily  granted  him, 

Which  did  bold  Robin  please: 
And   there   they   buried   bold   Robin 
Hood, 
Within  the  fair  Kirkleys. 

THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  CHEVIOT 

1.  The  Perse  owt  off  Northombarlonde, 

and  avowe  to  God  mayd  he 
That  he  would  hunte  in  the  mown- 
tayns 

off  Chyviat  within  days  thre, 
In  the  magger  of1  doughte  Dogles, 

and  all  that  ever  with  him  be. 

2.  The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Cheviat 

he  sayd  he  wold  kyll,  and  cary  them 
away: 
"Be    my    feth,"    sayd    the    dougheti 
Doglas  agayn, 
"I  wyll  let2  that  hontyng  yf  that  I 
may." 

3.  Then  the  Perse  owt  off  Banborowe 

cam, 
with  him  a  myghtee  meany,3 
With  fifteen  hondrith  archares  bold 
off  blood  and  bone; 
the4  wear  chosen  owt  of  shyars  thre. 

4.  This  begane  on  a  Monday  at  morn, 

in  Cheviat  the  hillys  so  he;5 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborn, 
it  wos  the  more  pitte. 

5.  The  dryvars  thorowe  the  woodes  went, 

for  to  reas  the  dear; 
Bomen  byckarte6  uppone  the  bent7 
with  ther  browd  aros  cleare. 


despite. 
1  high. 


2  hinder. 
6  hunted. 


3  crowd. 
'  field. 


*  they. 


40 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


6.  Then  the  wyld1  thorowe  the  woodes 

went, 
on  every  syde  shear;2 
Greahondes      thorowe      the     grevis3 

glent,4 
for  to  kyll  thear  dear. 

7.  This    begane    in    Chyviat    the    hyls 

abone,5 
yerly  on  a  Monnyn-day; 
Be  that6  it  drewe  to  the  oware  off 

none,7 
a  hondrith  fat  hartes  ded  ther  lay. 

8.  The8  blewe  a  mort9  uppone  the  bent, 

the  semblyde10  on  sydis11  shear; 
To  the  quyrry  then  the  Perse  went, 
to  se  the  bryttlynge12  off  the  deare. 

9.  He  sayd,  "It  was  the  Duglas  promys, 

this  day  to  met  me  hear; 
But  I  wyste  he  wolde  fay  lie,  vera- 
ment;" 
a  great  oth  the  Perse  swear. 

10.  At  the  laste  a  squyar  off  Northomber- 
londe 
lokyde  at  his  hand  full  ny; 
He  was  war  a  the  doughetie  Doglas 
commynge, 
with  him  a  myghtte  meany. 

n.  Both  with  spear,  bylle,  and  brande, 
yt  was  a  myghtti  sight  to  se; 
Hardyar  men,  both  off  hart  nor  hande, 
wear  not  in  Cristiante. 

12.  The  wear  twenti  hondrith  spear-men 

good, 
withoute  any  feale; 
The  wear  borne  along  be  the  watter  a 

Twyde, 
yth13  bowndes  of  Tividale. 

13.  "Leave  of  the  brytlyng  of  the  dear," 

he  sayd, 
"and  to  your  boys14  lock  ye  tayk 

good  hede; 
For   never   sithe    ye    wear    on    your 

mothars  borne 
had  ye  never  so  mickle  nede." 


1  deer.       2  several 
6  by  the  time  that 


10  met 


3  proves.        'darted. 
7  hour  of  noon. 


6  above, 
they. 


y  the  time  that.       '  hour  01  noon.  8  they. 

blast  of  the  horn  announcing  the  deer's  death. 

let.      "hillsides.     u  butchering.     13  in  the.     "bows 


14.  The  dougheti  Dogglas  on  a  stede, 

he  rode  alle  his  men  beforne; 
His  armor  glytteryde  as  dyd  a  glede;15 
a  boldar  barne16  was  never  born. 

15.  "Tell  me  whos  men  ye  ar,"  he  says, 

"or  whos  men  that  ye  be: 
Who  gave  youe  leave  to  hunte  in  this 
Chyviat  chays, 
in  the  spyt  of  myn  and  of  me." 

16.  The   first    mane    that    ever   him    an 

answear  mayd, 
yt  was  the  good  lord  Perse: 
"We  wyll   not   tell   the  whoys  men 
we  ar,"  he  says, 
"nor  whos  men  that  we  be; 
But  we  wyll  hounte  hear  in  this  chays, 
in  the  spyt  of  thyne  and  of  the. 

17.  "The  fattiste  hartes  in  all  Chyviat 

we  have  kyld,  and  cast  to  carry 

them  away." 
"Be  my  troth,"  sayd  the  doughete 

Dogglas  agay[n], 
"therfor  the  ton17  of  us  shall  de  this 

day." 

18.  Then  sayd  the  doughte  Doglas 

unto  the  lord  Perse: 
"To  kyll  alle  thes  giltles  men, 
alas,  it  wear  great  pitte! 

19.  "  But,  Perse,  thowe  art  a  lord  of  lande, 

I  am  a  yerle  callyd  within  my  contre; 

Let  all  our  men  uppone  a  parti  stande, 

and  do  the  battell  off  the  and  of 

me." 

20.  "Nowe  Cristes  cors  on  his  crowne," 

sayd  the  lord  Perse, 
"  who-so-ever  ther- to  says  nay! 
Be  my  troth,  doughtte  Doglas,"  he 

says, 
"  thow  shalt  never  se  that  day, 

21.  "Nethar  in  Ynglonde,  Skottlonde,  nar 

France, 
nor  for  no  man  of  a  woman  born, 
But,  and  fortune  be  my  chance, 
I  dar  met  him,  on  man  for  on." 

11  coal  of  fire.  16  man.  17  one. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


4i 


22.  Then  bespayke  a  squyar  off  Northom- 

barlonde, 
Richard    Wytharyngton    was    his 

nam: 
"It   shall    never   be   told   in    Sothe- 

Ynglonde,"  he  says, 
"to   Kyng  Herry   the  Fourth   for 

sham. 

23.  "I  wat  youe  byn  great  lordes  twaw, 

I  am  a  poor  squyar  of  lande : 
I  wylle  never  se  my  captayne  fyght  on 
a  fylde, 
and  stande  my  selffe  and  loocke  on, 
But  why  lie  I  may  my  weppone  welde, 
I  wylle  not  [fayle]  both  hart  and 
hande." 

24.  That  day,  that  day,  that  dredfull  day! 

the  first  fit1  here  I  fynde; 
And  youe  wyll  here  any  mor  a  the 
hountyng  a  the  Chyviat, 
yet  ys  ther  mor  behynde. 

25.  The  Yngglyshe  men  hade  ther  bowys 

yebent, 
ther  hartes  wer  good  yenoughe; 
The  first  off  arros  that  the  shote  off, 
seven  shore  spear-men  the  sloughe.2 

26.  Yet  byddys  the  yerle  Doglas  uppon 

the  bent, 
a  captayne  good  yenoughe, 
And  that  was  sene  verament, 

for  he  wrought  horn  both  woo  and 

wouche.3 

27.  The  Dogglas  partyd  his  ost  in  thre, 

lyk  a  cheffe  chef  ten  off  pryde; 
With  suar4  spears  off  myghtte  tre, 
the  cum  in  on  every  syde: 

28.  Thrughe  our  Yngglyshe  archery 

gave  many  a  wounde  fulle  wyde; 
many  a  doughete  the  garde5  to  dy, 
which  ganyde  them  no  pryde. 

29.  The  Ynglyshe  men  let  ther  boys  be, 

and  pulde  owt  brandes  that   wer 
brighte; 
It  was  a  hevy  syght  to  se 
bryght  swordes  on  basnites6  lyght. 


,       '  division  of  the  story,  chapter. 
4  trusty. 


2  slew. 
5  made. 


3  harm. 
6  helmets. 


30.  Thorowe  ryche  male  and  myneyeple,7 

many    sterne8    the    strocke    done9 
streght ; 
Many  a  freyke10  that  was  fulle  fre, 
ther  undar  foot  dyd  lyght. 

31.  At  last  the  Duglas  and  the  Perse  met, 

lyk  to  captayns  of  myght  and  of 

mayne; 
The  swapte11  togethar  tylle  the  both 

swat,12 
with    swordes    that    wear    of    fyn 

myllan.13 

32.  Thes  worthe  freckys  for  to  fyght, 

ther-to  the  wear  fulle  fayne, 
Tylle    the    bloode    owte    off    thear 
basnetes  sprente 
as  ever  dyd  heal14  or  ra[y]n. 

33.  "  Yelde  the,  Perse,"  sayde  the  Doglas, 

"and  i  feth  I  shalle  the brynge 
Wher  thowe  shalte  have  a  yerls  wagis 
of  Jamy  our  Skottish  kynge. 

34.  "Thou  shalte  have  thy  ransom  fre, 

I  hight15  the  hear  this  thinge; 
For    the    manfullyste    man    yet    art 
thowe 
that    ever    I    conqueryd    in    filde 
fighttynge." 

35.  "Nay,"  sayd  the  lord  Perse, 

"I  tolde  it  the  beforne, 
That  I  wolde  never  yeldyde  be 
to  no  man  of  a  woman  born." 

36.  With  that  ther  cam  an  arrowe  hastely, 

forthe  off  a  myghtte  wane;16 
Hit  hathe  strekene  the  yerle  Duglas 
in  at  the  brest-bane. 

37.  Thorowe  lyvar17  and  longes  bathe1 

the  sharpe  arrowe  ys  gane, 
That  never  after  in  all  his  lyffe-days 

he  spayke  mo  wordes  but  ane : 
That   was,    "Fyghte   ye,   my   myrry 
men,  whyllys  ye  may, 

for  my  lyff-days  ben  gan." 

38.  The  Perse  leanyde  on  his  brande, 

and  sawe  the  Duglas  de; 
He  tooke  the  dede  mane  by  the  hande, 
and  sayd,  "  Wo  ys  me  for  the! 


7  gauntlet.        8  stern  men. 
11  smote.  12  sweated. 

15  bid.  16  number. 


9  down.  ,0  bold  man. 

13  Milan  steel.   u  hail. 
17  liver.  ls  both. 


42 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


39.  "To  have  savyde  thy  lyffe,  I  wolde 

have  partyde  with 
my  landes  for  years  thre, 
For  a  better  man,  of  hart  nare  of 

hande, 
was  nat  in  all  the  north  contre." 

40.  Off  all  that  se  a  Skottishe  knyght, 

was  callyd  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggom- 

byrry; 
He  sawe  the  Duglas  to  the  deth  was 

dyght, 
he  spendyd1  a  spear,  a  trusti  tre. 

41.  He  rod  uppone  a  corsiare 

throughe  a  hondrith  archery: 
He     never     stynttyde,2     nar     never 
blane,3 
tylle  he  cam  to  the  good  lord  Perse. 

42.  He  set  uppone  the  lorde  Perse 

a  dynte  that  was  full  soare; 
With  a  suar  spear  of  a  myghtte  tre 
clean  thorow  the  body  he  the  Perse 
ber, 

43.  A  the  tothar  syde  that  a  man  myght  se 

a  large  cloth-yard  and  mare: 
Towe  bettar   captayns   wear  nat  in 
Cristiante 
then  that  day  slan  wear  ther. 

44.  An  archar  off  Northomberlonde 

say4  slean  was  the  lord  Perse; 
He  bar  a  bende  bowe  in  his  hand, 
was  made  off  trusti  tre. 

45.  An  arow,  that  a  cloth-yarde  was  lang, 

to  the  harde  stele  halyde5  he; 
A  dynt  that  was  both  sad  and  soar 
he  sat6  on  Ser  Hewe  the  Monggom- 
byrry. 

46.  The  dynt  yt  was  both  sad  and  sar, 

that  he  of  Monggomberry  sete; 
The  swane-fethars  that  his  arrowe  bar 
with  his  hart-blood  the  wear  wete. 

47.  Ther  was  never  a  freake  wone7  foot 

wolde  fie, 
but  still  in  stour8  dyd  stand, 
Heawyng  on  yche  othar,  whylle  the 

myghte  dre,9 
with  many  a  balfull  brande. 


1  placed  in  rest. 

2  stopped. 

3  hesitated 

4  saw. 

6  drew. 

6  shot. 

7  one. 

8  fight. 

»  hold  out. 

48.  This  battell  begane  in  Chyviat 
an  owar  befor  the  none, 
And  when  even-songe  bell  was  rang, 
the  battell  was  nat  half  done. 


49. 


The  tocke  ...  on  ethar  hande10 
be  the  lyght  off  the  mone; 

Many  hade  no  strenght  for  to  stande, 
in  Chyviat  the  hillys  abon. 


50.  Of  fifteen  hondrith  archars  of  Yng- 

londe 
went  away  but  seventi  and  thre; 
Of    twenti    hondrith    spear-men    of 

Skotlonde, 
but  even  five  and  fifti. 

51.  But  all  wear  slayne  Cheviat  within; 

the  hade  no  streng[th]e  to  stand  on 
hy; 
The  chylde  may  rue  that  ys  unborne, 
it  was  the  mor  pitte. 

52.  Thear    was    slayne,    withe    the    lord 

Perse, 
Sir  Johan  of  Agerstone, 
Ser  Rogar,  the  hinde11  Hartly, 
Ser  Wyllyam,  the  bolde  Hearone. 

53.  Ser  Jorg,  the  worthe  Loumle, 

a  knyghte  of  great  renowen, 
Ser  Raff,  the  ryche  Rugbe, 
with  dyntes  wear  beaten  dowene. 

54.  For    Wetharryngton    my    harte   was 

wo, 
that  ever  he  slayne  shulde  be; 
For  when  both  his  leggis  wear  hewyne 

in  to,12 
yet  he  knyled  and  fought  on  hys ' 

kny. 

55.  Ther  was  slayne,  with  the  dougheti 

Duglas, 
Ser  Hewe  the  Monggombyrry, 
Ser  Davy  Lwdale,  that  worthe*  was, 
his  sistars  son  was  he. 

56.  Ser  Charls  a  Murre  in  that  place, 

that  never  a  foot  wolde  fle; 
Ser  Hewe  Maxwelle,  a  lorde  he  was, 
with  the  Doglas  dyd  he  dey. 


10  The  line  is  unintelligible.         "  courteous. 


12  two. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR  BALLADS 


43 


57.  So  on  the  morrowe  the  mayde  them 

byears 
off  birch  and  hasell  so  g[r]ay; 
Many  wedous,  with  wepyng  tears, 
cam  to  fache  ther  makys1  away. 

58.  Tivydale  may  carpe2  off  care, 

Northombarlond  may  mayk  great 

mon, 
For  towe  such  captayns  as  slayne  wear 

thear, 
on  the  March-parti3  shall  never  be 

non. 

59.  Word  ys  commen  to  Eddenburrowe, 

to  Jamy  the  Skottische  kynge, 
That  dougheti  Duglas,  lyff-tenant  of 
the  Marches, 
he  lay  slean  Chyviot  within. 

60.  His  handdes  dyd  he  weal4  and  wryng, 

he  sayd,  "Alas,  and  woe  ys  me! 
Such    an    othar    captayn    Skotland 
within," 
he  sayd,  "ye-feth  shuld  never  be." 

61.  Worde  ys  commyn  to  lovly  Londone, 

till  the  fourth  Harry  our  kynge, 
That  lord  Perse,  leyff-tenante  of  the 
Marchis, 
he  lay  slayne  Chyviat  within. 

62.  "God  have  merci  on  his  solle,"  sayde 

Kyng  Harry, 
"good  Lord,  yf  thy  will  it  be! 
I  have  a  hondrith  captayns  in  Yng- 
londe,"  he  sayd, 
"as  good  as  ever  was  he: 
But,  Perse,  and  I  brook0  my  lyffe, 
thy  deth  well  quyte  shall  be." 

63.  As  our  noble  kynge  mayd  his  avowe, 

lyke  a  noble  prince  of  renowen, 
For  the  deth  of  the  lord  Perse 

he  dyde  the  battell   of  Hombyll- 
down; 

64.  Wher     syx     and     thritte     Skottishe 

knyghtes 
on  a  day  wear  beaten  down : 
Glendale   glytteryde   on   ther   armor 

bryght, 
over  castille,  towar,  and  town. 

2  talk. 


1  mates,  husbands 
4  clench. 


3  the  border-lands. 
5  enjoy. 


65.  This  was  the  hontynge  off  the  Cheviat, 

that  tear  begane  this  spurn,6 
Old  men  that  knowen  the  grownde 
well  yenoughe 
call  it  the  battell  of  Otterburn. 

66.  At  Otterburn  begane  this  spurne 

uppone  a  Monnynday; 
Ther  was  the  dough te  Doglas  slean, 
the  Perse  never  went  away. 

67.  Ther  was  never  a  tym  on  the  Marche- 

partes 
sen  the  Doglas  and  the  Perse  met, 
But  yt  ys  mervele  and  the  rede  blude 

ronne  not, 
as  the  reane7  doys  in  the  stret. 

68.  Jhesue  Crist  our  balys8  bete!9 

and  to  the  blys  us  brynge! 
Thus  was  the  hountynge  of  the  Chiv- 
yat: 
God  sent  us  alle  good  endying! 


BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL 

Hie  upon  Hielands 

And  low  upon  Tay 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Rade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  gallant  rade  he; 
Hame  came  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  cam  he! 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither 

Greeting  fu'  sair,10 
And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride 

Rivin'11  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he; 
Toom12  hame  cam  the  saddle. 

But  never  cam  he! 


IS 


"My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn; 
My  barn  is  to  big,13 

And  my  babie's  unborn." 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he! 


8  This  line  is  unintelligible. 

9  relieve. 

11  tearing.  12  empty. 


7  rain.  s  misfortunes. 

10  weeping  sorely. 
"  to  be  built. 


44 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


SIR  THOMAS  MALORY  (1400?-1470) 
From  LE  MORTE  DARTHUR 

PREFACE    OF    WILLIAM   CAXTON 

After  that  I  had  accomplished  and  fin- 
ished divers  histories,  as  well  of  contem- 
plation as  of  other  historial  and  worldly- 
acts  of  great  conquerors  and  princes,  and 
also  certain  books  of  ensamples  and  doc- 
trine, many  noble  and  divers  gentlemen  of 
this  realm  of  England  came  and  demanded 
me  many  and  ofttimes,  wherefore  that  I 
have  not  do  made  and  imprint  the  noble 
history  of  the  Saint  Greal  and  of  the  [10 
most  renowned  Christian  king,  first  and 
chief  of  the  three  best  Christian,  and 
worthy,  king  Arthur,  which  ought  most 
to  be  remembered  among  us  Englishmen 
to  fore  all  other  Christian  kings;  for  it  is 
notoriously  known  through  the  universal 
world  that  there  be  nine  worthy  and  the 
best  that  ever  were,  that  is  to  wit  three 
Paynims,  three  Jews,  and  three  Christian 
men.  As  for  the  Paynims  they  were  [20 
tofore  the  Incarnation  of  Christ,  which 
were  named,  the  first  Hector  of  Troy,  of 
whom  the  history  is  come,  both  in  ballad 
and  in  prose;  the  second  Alexander  the 
Great,  and  the  third  Julius  -Caesar,  Em- 
peror of  Rome,  of  whom  the  histories  be 
well  known  and  had.  And  as  for  the  three 
Jews,  which  also  were  tofore  the  incar- 
nation of  our  Lord,  of  whom  the  first  was 
duke  Joshua  which  brought  the  chil-  [30 
dren  of  Israel  into  the  land  of  behest,  the 
second  David  king  of  Jerusalem,  and  the 
third  Judas  Maccabaeus.  Of  these  three 
the  Bible  rehearseth  all  their  noble  his- 
tories and  acts.  And  since  the  said  incar- 
nation have  been  three  noble  Christian 
men  stalled  and  admitted  through  the  uni- 
versal world  into  the  number  of  the  nine 
best  and  worthy.  Of  whom  was  first  the 
noble  Arthur,  whose  noble  acts  I  pur-  [40 
pose  to  write  in  this  present  book  here  fol- 
lowing. The  second  was  Charlemain,  or 
Charles  the  Great,  of  whom  the  history  is 
had  in  many  places,  both  in  French  and 
in  English.  And  the  third  and  last  was 
Godfrey  of  Boloine,  of  whose  acts  and  life 
I  made  a  book  unto  the  excellent  prince 
and  king  of  noble  memory,  king  Edward 


the  Fourth.  The  said  noble  gentlemen  in- 
stantly required  me  to  imprint  the  his-  [50 
tory  of  the  said  noble  king  and  conqueror 
king  Arthur,  and  of  his  knights,  with  the 
history  of  the  Saint  Greal,  and  of  the 
death  and  ending  of  the  said  Arthur;  af- 
firming that  I  ought  rather  to  imprint  his 
acts  and  noble  feats,  than  of  Godfrey  of 
Boloine,  or  any  of  the  other  eight,  con- 
sidering that  he  was  a  man  born  within  this 
realm,  and  king  and  emperor  of  the  same; 
and  that  there  be  in  French  divers  and  [60 
many  noble  volumes  of  his  acts,  and  also 
of  his  knights.  To  whom  I  answered,  that 
divers  men  hold  opinion  that  there  was  no 
such  Arthur,  and  that  all  such  books  as 
been  made  of  him  be  feigned  and  fables, 
because  that  some  chronicles  make  of  him 
no  mention,  nor  remember  him  nothing, 
nor  of  his  knights.  Whereto  they  an- 
swered, and  one  in  special  said,  that  in 
him  that  should  say  or  think  that  there  [70 
was  never  such  a  king  called  Arthur, 
might  well  be  aretted  great  folly  and 
blindness.  For  he  said  that  there  were 
many  evidences  of  the  contrary.  First 
ye  may  see  his  sepulchre  in  the  monastery 
of  Glastingbury.  And  also  in  Polichroni- 
con,  in  the  fifth  book  the  sixth  chapter, 
and  in  the  seventh  book  the  twenty-third 
chapter,  where  his  body  was  buried,  and 
after  found,  and  translated  into  the  [80 
said  monastery.  Ye  shall  see  also  in  the 
history  of  Bochas  in  his  book  De  Casu 
Principum  part  of  his  noble  acts,  and  also 
of  his  fall.  Also  Galfridus  in  his  British 
book  recounteth  his  life;  and  in  divers 
places  of  England  many  remembrances  be 
yet  of  him  and  shall  remain  perpetually, 
and  also  of  his  knights.  First  in  the  abbey 
of  Westminster,  at  Saint  Edward's  shrine, 
remaineth  the  print  of  his  seal  in  red  [90 
wax  closed  in  beryl,  in  which  is  written 
Patricius  Arthurus.  Britannie,  Gallie,  Ger- 
manie,  Dacie,  Imperator.  Item  in  the 
castle  of  Dover  ye  may  see  Gawaine's 
skull  and  Cradok's  mantle:  at  Winchester 
the  Round  Table:  in  other  places  Launce- 
lot's  sword  and  many  other  things.  Then 
all  these  things  considered,  there  can  no 
man  reasonably  gainsay  but  that  there 
was  a  king  of  this  land  named  Arthur.  [100 
For  in  all  places,  Christian  and  heathen, 
he  is  reputed  and  taken  for  one  of  the 


MALORY 


45 


nine  worthy,  and  the  first  of  the  three 
Christian  men.  And  also  he  is  more  spoken 
of  beyond  the  sea,  more  books  made  of 
his  noble  acts,  than  there  be  in  England, 
as  well  in  Dutch,  Italian,  Spanish,  and 
Greekish,  as  in  French.  And  yet  of  record 
remain  in  witness  of  him  in  Wales,  in  the 
town  of  Camelot,  the  great  stones  [no 
and  the  marvelous  works  of  iron  lying 
under  the  ground,  and  royal  vaults,  which 
divers  now  living  have  seen.  Wherefore 
it  is  a  marvel  why  he  is  no  more  renowned 
in  his  own  country,  save  only  it  accordeth 
to  the  Word  of  God,  which  saith  that  no 
man  is  accepted  for  a  prophet  in  his  own 
country. 

Then  all  these  things  aforesaid  alleged, 
I  could  not  well  deny  but  that  there  [120 
was  such  a  noble  king  named  Arthur,  and 
reputed  one  of  the  nine  worthy,  and  first 
and  chief  of  the  Christian  men.  And 
many  noble  volumes  be  made  of  him  and 
of  his  noble  knights  in  French,  which  I 
have  seen  and  read  beyond  the  sea,  which 
be  not  had  in  our  maternal  tongue.  But 
in  Welsh  be  many  and  also  in  French,  and 
some  in  English,  but  nowhere  nigh  all. 
Wherefore,  such  as  have  late  been  [130 
drawn  out  briefly  into  English  I  have  after 
the  simple  conning  that  God  hath  sent  to 
me,  under  the  favor  and  correction  of  all 
noble  lords  and  gentlemen,  enprised  to  im- 
print a  book  of  the  noble  histories  of  the 
said  king  Arthur,  and  of  certain  of  his 
knights,  after  a  copy  unto  me  delivered, 
which  copy  Sir  Thomas  Malorye  did  take 
out  of  certain  books  of  French,  and  re- 
duced it  into  English.  And  I,  accord-  [140 
ing  to  my  copy,  have  done  set  it  in  print, 
to  the  intent  that  noble  men  may  see  and 
learn  the  noble  acts  of  chivalry,  the  gentle 
and  virtuous  deeds  that  some  knights 
used  in  those  days,  by  which  they  came 
to  honor,  and  how  they  that  were  vicious 
were  punished  and  oft  put  to  shame  and 
rebuke;  humbly  beseeching  all  noble  lords 
and  ladies,  with  all  other  estates  of  what 
estate  or  degree  they  been  of,  that  [150 
shall  see  and  read  in  this  said  book  and 
work,  that  they  take  the  good  and  honest 
acts  in  their  remembrance,  and  to  follow 
the  same.  Wherein  they  shall  find  many 
joyous  and  pleasant  histories,  and  noble 
and  renowned  acts  of  humanity,  gentle- 


ness, and  chivalry.  For  herein  may  be 
seen  noble  chivalry,  courtesy,  humanity, 
friendliness,  hardiness,  love,  friendship, 
cowardice,  murder,  hate,  virtue,  and  [160 
sin.  Do  after  the  good  and  leave  the  evil, 
and  it  shall  bring  you  to  good  fame  and 
renown.  And  for  to  pass  the  time  this 
book  shall  be  pleasant  to  read  in;  but  for 
to  give  faith  and  belief  that  all  is  true  that 
is  contained  herein,  ye  be  at  your  liberty; 
but  all  is  written  for  our  doctrine,  and 
for  to  beware  that  we  fall  not  to  vice  nor 
sin,  but  to  exercise  and  follow  virtue, 
by  the  which  we  may  come  and  at-  [170 
tain  to  good  fame  and  renown  in  this  life, 
and  after  this  short  and  transitory  life  to 
come  unto  everlasting  bliss  in  heaven; 
the  which  He  grant  us  that  reigneth  in 
heaven,  the  blessed  Trinity.    Amen. 

BOOK  XXI 
Chapter  IV 

HOW  BY  MISADVENTURE  OF  AN  ADDER  THE 
BATTLE  BEGAN,  WHERE  MORDRED  WAS 
SLAIN,  AND  ARTHUR  HURT  TO  THE  DEATH 

Then  were  they  condescended  that  king 
Arthur  and  Sir  Mordred  should  meet  be- 
twixt both  their  hosts,  and  every  each  of 
them  should  bring  fourteen  persons.  And 
they  came  with  this  word  unto  Arthur. 
Then  said  he,  I  am  glad  that  this  is  done. 
And  so  he  went  into  the  field.  And  when 
Arthur  should  depart,  he  warned  all  his 
host  that  and  they  see  any  sword  drawn, 
Look  ye  come  on  fiercely,  and  slay  [10 
that  traitor,  Sir  Mordred,  for  I  in  no  wise 
trust  him.  In  like  wise  Sir  Mordred 
warned  his  host  that,  And  ye  see  any 
sword  drawn,  look  that  ye  come  on  fiercely, 
and  so  slay  all  that  ever  before  you  stand- 
eth:  for  in  no  wise  I  will  not  trust  for  this 
treaty,  for  I  know  well  my  father  will  be 
avenged  upon  me.  And  so  they  met  as 
their  pointment  was,  and  so  they  were 
agreed  and  accorded  thoroughly;  and  [20 
wine  was  fetched,  and  they  drank.  Right 
so  came  an  adder  out  of  a  little  heath 
bush,  and  it  stung  a  knight  on  the  foot. 
And  when  the  knight  felt  him  stungen, 
he  looked  down  and  saw  the  adder,  and 
then  he  drew  his  sword  to  slay  the  adder, 
and  thought  of  none  other  harm.     And 


46 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


when  the  host  on  both  parties  saw  that 
sword  drawn,  then  they  blew  beames, 
trumpets,  and  horns,  and  shouted  [30 
grimly.  And  so  both  hosts  dressed  them 
together.  And  king  Arthur  took  his  horse, 
and  said,  Alas,  this  unhappy  day,  and  so 
rode  to  his  party;  and  Sir  Mordred  in  like 
wise.  And  never  was  there  seen  a  more 
dolefuller  battle  in  no  Christian  land.  For 
there  was  but  rushing  and  riding,  foining 
and  striking,  and  many  a  grim  word  was 
there  spoken  either  to  other,  and  many  a 
deadly  stroke.  But  ever  king  Arthur  [40 
rode  throughout  the  battle  of  Sir  Mordred 
many  times,  and  did  full  nobly  as  a  noble 
king  should,  and  at  all  times  he  fainted 
never.  And  Sir  Mordred  that  day  put  him 
in  devoir,  and  in  great  peril.  And  thus 
they  fought  all  the  long  day,  and  never 
stinted,  till  the  noble  knights  were  laid  to 
the  cold  ground,  and  ever  they  fought  still, 
till  it  was  near  night,  and  by  that  time 
was  there  an  hundred  thousand  laid  [50 
dead  upon  the  down.  Then  was  Arthur 
wroth  out  of  measure,  when  he  saw  his 
people  so  slain  from  him. 

Then  the  king  looked  about  him,  and 
then  was  he  ware  of  all  his  host,  and  of 
all  his  good  knights,  were  left  no  more  on 
live  but  two  knights,  that  was  Sir  Lucan 
the  Butler,  and  his  brother  Sir  Bedivere, 
and  they  were  full  sore  wounded.  Jesu 
mercy,  said  the  king,  where  are  all  my  [60 
noble  knights  becomen?  Alas,  that  ever 
I  should  see  this  doleful  day.  For  now, 
said  Arthur,  I  am  come  to  mine  end.  But 
would  to  God  that  I  wist  where  were  that 
traitor  Sir  Mordred,  that  hath  caused  all 
this  mischief.  Then  was  king  Arthur  ware 
where  Sir  Mordred  leaned  upon  his  sword 
among  a  great  heap  of  dead  men.  Now 
give  me  my  spear,  said  Arthur  unto  Sir 
Lucan,  for  yonder  I  have  espied  the  [70 
traitor  that  all  this  woe  hath  wrought. 
Sir,  let  him  be,  said  Sir  Lucan,  for  he  is 
unhappy;  and  if  ye  pass  this  unhappy  day, 
ye  shall  be  right  well  revenged  upon  him. 
Good  lord,  remember  ye  of  your  night's 
dream,  and  what  the  spirit  of  Sir  Gawaine 
told  you  this  night,  yet  God  of  his  great 
goodness  hath  preserved  you  hitherto. 
Therefore,  for  God's  sake,  my  lord,  leave 
off  by  this.  For,  blessed  be  God,  ye  [80 
have  won  the  field,  for  here  we  be  three  on 


live,  and  with  Sir  Mordred  is  none  on  live. 
And  if  ye  leave  off  now,  this  wicked  day 
of  destiny  is  past.  Tide  me  death,  betide 
me  life,  saith  the  king,  now  I  see  him 
yonder  alone,  he  shall  never  escape  mine 
hands,  for  at  a  better  avail  shall  I  never 
have  him.  God  speed  you  well,  said  Sir 
Bedivere. 

Then  the  king  gat  his  spear  in  both  [90 
his  hands,  and  ran  toward  Sir  Mordred, 
crying,  Traitor,  now  is  thy  death-day 
come.  And  when  Sir  Mordred  heard  Sir 
Arthur,  he  ran  until  him  with  his  sword 
drawn  in  his  hand.  And  then  king  Arthur 
smote  Sir  Mordred  under  the  shield, 
with  a  foin  of  his  spear  throughout  the 
body  more  than  a  fathom.  And  when 
Sir  Mordred  felt  that  he  had  his  death's 
wound,  he  thrust  himself,  with  the  [100 
might  that  he  had,  up  to  the  bur  of  king 
Arthur's  spear.  And  right  so  he  smote 
his  father  Arthur  with  his  sword  holden  in 
both  his  hands,  on  the  side  of  the  head, 
that  the  sword  pierced  the  helmet  and  the 
brain-pan,  and  therewithal  Sir  Mordred 
fell  stark  dead  to  the  earth.  And  the  noble 
Arthur  fell  in  a  swoon  to  the  earth,  and 
there  he  swooned  oft-times.  And  Sir 
Lucan  the  Butler,  and  Sir  Bedivere,  [no 
oft-times  heaved  him  up,  and  so  weakly 
they  led  him  betwixt  them  both,  to  a  little 
chapel  not  far  from  the  sea  side.  And 
when  the  king  was  there,  he  thought  him 
well  eased. 

Then  heard  they  people  cry  in  the  field. 
Now  go,  thou,  Sir  Lucan,  said  the  king, 
and  do  me  to  wit  what  betokens  that 
noise  in  the  field.  So  Sir  Lucan  departed, 
for  he  was  grievously  wounded  in  [120 
many  places.  And  so  as  he  went,  he  saw 
and  hearkened  by  the  moonlight,  how  the 
pillers  and  robbers  were  come  into  the 
field  to  pill  and  to  rob  many  a  full  noble 
knight  of  brooches  and  beads,  of  many 
a  good  ring,  and  of  many  a  rich  jewel ;  and 
who  that  were  not  dead  all  out,  there 
they  slew  them  for  their  harness  and  their 
riches.  When  Sir  Lucan  understood  this 
work,  he  came  to  the  king  as  soon  as  [130 
he  might,  and  told  him  all  what  he  had 
heard  and  seen.  Therefore  by  mine  ad- 
vice, said  Sir  Lucan,  it  is  best  that  we 
bring  you  to  some  town.  I  would  it  were 
so,  said  the  king. 


MALORY 


47 


Chapter  V 


HOW  KING  ARTHUR  COMMANDED  TO  CAST 
HIS  SWORD  EXCALIBUR  INTO  THE  WATER, 
AND  HOW  HE  WAS  DELIVERED  TO  LADIES 
IN  A  BARGE 

But  I  may  not  stand,  mine  head  works 
so.  Ah,  Sir  Launcelot,  said  king  Arthur, 
this  day  have  I  sore  missed  thee.  Alas, 
that  ever  I  was  against  thee,  for  now  have 
I  my  death,  whereof  Sir  Gawaine  me 
warned  in  my  dream.  Then  Sir  Lucan 
took  up  the  king  the  one  part,  and  Sir 
Bedivere  the  other  part,  and  in  the  lifting 
the  king  swooned,  and  Sir  Lucan  fell  in 
a  swoon  with  the  lift,  that  the  part  of  [10 
his  bowels  fell  out  of  his  body,  and  there- 
with the  noble  knight's  heart  brast.  And 
when  king  Arthur  came  to  himself  again, 
he  beheld  Sir  Lucan,  how  he  lay  foaming 
at  the  mouth,  and  part  of  his  bowels  lay 
at  his  feet.  Alas,  said  the  king,  this  is 
unto  me  a  full  heavy  sight,  to  see  this 
noble  duke  so  die  for  my  sake,  for  he  would 
have  holpen  me  that  had  more  need  of 
help  than  I.  Alas,  he  would  not  com-  [20 
plain  him,  his  heart  was  so  set  to  help  me. 
Now  Jesu  have  mercy  upon  his  soul.  Then 
Sir  Bedivere  wept  for  the  death  of  his 
brother.  Leave  this  mourning  and  weep- 
ing, said  the  king,  for  all  this  will  not  avail 
me;  for,  wit  thou  well,  and  I  might  live 
myself  the  death  of  Sir  Lucan  would 
grieve  me  evermore;  but  my  time  hieth 
fast,  said  the  king.  Therefore,  said 
Arthur,  take  thou  Excalibur,  my  good  [30 
sword,  and  go  with  it  to  yonder  water 
side,  and  when  thou  comest  there,  I 
charge  thee  throw  my  sword  in  that  water, 
and  come  again,  and  tell  me  what  thou 
there  seest.  My  lord,  said  Bedivere,  your 
commandment  shall  be  done,  and  lightly 
bring  you  word  again. 

So  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  by  the 
way  he  beheld  that  noble  sword,  that  the 
pommel  and  the  haft  were  all  of  pre-  [40 
cious  stones;  and  then  he  said  to  himself, 
If  I  throw  this  rich  sword  in  the  water, 
thereof  shall  never  come  good,  but  harm 
and  loss.  And  then  Sir  Bedivere  hid 
Excalibur  under  a  tree.  And  as  soon  as 
he  might  he  came  again  unto  the  king, 
and  said  he  had  been  at  the  water,  and 
had   thrown   the   sword   into   the   water. 


What  sawest  thou  there?  said  the  king. 
Sir,  he  said,  I  saw  nothing  but  waves  [50 
and  winds.  That  is  untruly  said  of  thee, 
said  the  king;  therefore  go  thou  lightly 
again,  and  do  my  command,  as  thou  art 
to  me  lief  and  dear,  spare  not,  but  throw 
it  in.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  returned  again, 
and  took  the  sword  in  his  hand;  and  then 
him  thought  sin  and  shame  to  throw  away 
that  noble  sword;  and  so  eft  he  hid  the 
sword,  and  returned  again,  and  told  to 
the  king  that  he  had  been  at  the  [60 
water,  and  done  his  commandment. 
What  saw  thou  there?  said  the  king.  Sir, 
he  said,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  waters 
wap  and  the  waves  wan.  Ah  traitor, 
untrue,  said  king  Arthur,  now  hast  thou 
betrayed  me  twice.  Who  would  have 
wend  that  thou  that  hast  been  to  me  so 
lief  and  dear,  and  thou  art  named  a  noble 
knight,  and  would  betray  me  for  the  rich- 
ness of  the  sword.  But  now  go  again  [70 
lightly,  for  thy  long  tarrying  putteth  me 
in  great  jeopardy  of  my  life,  for  I  have 
taken  cold.  And  but  if  thou  do  now  as 
I  bid  thee,  if  ever  I  may  see  thee,  I  shall 
slay  thee  with  mine  own  hands,  for  thou 
wouldest  for  my  rich  sword  see  me  dead. 
Then  Sir  Bedivere  departed,  and  went 
to  the  sword,  and  lightly  took  it  up,  and 
went  to  the  water  side;  and  there  he 
bound  the  girdle  about  the  hilts,  and  [80 
then  he  threw  the  sword  as  far  into  the 
water  as  he  might ;  and  there  came  an  arm 
and  an  hand  above  the  water,  and  met 
it,  and  caught  it,  and  so  shook  it  thrice 
and  brandished,  and  then  vanished  away 
the  hand  with  the  sword  in  the  water.  So 
Sir  Bedivere  came  again  to  the  king,  and 
told  him  what  he  saw.  Alas,  said  the 
king,  help  me  hence,  for  I  dread  me  I  have 
tarried  over  long.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  [90 
took  the  king  upon  his  back,  and  so  went 
with  him  to  that  water  side.  And  when 
they  were  at  the  water  side,  even  fast  by 
the  bank  hoved  a  little  barge,  with  many 
fair  ladies  in  it,  and  among  them  all  was 
a  queen,  and  all  they  had  black  hoods,  and 
all  they  wept  and  shrieked  when  they  saw 
king  Arthur.  Now  put  me  into  the  barge, 
said  the  king;  and  so  he  did  softly.  And 
there  received  him  three  queens  with  [100 
great  mourning,  and  so  they  set  him 
down,  and  in  one  of  their  laps  king  Arthur 


48 


THE  END  OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 


laid  his  head.  And  then  that  queen  said, 
Ah,  dear  brother,  why  have  ye  tarried  so 
long  from  me?  Alas,  this  wound  on  your 
head  hath  caught  over-much  cold.  And 
so  then  they  rowed  from  the  land,  and 
Sir  Bedivere  beheld  all  those  ladies  go 
from  him.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  cried,  Ah, 
my  lord  Arthur,  what  shall  become  of  [no 
me,  now  ye  go  from  me,  and  leave  me 
here  alone  among  mine  enemies?  Com- 
fort thyself,  said  the  king,  and  do  as  well 
as  thou  niayest,  for  in  me  is  no  trust  for 
to  trust  in.  For  I  will  into  the  vale  of 
Avilion  to  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound. 
And  if  thou  hear  never  more  of  me,  pray 
for  my  soul.  But  ever  the  queens  and 
the  ladies  wept  and  shrieked,  that  it  was 
pity  to  hear.  And  as  soon  as  Sir  Bedi-  [120 
vere  had  lost  the  sight  of  the  barge,  he 
wept  and  wailed,  and  so  took  the  forest, 
and  so  he  went  all  that  night,  and  in  the 
morning  he  was  ware  betwixt  two  holts 
hoar,  of  a  chapel  and  an  hermitage. 

Chapter  VI 

HOW  SIR  BEDIVERE  FOUND  HIM  ON  THE 
MORROW  DEAD  IN  AN  HERMITAGE,  AND 
HOW  HE  ABODE  THERE  WITH  THE  HER- 
MIT 

Then  was  Sir  Bedivere  glad,  and  thither 
he  went;  and  when  he  came  into  the 
chapel,  he  saw  where  lay  an  hermit  grovel- 
ing on  all  four,  there  fast  by  a  tomb  was 
new  graven.  When  the  hermit  saw  Sir 
Bedivere  he  knew  him  well,  for  he  was 
but  little  before  bishop  of  Canterbury, 
that  Sir  Mordred  banished.  Sir,  said 
Sir  Bedivere,  what  man  is  there  interred 
that  ye  pray  so  fast  for?  Fair  son,  [10 
said  the  hermit,  I  wot  not  verily,  but  by 
deeming.  But  this  night,  at  midnight, 
here  came  a  number  of  ladies,  and  brought 
hither  a  dead  corpse,  and  prayed  me 
to  bury  him;  and  here  they  offered  an 
hundred  tapers,  and  gave  me  an  hundred 
besants.  Alas,  said  Sir  Bedivere,  that 
was'  my  lord  king  Arthur,  that  here  lieth 
buried  in  this  chapel.  Then  Sir  Bedivere 
swooned,  and  when  he  awoke  he  prayed  [20 
the  hermit  he  might  abide  with  him  still 
there,  to  live  with  fasting  and  prayers. 
For  from  hence  will  I  never  go,  said  Sir 
Bedivere,  by  my  will,  but  all  the  days  of 


my  life  here  to  pray  for  my  lord  Arthur. 
Ye  are  welcome  to  me,  said  the  hermit, 
for  I  know  ye  better  than  ye  ween  that  I 
do.  Ye  are  the  bold  Bedivere,  and  the 
full  noble  duke  Sir  Lucan  the  Butler  was 
your  brother.  Then  Sir  Bedivere  told  [30 
the  hermit  all  as  ye  have  heard  tofore.  So 
there  bode  Sir  Bedivere  with  the  hermit 
that  was  tofore  bishop  of  Canterbury,  and 
there  Sir  Bedivere  put  upon  him  poor 
clothes,  and  served  the  hermit  full  lowly 
in  fasting  and  in  prayers. 

Thus  of  Arthur  I  find  never  more  writ- 
ten in  books  that  be  authorized,  nor  more 
of  the  certainty  of  his  death  heard  I 
never  tell.  [40 


Chapter  VII 

OF  THE  OPINION  OF  SOME  MEN  OF  THE 
DEATH  OF  KING  ARTHUR;  AND  HOWr 
QUEEN  GUENEVER  MADE  HER  A  NUN  IN 
ALMESBURY 

Yet  some  men  say  in  many  parts  of 
England  that  king  Arthur  is  not  dead,  but 
had  by  the  will  of  our  Lord  Jesu  in  an- 
other place.  And  men  say  that  he  shall 
come  again,  and  he  shall  win  the  holy 
cross.  I  will  not  say  it  shall  be  so,  but 
rather  I  will  say,  here  in  this  world  he 
changed  his  life.  But  many  men  say  that 
there  is  written  upon  his  tomb  this  verse: 
Hie  jacet  Arthurus,  Rex  quondam,  Rex-  [10 
que  juturiis.  Thus  leave  I  here  Sir  Bedi- 
vere with  the  hermit,  that  dwelled  that 
time  in  a  chapel  beside  Glastonbury, 
and  there  was  his  hermitage.  And  so 
they  lived  in  their  prayers  and  fastings, 
and  great  abstinence. 

And  when  queen  Guenever  understood 
that  king  Arthur  was  slain,  and  all  the 
noble  knights,  Sir  Mordred  and  all  the 
remnant,  then  the  queen  stole  away,  [20 
and  five  ladies  with  her,  and  so  she  went  to 
Almesbury,  and  there  she  let  make  her- 
self a  nun,  and  wore  white  clothes  and 
black,  and  great  penance  she  took,  as  ever 
did  sinful  lady  in  this  land,  and  never 
creature  could  make  her  merry,  but  lived 
in  fasting,  prayers,  and  alms-deeds,  that 
all  manner  of  people  marveled  how  vir- 
tuously she  was  changed. 


THE   ELIZABETHAN   AGE 


EDMUND    SPENSER    (1652?-1599) 
THE   FAERIE  QUEENE 

A  Letter  of  the  Authors, 

Expounding  his  whole  intention  in  the 
course  of  this  worke:  which,  for  that  it 
giveth  great  light  to  the  reader,  for  the 
better  understanding  is  hereunto  an- 
nexed. 

To  the  Right  Noble  and  Valorous 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  Knight; 

Lord  Wardein  of  the  Stanneryes,  and  Her 
Maiesties  Liefetenaunt  of  the  County  of 
Cornewayll. 

Sir,  knowing  how  doubtfully  all  alle- 
gories may  be  construed,  and  this  booke 
of  mine,  which  I  have  entituled  the  Faery 
Queene,  being  a  continued  allegory,  or 
darke  conceit,  I  haue  thought  good,  as 
well  for  avoyding  of  gealous  opinions  and 
misconstructions,  as  also  for  your  better 
light  in  reading  thereof,  (being  so  by  you 
commanded,)  to  discover  unto  you  the 
general  intention  and  meaning,  which  [10 
in  the  whole  course  thereof  I  have  fash- 
ioned, without  expressing  of  any  particular 
purposes,  or  by  accidents  therein  occa- 
sioned. The  generall  end  therefore  of  all 
the  booke  is  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or 
noble  person  in  vertuous  and  gentle  dis- 
cipline: which  for  that  I  conceived  shoulde 
be  most  plausible  and  pleasing,  being 
coloured  with  an  historicall  fiction,  the 
which  the  most  part  of  men  delight  to  [20 
read,  rather  for  variety  of  matter  then  for 
profite  of  the  ensample,  I  chose  the  his- 
torye  of  King  Arthure,  as  most  fitte  for 
the  excellency  of  his  person,  being  made 
famous  by  many  men's  former  workes, 
and  also  furthest  from  the  daunger  of 
envy,  and  suspition  of  present  time.  In 
which  I  have  followed  all  the  antique 
Poets  historicall:  first  Homere,  who  in 
the  Persons  of  Agamemnon  and  Ulys-  [30 


ses  hath  ensampled  a  good  governour  and 
a  vertuous  man,  the  one  in  his  Ilias,  the 
other  in  his  Odysseis;  then  Virgil,  whose 
like  intention  was  to  doe  in  the  person  of 
Aeneas;  after  him  Ariosto  comprised  them 
both  in  his  Orlando:  and  lately  Tasso  dis- 
severed them  againe,  and  formed  both 
parts  in  two  persons,  namely  that  part 
which  they  in  Philosophy  call  Ethice,  or 
vertues  of  a  private  man,  coloured  in  [40 
his  Rinaldo;  the  other  named  Politice  in 
his  Godfredo.  By  ensample  of  which  ex- 
cellente  poets,  I  labour  to  pourtraict  in 
Arthure,  before  he  was  king,  the  image  of 
a  brave  knight,  perfected  in  the  twelve 
private  morall  vertues,  as  Aristotle  hath 
devised;  the  which  is  the  purpose  of  these 
first  twelve  bookes:  which  if  I  finde  to  be 
well  accepted,  I  may  be  perhaps  encoraged 
to  frame  the  other  part  of  polliticke  [50 
vertues  in  his  person,  after  that  hee  came 
to  be  king. 

To  some,  I  know,  this  methode  will 
seeme  displeasaunt,  which  had  rather  have 
good  discipline  delivered  plainly  in  way  of 
precepts,  or  sermoned  at  large,  as  they 
use,  then  thus  clowdily  enwrapped  in 
Allegoricall  devises.  But  such,  me  seeme, 
should  be  satisfide  with  the  use  of  these 
dayes,  seeing  all  things  accounted  by  [60 
their  showes,  and  nothing  esteemed  of, 
that  is  not  delightfull  and  pleasing  to 
commune  sence.  For  this  cause  is  Xeno- 
phon  preferred  before  Plato,  for  that  the 
one,  in  the  exquisite  depth  of  his  judge- 
ment, formed  a  commune  welth,  such  as 
it  should  be;  but  the  other  in  the  person 
of  Cyrus,  and  the  Persians,  fashioned  a 
governement,  such  as  might  best  be:  so 
much  more  profitable  and  gratious  is  [70 
doctrine  by  ensample,  then  by  rule.  So 
haue  I  laboured  to  doe  in  the  person  of 
Arthure:  whome  I  conceive,  after  his  long 
education  by  Timon,  to  whom  he  was 
by  Merlin  delivered  to  be  brought  up, 
so  soone  as  he  was  borne  of  the  Lady 
Igrayne,  to  have  seene  in  a  dream  or 
vision    the    Faery    Queene,    with    whose 


49 


5° 


THE  ELIZABETH  AX  AGE 


excellent  beauty  ravished,  he  awaking 
resolved  to  seeke  her  out;  and  so  being  [80 
by  Merlin  armed,  and  by  Timon  throughly 
instructed,  he  went  to  seeke  her  forth  in 
Faerye  land.  In  that  Faery  Queene  I 
meane  glory  in  my  generall  intention,  but 
in  my  particular  I  conceive  the  most 
excellent  and  glorious  person  of  our  sover- 
aine  the  Queene,  and  her  kingdome  in 
Faery  land.  And  yet,  in  some  places  els, 
I  doe  otherwise  shadow  her.  For  con- 
sidering she  beareth  two  persons,  the  [90 
one  of  a  most  royall  Queene  or  Empresse, 
the  other  of  a  most  vertuous  and  beautifull 
Lady,  this  latter  part  in  some  places  I  doe 
expresse  in  Belphoebe,  fashioning  her 
name  according  to  your  owne  excellent 
conceipt  of  Cynthia,  (Phcebe  and  Cynthia 
being  both  names  of  Diana.)  So  in  the 
person  of  Prince  Arthure  I  sette  forth 
magnificence  in  particular,  which  vertue, 
for  that  (according  to  Artistotle  and  [100 
the  rest)  it  is  the  perfection  of  all  the  rest, 
and  conteineth  in  it  them  all,  therefore 
in  the  whole  course  I  mention  the  deedes 
of  Arthure  applyable  to  that  vertue,  which 
I  write  of  in  that  booke.  But  of  the  xii. 
other  vertues,  I  make  xii.  other  knights 
the  patrones,  for  the  more  variety  of  the 
history:  of  which  these  three  bookes 
contayn  three.  The  first  of  the  knight 
of  the  Redcrosse,  in  whome  I  expresse  [no 
holynes:  The  seconde  of  Sir  Guyon,  in 
whome  I  sette  forth  temperaunce:  The 
third  of  Britomartis,  a  lady  knight,  in 
whome  I  picture  chastity.  But,  because 
the  beginning  of  the  whole  worke  seemeth 
abrupte,  and  as  depending  upon  other 
antecedents,  it  needs  that  ye  know  the 
occasion  of  these  three  knights'  seuerall 
adventures.  For  the  methode  of  a  poet 
historical  is  not  such,  as  of  an  his-  [120 
toriographer.  For  an  historiographer  dis- 
courseth  of  affayres  orderly  as  they  were 
donne,  accounting  as  well  the  times  as 
the  actions;  but  a  poet  thrusteth  into  the 
middest,  even  where  it  most  concerneth 
him,  and  there  recoursing  to  the  thinges 
forepaste,  and  divining  of  thinges  to  come, 
maketh  a  pleasing  analysis  of  all. 

The  beginning  therefore  of  my  history, 
if  it  were  to  be  told  by  an  historiog-  [130 
rapher,  should  be  the  twelfth  booke,  which 
is  the  last;  where  I  devise  that  the  Faery 


Queene  kept  her  annuall  feaste  xii.  dayes; 
uppon  which  xii.  severall  dayes,  the  occa- 
sions of  the  xii.  severall  adventures  hapned, 
which,  being  undertaken  by  xii.  severall 
knights,  are  in  these  xii.  books  severally 
handled  and  discoursed.  The  first  was 
this.  In  the  beginning  of  the  feast,  there 
presented  him  selfe  a  tall  clownishe  [140 
younge  man,  who,  falling  before  the  Queene 
of  Faeries,  desired  a  boone  (as  the  manner 
then  was)  which  during  that  feast  she 
might  not  refuse:  which  was  that  hee 
might  have  the  atchievement  of  any  ad- 
venture, which  during  that  feaste  should 
happen:  that  being  graunted,  he  rested 
him  on  the  floore,  unfitte  through  his  rus- 
ticity for  a  better  place.  Soone  after 
entred  a  faire  ladye  in  mourning  [150 
weedes,  riding  on  a  white  asse,  with  a 
dwarfe  behind  her  leading  a  warlike  steed, 
that  bore  the  armes  of  a  knight,  and  his 
speare  in  the  dwarfes  hand.  Shee,  falling 
before  the  Queene  of  Faeries,  complayned 
that  her  father  and  mother,  an  ancient 
king  and  queene,  had  bene  by  an  huge 
dragon  many  years  shut  up  in  a  brasen 
castle,  who  thence  suffred  them  not  to 
yssew;  and  therefore  besought  the  [160 
Faery  Queene  to  assygne  her  some  one  of 
her  knights  to  take  on  him  that  exployt. 
Presently  that  clownish  person,  upstart- 
ing, desired  that  adventure:  whereat  the 
Queene  much  wondering,  and  the  lady 
much  gainesaying,  yet  he  earnestly  im- 
portuned his  desire.  In  the  end  the  lady 
told  him,  that  unlesse  that  armour  which 
she  brought,  would  serve  him  (that  is, 
the  armour  of  a  Christian  man  speci-  [1 70 
fied  by  Saint  Paul,  vi.  Ephes.)  that  he 
could  not  succeed  in  that  enterprise :  which 
being  forthwith  put  upon  him,  with  dewe 
furnitures  thereunto,  he  seemed  the  good- 
liest man  in  al  that  company,  and  was 
well  liked  of  the  lady.  And  eftesoones 
taking  on  him  knighthood,  and  mounting 
on  that  straunge  courser,  he  went  forth 
with  her  on  that  adventure:  where  be- 
ginneth  the  first  booke,  viz.  [180 

A    gentle    knight    was    pricking    on    the 
playne,  etc. 

The  second  day  there  came  in  a  palmer, 
bearing  an  infant  with  bloody  hands, 
whose    parents    he    complained    to    have 


SPENSER 


bene  slayn  by  an  enchaunteresse  called 
Acrasia;  and  therefore  craved  of  the 
Faery  Queene,  to  appoint  him  some 
knight  to  performe  that  adventure;  which 
being  assigned  to  Sir  Guy  on,  he  presently 
went  forth  with  that  same  palmer:  [190 
which  is  the  beginning  of  the  second  booke, 
and  the  whole  subject  thereof.  The  third 
day  there  came  in  a  groome,  who  com- 
plained before  the  Faery  Queene,  that  a 
vile  enchaunter,  called  Busirane,  had  in 
hand  a  most  faire  lady,  called  Amoretta, 
whom  he  kept  in  most  grievous  torment, 
because  she  would  not  yield  him  the 
pleasure  of  her  body.  Whereupon  Sir 
Scudamour,  the  lover  of  that  lady,  [200 
presently  tooke  on  him  that  adventure. 
But  being  unable  to  performe  it  by  reason 
of  the  hard  enchauntments,  after  long 
sorrow,  in  the  end  met  with  Britomartis, 
who  succoured  him,  and  reskewed  his 
loue. 

But  by  occasion  hereof  many  other 
adventures  are  intermedled;  but  rather  as 
accidents  then  intendments:  as  the  love  of 
Britomart,  the  overthrow  of  Marinell,  [210 
the  misery  of  Florimell,  the  vertuousness  of 
Belphcebe,  the  lasciviousnes  of  Hellenora, 
and  many  the  like. 

Thus  much,  Sir,  I  have  briefly  overronne, 
to  direct  your  understanding  to  the  wel- 
:  head  of  the  history,  that  from  thence  gath- 
ering the  whole  intention  of  the  conceit 
ye  may,  as  in  a  handfull,  gripe  al  the  dis- 
course, which  otherwise  may  happily  seeme 
tedious  and  confused.  So,  humbly  [220 
craving  the  continuance  of  your  honor- 
able favour  towards  me,  and  th'  eternall 
establishment  of  your  happines,  I  humbly 
take  leave. 

23.  January,  1589. 
Yours  most  humbly  affectionate, 
Ed.  Spenser. 

From  Book  I,  Canto  I 

The  patrone  of  true  Holinesse 
Foule  Errour  doth  defeate: 

Hypocrisie,  him  to  entrappe, 
Doth  to  his  home  entreate. 


A  gentle  knight  was  pricking1  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielded 

1  spurring,  riding. 


Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did 
remaine,    ^ 

The  cruell  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde ; 

Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never 
wield:  ■— ^ 

His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming 
bitt,  t-  6 

As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to 
yield  :-&— 

Full  jolly2  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did 
§itt,  <L_      /  (  1 

As  one  for  knightly  giusts3  and  fierce  en- 
counters fitt.   e_~ 


But  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore,  10 
The    deare    remembrance    of    his    dying 

Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge 

he  wore, 
And  dead  as  living  ever  him  ador'd : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he 

had:  15 

Right  faithfull  true  he  was  in  deede  and 

word, 
But  of  his  cheere4  did  seeme  too  solemne 

sad; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was 

ydrad.5 

in 

Upon  a  great  adventure  he  was  bond,6 
That  greatest  Gloriana  to  him  gave,  20 

That  greatest  glorious  queene  of  Faery 

Lond, 
To  winne  him  worshippe,  and  her  grace  to 

have, 
Which  of  all  earthly  thinges  he  most  did 

crave; 
And  ever  as  he  rode  his  hart  did  earne7 
To  prove  his  puissance  in  battell  brave     25 
Upon  his  foe,  and  his  new  force  to  learne 
Upon    his    foe,    a    dragon    horrible    and 

stearne. 

IV 

A  lovely  ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  more  white  then  snow, 
Yet  she  much  whiter,  but  the  same  did 
hide  3° 

Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled8  was  full  low, 

2  gallant.  'jousts. 

1  countenance,  expression  of  his  face.  5  dreaded. 

6  bound.  7  yearn.  ?  pleated. 


-- 


52 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw: 
As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow: 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milkewhite  lambe 
she  lad.  36 


So  pure  and  innocent,  as  that  same  lambe, 
She  was  in  life  and  every  vertuous  lore, 
And  by  descent  from  royall  lynage  came 
Of  ancient  kinges  and  queenes,  that  had  of 
yore  40 

Their  scepters  stretcht  from  east  to  west- 
erne  shore, 
And  all  the  world  in  their  subjection  held, 
Till  that  infernall  feend  with  foule  uprore 
Forwasted1  all  their  land,  and  them  expeld : 
Whom  to  avenge,  she  had  this  knight  from 
far  compeld.2  45 

VI 

Behind  her  farre  away  a  dwarfe  did  lag, 

That  lasie  seemd,  in  being  ever  last, 

Or  wearied  with  bearing  of  her  bag 

Of  needments  at  his  backe.    Thus  as  they 

past, 
The  day  with  cloudes  was  suddeine  over- 
cast, 50 
And  angry  Jove  an  hideous  storme  of  raine 
Did  poure  into  his  lemans3  lap  so  fast, 
That  everie  wight4  to  shrowd5  it  did  con- 
strain, 
And  this  faire  couple  eke6  to  shroud  them- 
selves were  fain. 

VII 

Enforst  to  seeke  some  covert  nigh  at  hand, 
A  shadie  grove  not  farr  away  they  spide,  56 
That  promist  ayde  the  tempest  to  with- 
stand: 
Whose  loftie  trees,  yclad  with  sommers 

pride, 
Did  spred  so  broad,  that  heavens  light  did 

hide, 
Not  perceable  with  power  of  any  starr ;     60 
And  all  within  were  pathes  and  alleies 

wide, 
With  footing  worne,  and  leading  inward 

farr: 
Faire  harbour  that  them  seemes,  so  in  they 
entred  ar. 


1  utterly  laid  waste. 

a  loved  one's,  i.  e.  the  earth's. 

6  shelter. 


2  summoned. 
1  person. 
6  also. 


VIII 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  for- 
ward led, 
Joying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  har- 

mony,  65 

Which,  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest 

dred, 
Seemed  in  their  song  to  scorne  the  cruell 

sky. 
Much    can7    they    praise    the    trees    so 

straight  and  hy, 
The  sayling8  pine,  the  cedar  proud  and 

tall, 
The  vine-propp  elme,   the  poplar  never 

dry,  70 

The  builder9  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all, 
The  aspine  good  for  staves,  the  cypresse 

funerall, 

IX 

The  laurell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage,   the  firre  that  weepeth 

still, 
The  willow  worne  of  forlorne  paramours,10 
The  eugh11  obedient  to  the  benders  will,   76 
The  birch  for  shaftes,  the  sallow  for  the 

mill, 
The  mirrhe  sweete  bleeding  in  the  bitter 

wound, 
The  warlike  beech,  the  ash  for  nothing  ill, 
The    fruitfull    olive,    and    the    platane12 

round,  80 

The  carver  holme,13  the  maple  seeldom 

inward  sound. 


Led  with  delight,  they  thus  beguile  the 

way, 
Untill  the  blustring  storme  is  overblowne; 
When,  weening  to  returne  whence  they  did 

stray, 
They  cannot  finde  that  path,  which  first 

was  showne,  85 

But   wander   too  and   fro   in   waies   un- 

knowne, 
Furthest  from  end  then,  when  they  neerest 

weene, 
That  makes  them  doubt,  their  wits  be  not 

their  owne : 
So  many  pathes,  so  many  turnings  seene, 
That  which  of  them  to  take,  in  diverse 

doubt  they  been.  90 

7  did.         8  used  for  ship  timber.         •  used  for  building. 
10  lovers.    n  yew.  n  plane. 

13  a  kind  of  oak,  used  for  wood  carvings. 


SPENSER 


53 


XI 

At  last  resolving  forward  still  to  fare, 
Till  that  some  end  they  finde,  or  in  or  out, 
That  path  they  take,  that  beaten  seemd 

most  bare, 
And  like  to  lead  the  labyrinth  about;1 
Which  when  by  tract2  they  hunted  had 

throughout,  95 

At  length  it  brought  them  to  a  hollowe 

cave, 
Amid  the  thickest  woods.    The  champion 

stout 
Eftsoones3  dismounted  from  his  courser 

brave, 
And  to  the  dwarfe  a  while  his  needlesse 

spere  he  gave. 

XII 

"Be  well  aware,"  quoth  then  that  ladie 
milde,  100 

"  Least  suddaine  mischief e  ye  too  rash  pro- 
voke: 

The  danger  hid,  the  place  unknowne  and 
wilde, 

Breedes  dreadfull  doubts:  oft  fire  is  with- 
out smoke, 

And  perill  without  show:#  therefore  your 
stroke, 

Sir  knight,  with-hold,  till  further  tryall 
made."  105 

"Ah,  ladie,"  sayd  he,  "shame  were  to  re- 
voke 

The  forward  footing  for  an  hidden  shade : 

Vertue  gives  her  selfe  light,  through 
darkenesse  for  to  wade."4 

XIII 

"Yea,  but,"  quoth  she,  "the  perill  of  this 
place 

I  better  wot  then  you;  though  nowe  too 
late  no 

To  wish  you  backe  returne  with  foule  dis- 
grace, 

Yet  wisedome  warnes,  whilest  foot  is  in  the 
gate,5 

To  stay  the  steppe,  ere  forced  to  retrate. 

This  is  the  wandring  wood,6  this  Errours 
den, 

A  monster  vile,  whom  God  and  man  does 
hate:  115 


1  out  of. 
5  way. 


3  forthwith.        4  walk,  go. 
6  wood  of  wandering. 


Therefore  I  read7  beware."     "Fly,  fly!" 

quoth  then 
The  fearefull  dwarfe:  "this  is  no  place  for 

living  men." 

XIV 

But  full  of  fire  and  greedy  hardiment,8 
The  youthfull  knight  could  not  for  ought 

be  staide, 
But  forth  unto  the  darksom  hole  he  went, 
And  looked  in:  his  glistring  armor  made  121 
A  litle  glooming  light,  much  like  a  shade, 
By  which  he  saw  the  ugly  monster  plaine, 
Halfe  like  a  serpent  horribly  displaide, 
But  th'  other  halfe  did  womans  shape  re- 

taine,  125 

Most  lothsom,  filthie,  foule,  and  full  of  vile 

disdaine.9 


XXVII 

His  lady,  seeing  all  that  chaunst,  from 

farre,  235 

Approcht  in  hast  to  greet  his  victorie, 
And  saide,   "Faire  knight,  borne  under 

happie  starre, 
Who  see  your  vanquisht  foes  before  you 

lye, 
Well  worthie  be  you  of  that  armory,10 
Wherein  ye  have  great  glory  wonne  this 

day,  240 

And  proov'd  your  strength  on  a  strong  eni- 

mie, 
Your  first  adventure:  many  such  I  pray, 
And  henceforth  ever  wish  that  like  succeed 

it  may." 

XXVIII 

Then  mounted  he  upon  his  steede  againe, 
And  with  the  lady  backward  sought  to 

wend;  245 

That  path  he  kept  which  beaten  was  most 

plaine, 
Ne  ever  would  to  any  by  way  bend, 
But  still  did  follow  one  unto  the  end, 
The  which  at  last  out  of  the  wood  them 

brought. 
So  forward  on  his  way  (with  God  to  frend) 
He    passed    forth,    and    new    adventure 

sought:  251 

Long  way  he  traveiled,  before  he  heard  of 

ought. 


7  advise. 

9  loathsomeness. 


8  impetuous  hardihood. 
10  armor. 


54 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


XXIX 

At  length  they  chaunst  to  meet  upon  the 

way 
An   aged    sire,   in    long    blacke    weedes1 

yclad, 
His  feete  all  bare,  his  beard  all  hoarie 

gray,  _        255 

And  by  his  belte  his  booke  he  hanging  had; 
Sober  he  seemde,  and  very  sagely  sad, 
And  to  the  ground  his  eyes  were  lowly 

bent, 
Simple  in  shew,  and  voide  of  malice  bad, 
And  all  the  way  he  prayed  as  he  went,     260 
And  often  knockt  his  brest,  as  one  that  did 

repent. 

xxx 

He  faire  the  knight  saluted,  louting2  low, 
Who  faire  him  qui  ted,3  as  that  courteous 

was;     . 
And  after  asked  him,  if  he  did  know 
Of  straunge  adventures,  which  abroad  did 

pas.  265 

"Ah!  my  dear  sonne,"  quoth  he,  "how 

should,  alas! 
Silly4  old  man,  that  lives  in  hidden  cell, 
Bidding5  his  beades  all  day  for  his  trespas, 
Tydings  of  warre  and  worldly  trouble  tell? 
With   holy    father    sits6    not    with    such 

thinges  to  mell.7  270 

XXXI 

"But  if  of  daunger,  which  hereby  doth 

dwell, 
And  homebredd  evil  ye  desire  to  heare, 
Of  a  straunge  man  I  can  you  tidings  tell, 
That  wasteth  all  his  countrie  farre  and 

neare." 
"Of  such,"  saide  he,  "I  chiefly  doe  in- 

quere,  275 

And  shall  you  well  rewarde  to  shew  the 

place, 
In  which  that  wicked  wight  his  dayes  doth 

weare: 
For  to  all  knighthood  it  is  foule  disgrace, 
That  such  a  cursed  creature  lives  so  long  a 

space." 

XXXII 

"Far  hence,"  quoth  he,  "in  wastfull  wil- 

dernesse,  280 

His  dwelling  is,  by  which  no  living  wight 

1  clothes.  2  bowing.  3  requited.  4  simple. 

6  telling,  counting.  "befits.  'meddle. 


May  ever  passe,  but  thorough  great  dis- 

tresse." 
"Now,"  saide  the  ladie,  "draweth  toward 

night, 
And  well  I  wote,  that  of  your  later  fight 
Ye  all  forwearied  be:  for  what  so  strong,28s 
But,  wanting  rest,  will  also  want  of  might? 
The  Sunne,  that  measures  heaven  all  day 

long, 
At  night  doth  baite8  his  steedes  the  ocean 

waves  emong. 

XXXIII 

"Then  with  the  Sunne  take,   sir,  your 

timely  rest, 
And  with  new  day  new  worke  at  once  be- 
gin: 290 
Untroubled  night,  they  say,  gives  counsell 

best." 
"Right  well,  sir  knight,  ye  have  advised 

bin," 
Quoth  then  that  aged  man;  "the  way  to 

win 
Is  wisely  to  advise:9  now  day  is  spent; 
Therefore  with  me  ye  may  take  up  your 

in  _  295 

For  this  same  night."    The  knight  was 

well  content^ 
So  with  that  godly  father  to  his  home  they 

went. 

XXXIV 

A  litle  lowly  hermitage  it  was, 
Downe  in  a  dale,  hard  by  a  forests  side, 
Far  from  resort  of  people,  that  did  pas  300 
In  traveill  to  and  froe:  a  litle  wyde10 
There  was  an  holy  chappell  edifyde,11 
Wherein  the  hermite  dewly  wont  to  say 
His  holy  thinges  each  morne  and  even- 

tyde: 
Thereby  a  christall   streame  did  gently 
_  play,  305 

Which   from   a   sacred   fountaine   welled 

forth  alway. 

xxxv 

Arrived  there,  the  little  house  they  fill, 
Ne  looke  for  entertainement,  where  none 

was: 
Rest  is  their  feast,  and  all  thinges  at  their 

will; 
The  noblest  mind  the  best  contentment 

has.  310 


8  feed. 

!0a  little  way  off. 


9  take  thought,  consider. 
11  built. 


SPENSER 


55 


With  faire  discourse  the  evening  so  they 
pas: 

For  that  olde  man  of  pleasing  wordes  had 
store, 

And  well  could  file  his  tongue  as  smooth 
as  glas: 

He  told  of  saintes  and  popes,  and  ever- 
more 

He  strowd  an  Ave-Mary  after  and  be- 
fore. 3*5 
xxxvi 

The  drouping  night  thus  creepeth  on  them 

fast, 
And  the  sad   humor1  loading   their  eye 

liddes, 
As  messenger  of  Morpheus,  on  them  cast 
Sweet  slombring  deaw,  the  which  to  sleep 

them  biddes: 
Unto  their  lodgings  then  his  guestes  he 

riddes:2  320 

Where  when  all  drownd  in  deadly  sleepe 

he  findes, 
He  to  his  studie  goes,  and  there  amiddes 
His  magick  bookes  and  artes  of  sundrie 

kindes, 
He  seekes  out  mighty  charmes,  to  trouble 

sleepy  minds. 

XXXVII 

Then  choosing  out  few  words  most  horri- 
ble, 325 
(Let  none  them  read)  thereof  did  verses 

frame; 
With  which  and  other  spelles  like  terrible, 
He  bad  awake  blacke  Plutoes  griesly  dame, 
And  cursed  heven,  and  spake  reprochful 

shame 

Of   highest   God,    the   Lord   of   life   and 

light:  330 

A  bold  bad  man,  that  dar'd  to  call  by  name 

Great  Gorgon,  prince  of  darknes  and  dead 

night, 
At  which  Cocytus  quakes,  and  Styx  is  put 
to  flight. 

XXXVIII 

And  forth  he  cald  out  of  deepe  darknes 

dredd 
Legions  of  sprights,  the  which,  like  litle 

Ayes  335 

Fluttring  about  his  ever  damned  hedd, 
Awaite  whereto  their  service  he  applyes, 

1  heavy  moisture.  2  sends  off. 


To  aide  his  friendes,  or  fray3  his  enimies: 
Of  those  he  chose  out  two,  the  falsest  twoo, 
And    fittest    for    to    forge    true-seeming 

lyes;  340 

The  one  of  them  he  gave  a  message  too, 
The  other  by  him  selfe  staide,  other  worke 

to  doo. 

XXXIX 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed4 

ayre, 
And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and 

deepe, 
To    Morpheus    house    doth    hastily    re- 

paire.  345 

Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe, 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never 

peepe, 
His  dwelling  is;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth 

steepe 
In  silver  deaw  his  ever-drouping  hed,    350 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle 

black  doth  spred. 

XL 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast, 
The  one  faire  fram'd  of  burnisht  yvory, 
The  other  all  with  silver  overcast ; 
And  wakeful  dogges  before  them  farre  doe 

lye,  355 

Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enimy, 
Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe. 
By  them  the  sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly, 
And     unto     Morpheus     comes,     whom 

drowned  deepe 
In  drowsie  fit  he  findes:  of  nothing  he 

takes  keepe.5  360 

XLI 

And  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tum- 
bling downe, 

And  ever  drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 

Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like 
the  sowne 

Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a 
swowne:  365 

No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous 
cryes, 

As  still6  are  wont  t'annoy  the  walled 
towne, 


frighten, 
heed. 


*  widely  diffused. 

•  ever. 


56 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Might  there  be  heard:  but  carelesse  Quiet 

lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  eni- 

myes. 

XLII 

The     messenger     approching     to     him 

spake,  37° 

But  his  waste  wordes  retournd  to  him  in 

vaine: 
So  sound  he  slept,  that  nought  mought  him 

awake. 
Then  rudely  he  him  thrust,  and  pusht  with 

paine, 
Whereat  he  gan  to  stretch:  but  he  againe 
Shooke  him  so  hard,  that  forced  him  to 

speake.  375 

As  one  then  in  a  dreame,  whose  dryer 

braine 
Is  tost  with  troubled  sights  and  fancies 

weake, 
He  mumbled  soft,  but  would  not  all  his 

silence  breake. 

XLIII 

The  sprite  then  gan  more  boldly  him  to 

wake, 
And    threatned    unto    him    the    dreaded 

name  380 

Of  Hecate:  whereat  he  gan  to  quake, 
And,   lifting  up  his  lompish  head,  with 

blame 
Halfe  angrie  asked  him,  for  what  he  came. 
"Hether,"  quoth  he,  "me  Archimago  sent, 
He  that  the  stubborne  sprites  can  wisely 

tame;  385 

He  bids  thee  to  him  send  for  his  intent 
A  fit  false  dreame,  that  can  delude  the 

sleepers  sent."1 

XLIV 

The  god  obayde,  and  calling  forth  straight 

way 
A  diverse  dreame  out  of  his  prison  darke, 
Delivered  it  to  him,  and  downe  did  lay  390 
His  heavie  head,  devoide  of  careful  carke;2 
Whose  sences  all  were  straight  benumbd 

and  starke. 
He,  backe  returning  by  the  yvorie  dore, 
Remounted  up  as  light  as  cheareful  larke, 
And  on  his  litle  winges  the  dreame  he  bore 
In  hast  unto  his  lord,  where  he  him  left 

afore.      •  396 


1  sense. 


* 
2  anxiety. 


From  Canto  III 


wide 


Nought    is    there    under    heav'ns 

hollownesse, 
That  moves  more   deare   compassion   of 

mind, 
Then  beautie  brought  t'unworthie  wretch- 

ednesse 
Through  envies  snares,  or  fortunes  freakes 

unkind : 
I,  whether  lately  through  her3  brightnes 

blynd,  5 

Or  through  alleageance  and  fast  fealty, 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankynd, 
Feele  my  hart  perst  with  so  great  agony, 
When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pitty  I  could 

dy. 

11 

And  now  it  is  empassioned  so  deepe,  10 

For  fairest  Unaes  sake,  of  whom  I  sing, 
That  my  frayle  eies  these  lines  with  teares 

do  steepe, 
To    thinke    how    she    through    guyleful 

handeling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of 

a  king, 
Though  faire  as  ever  living  wight   was 

fay  re,  15 

Though  nor  in  word  nor  deede  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  despayre, 
And  her  dew  loves  deryv'd4  to  that  vile 

witches  shayre. 

in 

Yet  she,  most  faithfull  Ladie,  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  wofull,  solitarie  mayd,  20 

Far  from  all  peoples  preace,5  as  in  exile, 
In  wildernesse  and  wastfull  deserts  strayd, 
To  seeke  her  knight;  who,  subtily  betrayd 
Through  that  late  vision  which  th'  en- 

chaunter  wrought, 
Had    her    abandond.      She,    of    nought 

affrayd,  25 

Through   woods  and   wastnes   wide   him 

daily  sought; 
Yet  wished  tydinges  none  of  him  unto  her 

brought. 

IV 

One  day,  nigh  wearie  of  the  yrksome  way, 
From  her  unhastie  beast  she  did  alight; 


3  i.  e.  beauty's. 


4  diverted. 


6  press,  crowd. 


SPENSER 


57 


And  on  the  grasse  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay, 
In   secrete    shadow,    far   from   all    mens 
sight:  31 

From  her  fayre  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
And  layd  her  stole  aside.  Her  angels  face 
As  the  great  eye  of  heaven  shyned  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  placets 
Did  never  mortall  eye  behold  such  heav- 
enly grace. 


It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood 
A  ramping  lyon  rushed  suddeinly, 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  salvage1  blood. 
Soone  as  the  royall  virgin  he  did  spy,        40 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  attonce  devourd  her  tender  corse;2 
But  to  the  pray  when  as  he  drew  more 

His  bloody  rage  aswaged  with  remorse, 
And,   with   the   sight   amazd,   forgat   his 
furious  forse.  45 

VI 

In  stead  thereof  he  kist  her  wearie  feet, 
And  lickt  her  lilly  hands  with  fawning 

tong, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet.3 
O  how  can  beautie  maister  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong! 
Whose  yielded  pryde  and  proud  submis- 
sion, 51 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked 

long, 
Her  hart  gan  melt  in  great  compassion, 
And  drizling  teares  did  shed  for  pure  affec- 
tion. 

VII 

"The  lyon,  lord  of  everie  beast  in  field,"  55 
Quoth  she,  "his  princely  puissance  doth 

abate, 
And  mightie  proud  to  humble  weake  does 

yield, 
Forgetfull  of  the  hungry  rage,  which  late 
Him  prickt,  in  pittie  of  my  sad  estate: 
But  he,  my  lyon,  and  my  noble  lord,         60 
How  does  he  find  in  cruell  hart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  lov'd  and  ever  most  adord 
As  the  God  of  my  life?  why  hath  he  me 

abhord?" 


1  savage. 


body. 


3  know. 


VIII 

Redounding  teares  did  choke  th'  end  of  her 

plaint, 
Which  softly  ecchoed  from  the  neighbour 

wood;  65 

And  sad  to  see  her  sorrowfull  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  upon  her  gazing  stood; 
With  pittie  calmd,  downe  fell  his  angry 

mood. 
At  last,  in  close  hart  shutting  up  her  payne, 
Arose  the  virgin  borne  of  heavenly  brood, 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  agayne,       71 
To   seeke   her   strayed   champion   if   she 

might  attayne. 

IX 

The  lyon  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  gard 
Of  her  chast  person,  and  a  faythfuli  mate 7 5 
Of  her  sad  troubles  and  misfortunes  hard: 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch 

and  ward, 
And  when  she  wakt,  he  wayted  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepard: 
From  her  fayre  eyes  he  tooke  comman  de- 
ment, 80 
And  ever  by  her  lookes  conceived  her 
intent. 


Canto  XI 

The  knight  with  that  old  Dragon  fights 

Two  days  incessantly: 
The  third  him  overthrowes,  and  gayns 

Most  glorious  victory. 


High  time  now  gan  it  wex  for  Una  fayre, 
To  thinke  of  those  her  captive  parents 

deare, 
And  their  forwasted4  kingdom  to  repayre: 
Whereto    whenas    they    now    approched 

neare, 
With  hartie  wordes  her  knight  she  gan  to 

cheare,  5 

And  in  her  modest  maner  thus  bespake : 
"  Deare  knight,  as  deare  as  ever  knight  was 

deare, 
That  all  these  sorrowes  suffer  for  my  sake, 
High  heven  behold  the  tedious  toyle  ye  for 

me  take! 

1  ravaged. 


58 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


"  Now  are  we  come  unto  my  native  soyle,io 
And  to  the  place  where  all  our  perilles 

dwell; 
Here  hauntes  that  feend,  and  does  his 

dayly  spoyle; 
Therefore  henceforth  bee  at  your  keeping 

well, 
And  ever  ready  for  your  foeman  fell. 
The  sparke  of  noble  corage  now  awake,     1 5 
And  strive  your  excellent  selfe  to  excell: 
That  shall  ye  evermore  renowmed  make 
Above  all  knights  on  earth,  that  batteill 

undertake." 

in 

And    pointing    forth,    "Lo!    yonder    is," 

(said  she) 
"The  brasen  towre,  in  which  my  parents 

deare  20 

For  dread  of  that  huge  feend  emprisond 

be; 
Whom  I  from  far  see  on  the  walles  ap- 

peare, 
Whose  sight  my  feeble  soule  doth  greatly 

cheare : 
And  on  the  top  of  all  I  do  espye 
The  watchman  wayting  tydings  glad  to 

heare ;  25 

That,  O  my  Parents!  might  I  happily 
Unto   you   bring,    to   ease   you   of   your 

misery!" 

IV 

With  that  they  heard  a  roaring  hideous 

sownd, 
That  all  the  ayre  with  terror  filled  wyde, 
And  seemd  uneath1  to  shake  the  stedfast 

ground.  30 

Eftsoones2    that    dreadful    dragon    they 

espyde, 
Where  stretcht  he  lay  upon  the  sunny  side 
Of  a  great  hill,  himselfe  like  a  great  hill. 
But  all  so  soone  as  he  from  far  descry de 
Those  glistring  armes,   that  heven  with 

light  did  fill,  35 

He  rousd  himselfe  full  blyth,  and  hastned 

them  untill. 


Then  badd  the  knight  his  Lady  yede3  aloof, 
And  to  an  hill  herselfe  withdraw  asyde, 


1  almost. 


2  shortly. 


From  whence  she  might  behold  that  bat- 

tailles  proof, 
And  eke  be  safe  from  daunger  far  descry  de: 
She  him  obayd,  and  turned  a  little  wyde .41 
Now,  O  thou  sacred  Muse!  most  learned 

dame, 
Fayre  ympe4  of   Phcebus  and  his   aged 

bryde, 
The  nourse  of  time  and  everlasting  fame, 
That  warlike  handes  ennoblest  with  im-  I 

mortall  name;  45 

I 

O  gently  come  into  my  feeble  brest; 
Come  gently,  but  not  with  that  mightie 

rage, 
Wherewith  the  martiall  troupes  thou  doest 

infest, 
And  hartes  of  great  heroes  doest  enrage, 
That  nought   their  kindled   corage   may 

as  wage :  50 

Soone  as  thy  dreadfull  trompe  begins  to 

sownd, 
The  god  of  warre  with  his  fiers  equipage 
Thou  doest   awake,   sleepe   never   he   so 

sownd; 
And    scared    nations    doest    with    horror 

sterne  astownd. 


VII 

Fayre    goddesse,    lay    that    furious    fitt 

asyde,  55 

Till  I  of  warres  and  bloody  Mars  doe  sing, 
And   Bryton  fieldes  with   Sarazin  blood 

bedyde, 
Twixt    that    great    Faery    Queene    and 

Paynim  King, 
That  with  their  horror  heven  and  earth 

did  ring, 
A    worke   of   labour   long,    and   endlesse 

prayse:  60 

But  now  a  while  lett  downe  that  haughtie 

string, 
And  to  my  tunes  thy  second  tenor  rayse, 
That  I  this  man  of  God  his  godly  armes 

may  blaze. 

VIII 

By  this  the  dreadful  Beast  drew  nigh  to 

hand, 
Halfe  flying  and  halfe  footing  in  his  haste, 

*  child. 


SPENSER 


59 


That  with  his  largenesse  measured  much 

land,  66 

And  made  wide  shadow  under  his  huge 

waste, 
As  mountaine  doth  the  valley  overcaste. 
Approching  nigh,  he  reared  high  afore 
His  body  monstrous,  horrible,  and  vaste,7o 
Which,  to  increase  his  wondrous  greatnes 

more, 
Was  swoln  with  wrath  and  poyson,  and 

with  bloody  gore. 

IX 

And  over  all  with  brasen  scales  was  armd, 
Like   plated   cote   of   Steele,   so   couched 

neare 
That  nought  mote  perce;  ne  might  his 

corse1  bee  harmd  75 

With  dint  of  swerd,  nor  push  of  pointed 

speare: 
Which  as  an  eagle,  seeing  pray  appeare, 
His  aery  plumes  doth  rouze,  full  rudely 

dight,2 
So  shaked  he,  that  horror  was  to  heare : 
For  as  the  clashing  of  an  armor  bright,     80 
Such  noyse  his  rouzed  scales  did  send  unto 

the  knight. 


His  flaggy  winges,  when  forth  he  did  dis- 
play, 

Were  like  two  sayles,  in  which  the  hollow 
wynd 

Is  gathered  full,  and  worketh  speedy 
way: 

And  eke  the  pennes,3  that  did  his  pineons 
bynd,  85 

Were  like  mayne-yardes  with  flying  can- 
vas lynd, 

With  which  whenas  him  list  the  ayre  to 
beat, 

And  there  by  force  unwonted  passage 
fynd, 

The  cloudes  before  him  fledd  for  terror 
great, 

And  all  the  hevens  stood  still,  amazed 
with  his  threat.  90 

XI 

His  huge  long  tayle,  wownd  up  in  hundred 

foldes, 
Does  overspred  his  long  bras-scaly  back, 


body. 


2  arrayed. 


3  quills. 


Whose  wreathed  boughtes4  when  ever  he 

unfoldes, 
And  thick  entangled  knots  adown  does 

slack, 
Bespotted   as   with   shieldes   of   red   and 

blacke,  95 

It  sweepeth  all  the  land  behind  him  farre, 
And  of  three  furlongs  does  but  litle  lacke; 
And  at  the  point  two  stinges  in  fixed  arre, 
Both  deadly  sharp,  that  sharpest  Steele 

exceeden  farre. 


XII 

But  stinges  and  sharpest  Steele  did  far 

exceed  100 

The  sharpnesse  of  his  cruel  rending  clawes : 
Dead  was  it  sure,   as  sure  as  death  in 

deed, 
What  ever  thing  does  touch  his  ravenous 

pawes, 
Or  what  within  his  reach  he  ever  drawes. 
But  his  most  hideous  head  my  tongue 

to  tell  105 

Does   tremble;   for  his   deepe   devouring 

jawes 
Wyde  gaped,  like  the  griesly  mouth  of  hell, 
Through  which  into  his  darke  abysse  all 

ravin  fell. 

XIII 

And,  that  more  wondrous  was,  in  either 

jaw 
Three  ranckes  of  yron  teeth  enraunged 

were,  no 

In  which  yett  trickling  blood  and  gob- 
bets5 raw 
Of  late  devoured  bodies  did  appeare, 
That  sight  thereof  bredd  cold  congealed 

feare: 
Which  to  increase,  and  all  atonce  to  kill, 
A  cloud  of  smoothering  smoke  and  sul- 

phure  seare6  115 

Out  of  his  stinking  gorge  forth  steemed 

still, 
That  all  the  ayre  about  with  smoke  and 

stench  did  fill. 

xiv 

His  blazing  eyes,  like  two  bright  shining 
shieldes, 

Did  burne  with  wrath,  and  sparkled  liv- 
ing fyre; 

4  coils.  6  pieces.  6  searing. 


6o 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


As  two  broad  beacons,  sett  in  open  fieldes, 
Send  forth  their  flames  far  off  to  every 
shyre,  121 

And  warning  give  that  enimies  conspyre 
With  fire  and  sword  the  region  to  invade: 
So  flam'd  his  eyne  with  rage  and  rancor- 
ous yre; 
But  far  within,  as  in  a  hollow  glade,  125 
Those  glaring  lampes  were  sett  that  made 
a  dreadfull  shade. 

xv 
So  dreadfully  he  towardes  him  did  pas, 
Forelifting  up  a-loft  his  speckled  brest, 
And  often  bounding  on  the  brused  gras, 
As   for    great   joyance    of    his    newcome 

guest.  13° 

Eftsoones  he  gan  advaunce  his  haughty 

crest, 
As  chauffed1  bore  his  bristles  doth  up- 

reare ; 
And  shoke  his  scales   to  battaile  ready 

drest, 
That   made   the  Redcrosse   Knight   nigh 

quake  for  feare, 
As  bidding  bold  defyaunce  to  his  foeman 

neare.  135 

xvi 
The  knight  gan  fayrely  couch  his  steady 

speare, 
And   fiersely   ran   at   him   with   rigorous 

might : 
The  pointed  Steele,  arriving  rudely  theare,2 
His  harder  hyde  would  nether  perce  nor 

bight, 
But,  glauncing  by,  foorth  passed  forward 

right.  140 

Yet  sore  amoved  with  so  puissaunt  push, 
The   wrathfull   beast  about   him   turned 

light, 
And  him  so  rudely,  passing  by,  did  brush 
With  his  long  tayle,  that  horse  and  man  to 

ground  did  rush. 

XVII 

Both  horse  and  man  up  lightly  rose 
againe,  145 

And  fresh  encounter  towardes  him  addrest; 

But  th'  ydle  stroke  yet  backe  recoyld  in 
vaine, 

And  found  no  place  his  deadly  point  to 
rest. 


1  angry. 


•  there. 


Exceeding  rage  enflam'd  the  furious  beast, 
To  be  avenged  of  so  great  despight;      150 
For  never  felt  his  imperceable3  brest 
So  wondrous  force  from  hand  of  living 

wight; 
Yet  had  he  prov'd  the  powre  of  many  a 

puissant  knight. 

XVIII 

Then,  with  his  waving  wings  displayed 

wyde, 
Himselfe    up    high    he    lifted    from    the 

ground,  155 

And  with  strong  flight  did  forcibly  divyde 
The  yielding  ayre,  which  nigh  too  feeble 

found 
Her  flitting  parts,  and  element  unsound, 
To  beare  so  great  a  weight:  he,  cutting 

way 
With  his  broad  sayles,  about  him  soared 

round;  160 

At  last,  low  stouping  with  unweldy  sway, 
Snatcht  up  both  horse  and  man,  to  beare 

them  quite  away. 

XIX 

Long  he   them   bore   above   the   subject 

plaine, 
So  far  as  ewghen4  bow  a  shaft  may  send, 
Till  struggling  strong  did  him  at  last  con- 

straine  165 

To  let  them  dovvne  before  his  flightes  end: 
As  hagard  hauke,  presuming  to  contend 
With  hardy  fowle,  above  his  hable  might, 
His   wearie   pounces5   all   in   vaine   doth 

spend 
To   trusse6  the   pray  too   heavy  for  his 

flight;  170 

Which,  comming  down  to  ground,  does 

free  it  selfe  by  fight. 

xx 

He  so  disseized  of  his  gryping  grosse, 
The  knight  his  thrillant7   speare  againe 

assayd 
In  his  bras-plated  body  to  embosse, 
And  three  mens  strength  unto  the  stroake 

he  layd;  175 

Wherewith  the  stifle  beame   quaked,  as 

aflrayd,8 


3  impenetrable. 
»  hold. 


1  yew. 
piercing. 


6  efforts,  struggles. 
8  terrified. 


SPENSER 


61 


And  glauncing  from  his  scaly  necke  did 
glyde 

Close  under  his  left  wing,  then  broad  dis- 
play d: 

The  percing  Steele  there  wrought  a  wound 
full  wyde, 

That  with  the  uncouth1  smart  the  monster 
lowdly  cryde.  180 

XXI 

He  cryde,  as  raging  seas  are  wont  to  rore 
When  wintry  storme  his  wrathful  wreck 

does  threat; 
The    rolling    billowes    beate    the    ragged 

shore, 
As  they  the  earth  would  shoulder  from 

her  seat; 
And  greedy  gulfe  does  gape,  as  he  would 

eat  185 

His  neighbour  element  in  his  revenge : 
Then  gin   the  blustring  brethren  boldly 

threat 
To  move  the  world  from  off  his  stedfast 

henge,2 
And  boystrous  battaile  make,  each  other 

to  avenge. 

XXII 

The   steely  head  stuck  fast  still  in  his 

flesh,  190 

Till  with  his  cruell  clawes  he  snatcht  the 

wood, 
And  quite  a  sunder  broke.    Forth  flowed 

fresh 
A  gushing  river  of  blacke  gory  blood, 
That  drowned  all  the  land  whereon  he 

stood: 
The  streame  thereof  would  drive  a  water- 
mill.  195 
Trebly  augmented  was  his  furious  mood 
With  bitter  sence  of  his  deepe  rooted  ill, 
That  flames  of  fire  he  threw  forth  from 
his  large  nosethril.3 

XXIII 

His  hideous  tayle  then  hurled  he  about, 
And   therewith   all   enwrapt   the   nimble 

thyes  200 

Of  his  froth-fomy  steed,  whose  courage 

stout 
Striving  to  loose  the  knott  that  fast,  him 

tyes, 

1  strange. 

2  hinge;  but  here  meaning  base,  or  foundation. 

3  nostrils. 


Himselfe  in   streighter   bandes   too   rash 

implyes,4 
That  to  the  ground  he  is  perforce  con- 

straynd 
To  throw  his  ryder;  who  can  quickly  ryse 
From  off  the  earth,  with  durty  blood  dis- 

taynd,5  206 

For  that  reprochfull  fall  right  fowly  he 

disdaynd. 

xxiv 

And  fercely  tooke  his  trenchand  blade  in 

hand, 
With  which  he  stroke  so  furious  and  so  fell, 
That  nothing  seemd  the  puissaunce  could 

withstand:  210 

Upon  his  crest  the  hardned  yron  fell; 
But  his  more  hardned  crest  was  armd  so 

well, 
That  deeper  dint   therein  it  would  not 

make; 
Yet  so  extremely  did  the  buffe  him  quell, 
That  from  thenceforth  he  shund  the  like 

to  take,  215 

But,   when  he  saw  them  come,  he  did 

them  still  forsake. 

XXV 

The  knight  was  wroth  to  see  his  stroke 

beguyld, 
And  smot  againe  with  more  outrageous 

might; 
But  backe  againe  the  sparcling  Steele  re- 

coyld, 
And   left   not   any  marke  where   it   did 

light,  220 

As   if   in   adamant   rocke   it   had   beene 

pight.6 
The    beast,    impatient    of    his    smarting 

wound, 
And  of  so  fierce  and  forcible  despight,7 
Thought  with  his  winges  to  stye8  above 

the  ground; 
But  his  late  wounded  wing  unserviceable 

found.  225 

XXVI 

Then,  full  of  griefe  and  anguish  vehement, 
He   lowdly  brayd,   that   like   was   never 

heard; 
And  from  his  wide  devouring  oven  sent 
A  flake  of  fire,  that,  flashing  in  his  beard, 
Him  all  amazd,  and  almost  made  afeard: 


4  involves. 


6  soiled. 


6  struck. 


7  anger.        8  rise. 


62 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


The  scorching  flame  sore  swinged1  all  his 
face,  231 

And  through  his  armour  all  his  body  seard, 
That  he  could  not  endure  so  cruell  cace, 
But  thought  his  armes  to  leave,  and  hel- 
met to  unlace. 

XXVII 

Not  that  great  champion  of  the  antique 

world,  235 

Whom  famous  poetes  verse  so  much  doth 

vaunt, 
And  hath  for  twelve  huge  labours  high 

extold, 
So  many  furies  and  sharpe  fits  did  haunt, 
When  him  the  poysoned  garment  did  en- 

chaunt, 
When  centaures  blood  and  bloody  verses 

charmd,  240 

As    did    this    knight    twelve    thousand 

dolours  daunt, 
Whom  fyrie  Steele  now  burnt,  that  erst 

him  armd; 
That  erst  him  goodly  armd,  now  most  of 

all  him  harmd. 

XXVIII 

Faynt,  wearie,  sore,  emboyled,2  grieved, 

brent,3 
With  heat,  toyle,  wounds,  armes,  smart, 
and  inward  fire,  245 

That  never  man  such  mischiefes  did  tor- 
ment; 
Death  better  were,  death  did  he  oft  desire, 
But  death  will  never  come  when  needes  re- 
quire. 
Whom  so  dismayd  when  that  his  foe  be- 
held, 
He  cast4  to  suffer  him  no  more  respire,0  250 
But  gan  his  sturdy  sterne6  about  to  weld, 
And  him  so  strongly  stroke,  that  to  the 
ground  him  feld. 

XXIX 

It  fortuned  (as  fayre  it  then  befell,) 
Behynd  his  backe,  unweeting,  where  he 

stood, 
Of  auncient  time  there  was  a  springing 

well,  _  _  255 

From  which  fast  trickled  forth  a  silver 

flood, 


singed. 
1  planned. 


2  boiled. 
6  breathe. 


3  burned. 
•  tail. 


Full  of  great  vertues,   and  for  med'eine 

good. 
Whylome,  before  that  cursed  dragon  got 
That  happy  land,  and  all  with  innocent 

blood 
Defyld    those    sacred    waves,    it    rightly 

hot7  260 

The  Well  of  Life,  ne  yet  his8  vertues  had 

forgot. 

XXX 

For  unto  life  the  dead  it  could  restore, 
And  guilt  of  sinfull  crimes  cleane  wash 

away; 
Those  that  with  sicknesse  were  infected 

sore 
It  could  recure ;  and  aged  long  decay       265 
Renew,  as  one  were  borne  that  very  day. 
Both  Silo  this,  and  Jordan,  did  excell, 
And  th'  English  Bath,  and  eke  the  German 

Spau; 
Ne  can  Cephise,  nor  Hebrus,  match  this 

well: 
Into    the    same    the    knight    back    over- 

throwen  fell.  270 

XXXI 

Now  gan  the  golden  Phoebus  for  to  steepe 
His  fierie  face  in  billowes  of  the  west, 
And  his  faint   steedes  watred  in   ocean 

deepe, 
Whiles  from  their  journall  labours  they 

did  rest, 
When  that  infernall  monster,  having  kest9 
His  wearie  foe  into  that  living  well,          276 
Gan  high  advaunce  his  broad  discoloured 

brest 
Above  his  wonted  pitch,  with  countenance 

fell, 
And  clapt  his  yron  wings,  as  victor  he  did 

dwell. 

xxxn 

Which  when  his  pensive  lady  saw  from 

farre,  280 

Great  woe  and  sorrow  did  her  soule  assay,10 
As  weening  that  the  sad  end  of  the  warre, 
And  gan  to  highest  God  entirely  pray 
That  feared  chaunce  from  her  to  turne 

away : 
With  folded  hands,  and  knees  full  lowly 

bent,  285 

All  night  shee  watcht,  ne  once  adowne 

would  lay 

7  was  called.  8  its.  9  cast.  10  afflict. 


SPENSER 


63 


Her  dainty  limbs  in  her  sad  dreriment, 
But  praying  still  did  wake,  and  waking  did 
lament. 

XXXIII 

The  morrow  next  gan  earely  to  appeare, 
That  Titan  rose  to  runne  his  daily  race 5290 
But  earely,  ere  the  morrow  next  gan  reare 
Out  of  the  sea  faire  Titans  deawy  face, 
Up  rose  the  gentle  virgin  from  her  place, 
And  looked  all  about,  if  she  might  spy 
Her  loved  knight  to  move  his  manly  pace: 
For  she  had  great  doubt  of  his  safety,  296 
Since  late   she  saw   him   fall   before   his 


emmy. 


xxxiv 


At  last  she  saw  where  he  upstarted  brave 
Out  of  the  well,  wherein  he  drenched  lay: 
As  eagle,  fresh  out  of  the  ocean  wave,  300 
Where  he  hath  lefte  his  plumes  all  hory 

gray, 
And  deckt  himselfe  with  fethers  youthly 

gay, 

Like   eyas   hauke   up   mounts   unto   the 

skies, 
His  newly-budded  pineons  to  assay, 
And  marveiles  at  himselfe  stil  as  he  flies: 
So  new  this  new-borne  knight  to  battell 

new  did  rise.  306 

XXXV 

Whom  when  the  damned  feend  so  fresh 

did  spy 
No  wonder  if  he  wondred  at  the  sight. 
And  doubted  whether  his  late  enimy 
It  were,  or  other  new  supplied  knight.     310 
He  now,  to  prove  his  late-renewed  might, 
High  brandishing  his  bright  deaw-burning 

blade, 
Upon  his  crested  scalp  so  sore  did  smite, 
That  to  the  scull  a  yawning  wound  it 

made: 
The  deadly  dint  his  dulled  sences  all  dis- 

maid.  315 

xxxvi 

I  wote1  not  whether  the  revenging  Steele 
Were  hardned  with  that  holy  water  dew 
Wherein  he  fell,  or  sharper  edge  did  feele, 
Or  his  baptized  hands  now  greater  grew, 
Or  other  secret  vertue  did  ensew;  320 

Els  never  could  the  force  of  fleshly  arme, 
Ne  molten  mettall,  in  his  blood  embrew;2 

1  know.  2  stain  itself. 


For  till  that  stownd3  could  never  wight 

him  harme 
By  subtil ty,  nor  slight,  nor  might,   nor 

mighty  charme. 

xxx  VII 

The  cruell  wound  enraged  him  so  sore,    325 
That  loud  he  yelled  for  exceeding  paine; 
As  hundred  ramping  lions  seemd  to  rore, 
Whom  ravenous  hunger  did  thereto  con- 

straine : 
Then   gan   he   tosse   aloft   his   stretched 

traine, 
And  therewith  scourge  the  buxome4  aire 

so  sore,  330 

That  to  his  force  to  yielden  it  was  faine; 
Ne  ought  his  sturdy  strokes  might  stand 

afore, 
That  high  trees  overthrew,  and  rocks  in 

peeces  tore. 

XXXVIII 

The    same    advauncing    high    above    his 

head, 
With  sharpe  intended5  sting  so  rude  him 

smott,6  335 

That  to  the  earth  him  drove,  as  stricken 

dead; 
Ne  living  wight  would  have  him  life  be- 

hott: 
The  mortall  sting  his  angry  needle  shott 
Quite    through    his    shield,    and    in    his 

shoulder  seasd,7 
Where  fast  it  stucke,  ne  would  thereout  be 

gott:  340 

The   griefe    thereof   him    wondrous    sore 

diseasd, 
Ne  might  his  rancling  paine  with  patience 

be  appeasd. 

XXXIX 

But   yet,  more   mindfull    of   his   honour 

deare 
Then  of  the  grievous  smart  which  him  did 

wring, 
From  loathed   soile  he  can   him   lightly 

reare,  _ 345 

And  strove  to  loose  the  far  infixed  sting: 
Which  when  in  vaine  he  tryde  with  strug- 

geling, 


3  moment. 
6  smote. 


1  yielding. 


6  outstretched. 

7  fastened. 


64 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Inflam'd  with  wrath,  his  raging  blade  he 

hefte,1 
And  strooke  so  strongly,  that  the  knotty 

string 
Of  his  huge  taile  he  quite  a  sonder  clefte; 
Five  joints  thereof  he  hewd,  and  but  the 

stump  him  lefte.  35 x 

XL 

Hart   cannot    thinke   what   outrage  and 

what  cries, 
With  fowle  enfouldred2  smoake  and  flash- 
ing fire, 
The  hell-bred  beast  threw  forth  unto  the 
skies,  354 

That  all  was  covered  with  darknesse  dire: 
Then,  fraught3  with  rancour  and  en- 
gorged yre, 
He  cast4  at  once  him  to  avenge  for  all, 
And,  gathering  up  himselfe  out  of  the  mire 
With  his  uneven  wings,  did  fiercely  fall 
Upon  his  sunne-bright  shield,  and  grypt  it 
fast  withall.  360 

XLI 

Much  was  the  man  encombred  with  his 

hold, 
In  feare  to  lose  his  weapon  in  his  paw, 
Ne  wist5  yett  how  his  talaunts6  to  un- 
fold; 
Nor  harder  was  from  Cerberus  greedy  jaw 
To  plucke  a  bone,  then  from  his  cruell 
claw  365 

To   reave   by   strength   the  griped   gage 

away: 
Thrise  he  assayd  it  from  his  foote  to  draw, 
And  thrise  in  vaine  to  draw  it  did  assay; 
It  booted  nought  to  thinke  to  robbe  him 
of  his  pray. 

XLII 

Tho,7  when  he  saw  no  power  might  pre- 
vaile,  37° 

His  trusty  sword  he  cald  to  his  last  aid, 
Wherewith  he  fiersly  did  his  foe  assaile, 
And  double  blowes  about  him  stoutly  laid, 
That  glauncing  fire  out  of  the  yron  plaid, 
As  sparkles  from  the  andvile  use  to  fly,  375 
When  heavy  hammers  on  the  wedge  are 

swaid; 
Therewith  at  last  he  forst  him  to  unty 
One  of  his  grasping  feete,  him  to  defend 
thereby. 

1  raised.  2  black  as  a  thunderbolt.  3  filled. 

4  planned.  5  knew.  6  talons.  'then. 


XLIII 

The  other  foote,  fast  fixed  on  his  shield, 
Whenas   no   strength   nor   stroks   mote8 

him  constraine  380 

To  loose,  ne  yet  the  warlike  pledge  to 

yield, 
He  smott  thereat  with  all  his  might  and 

maine, 
That    nought    so    wondrous    puissaunce 

might  sustaine: 
Upon  the  joint  the  lucky  Steele  did  light, 
And  made  such  way  that  hewd  it  quite 

in  twaine;  385 

The  paw   yett  missed   not  his   minisht9 

might, 
But  hong  still  on  the  shield,  as  it  at  first 

was  pight.10 

XLIV 

For  griefe  thereof  and  divelish  despight,11 
From    his    infernall    fournace    forth    he 

threw 
Huge  flames,  that  dimmed  all  the  hevens 

light,  390 

Enrold  in  duskish  smoke  and  brimstone 

blew; 
As  burning  Aetna  from  his  boyling  stew12 
Doth   belch   out   flames,   and   rockes   in 

peeces  broke, 
And   ragged  ribs  of  mountaines  molten 

new, 
Enwrapt  in  coleblacke  clowds  and  filthy 

smoke,  395 

That  al  the  land  with  stench,  and  heven 

with  horror  choke. 

XLV 

The   heate  whereof,  and  harmefull  pes- 
tilence, 
So  sore  him  noyd,13  that  forst  him  to  re- 
tire 
A  little  backeward  for  his  best  defence, 
To    save   his   body    from    the    scorching 
fire,  400 

Which  he  from  hellish  entrailes  did  ex- 
pire. 
It  chaunst,   (Eternall  God  that  chaunce 

did  guide) 
As  he  recoiled  backeward,  in  the  mire 
His  nigh  foreweried14  feeble  feet  did  slide, 
And  downe  he  fell,  with  dread  of  shame 
sore  terrifide.  405 


8  might. 

» diminished. 

10  placed. 

11  anger. 

12  hot  room. 

13  annoyed. 

14  wearied  out 

SPENSER 


65 


XL  VI 

There  grew  a  goodly  tree  him  faire  beside, 
Loaden  with  fruit  and  apples  rosy  redd, 
As  they  in  pure  vermilion  had  been  dide, 
Whereof    great    vertues    over    all1    were 

redd;2 
For  happy  life  to  all  which  thereon  fedd,4io 
And  life  eke  everlasting  did  befall: 
Great    God   it   planted   in    that   blessed 

stedd3 
With  his  Almighty  hand,  and  did  it  call 
The  Tree  of  Life,  the  crime  of  our  first 

fathers  fall. 

XLVII 

In  all  the  world  like  was  not  to  be  fownd, 
Save  in  that  soile,  where  all  good  things 

did  grow,  416 

And   freely   sprong   out   of   the   fruitfull 

grownd, 
As  incorrupted  Nature  did  them  sow, 
Till  that  dredd  dragon  all  did  overthrow. 
Another  like  faire  tree  eke  grew  thereby ,420 
Whereof  whoso  did  eat,  eftsoones  did  know 
Both  good  and  ill:  O  mournfull  memory! 
That  tree  through  one  mans  fault  hath 

doen4  us  all  to  dy. 

XLVIII 

From  that  first  tree  forth  flowd,  as  from 

a  well, 
A  trickling  streame  of  balme,  most  so- 

veraine  425 

And  dainty  deare,  which  on  the  ground 

still  fell, 
And  overflowed  all  the  fertile  plaine, 
As  it  had  deawed  bene  with  timely  raine: 
Life  and  long  health  that  gracious  oint- 
ment gave, 
And    deadly    wounds    could    heale,    and 

reare  againe  430 

The  sencelesse  corse   appointed   for  the 

grave. 
Into  that  same  he  fell,  which  did  from 

death  him  save. 

XLIX 

For  nigh  thereto  the  ever  damned  beast 
Durst  not  approch,   for  he  was   deadly 

made, 
And  al  that  life  preserved  did  detest;    435 
Yet  he  it  oft  adventur'd  to  invade. 


1  everywhere. 


2  told. 


1  place. 


4  caused. 


By  this  the  drouping  day-light  gan  to  fade, 
And  yield  his  rowme5  to  sad  succeeding 

night, 
Who  with  her  sable  mantle  gan  to  shade 
The  face  of  earth,  and  wrayes  of  living 

wight,  440 

And  high  her  burning  torch  set   up  in 

heaven  bright. 


When  gentle  Una  saw  the  second  fall 

Of  her  deare  knight,  who,  weary  of  long 

fight 
And  faint  through  losse  of  blood,  moov'd 

not  at  all, 
But  lay,  as  in  a  dreame  of  deepe  delight,  445 
Besmeard    with    pretious    balme,    whose 

vertuous6  might 
Did   heale   his   woundes,    and   scorching 

heat  alay, 
Againe  she  stricken  was  with  sore  affright. 
And  for  his  safetie  gan  devoutly  pray, 
And  watch  the  noyous7  night,  and  wait 

for  joyous  day.  450 

LI 

The  joyous  day  gan  early  to  appeare; 
And  fayre  Aurora  from  the  deawy  bed 
Of  aged  Tithone  gan  herselfe  to  reare 
With  rosy  cheekes,  for  shame  as  blushing 

red: 
Her  golden  locks  for  hast  were  loosely 

shed  455 

About  her  eares,  when  Una  her  did  marke 
Clymbe  to  her  charet,  all  with   flowers 

spred, 
From  heven  high  to  chace  the  chearelesse 

darke; 
With   mery   note   her   lowd   salutes   the 

mounting  larke. 

LII 

Then    freshly    up    arose    the    doughty 
knight,  460 

All  healed  of  his  hurts  and  woundes  wide, 
And  did  himselfe  to  battaile  ready  dight;8 
Whose  early  foe  awaiting  him  beside 
To  have  devourd,  so  soone  as  day  he  spyde, 
WThen  now  he  saw  himselfe  so  freshly 
reare,  465 

As  if  late  fight  had  nought  him  damni- 
fy de, 

6  place.        6  efficacious.         7  grievous.         8  make  ready. 


66 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


He  woxe1  dismaid,  and  gan  his  fate  to 

feare; 
Nathlesse  with  wonted  rage  he  him  ad- 

vaunced  neare. 


LIII 

And  in  his  first  encounter,  gaping  wyde, 
He  thought  attonce2  him  to  have  swal- 

lowd  quight,  470 

And    rusht    upon    him    with    outragious 

pryde; 
Who  him  rencountring  fierce,  as  hauke  in 

flight, 
Perforce   rebutted   backe.     The   weapon 

bright, 
Taking  advantage  of  his  open  jaw, 
Ran  through  his  mouth  with  so  impor- 
tune3 might,  475 
That  deepe  emperst4  his  darksom  hollow 

maw, 
And,  back  retyrd,5  his  life  blood  forth  with 

all  did  draw. 

LIV 

So  downe  he  fell,  and  forth  his  life  did 

breath, 
That    vanisht    into    smoke    and    cloudes 

swift; 
So  downe  he  fell,  that  th'  earth  him  under- 
neath 480 
Did   grone,   as   feeble   so   great   load   to 

lift; 
So  downe  he  fell,  as  an  huge  rocky  clift, 
Whose  false  foundacion  waves  have  washt 

away, 
With  dreadfull  poyse6  is  from  the  mayne- 

land  rift,7 
And,  rolling  downe,  great  Neptune  doth 

dismay;  485 

So   downe  he   fell,   and   like   an   heaped 

mountaine  lay. 

LV 

The  knight  him  selfe  even  trembled  at 

his  fall, 
So  huge  and  horrible  a  masse  it  seemd; 
And  his  deare  Lady,  that  beheld  it  all, 
Durst  not  approch  for  dread  which  she 

misdeemd;  490 

But  yet  at  last,  whenas  the  direfull  feend 


1  grew. 

2  at  once. 

3  impetuous. 

4  pierced. 

6  withdrawn 

8  force. 

7  broken. 

She  saw  not  stirre,  off-shaking  vaine  af- 
fright 

She  nigher  drew,  and  saw  that  joyous 
end: 

Then  God  she  praysd,  and  thankt  her 
faithfull  knight, 

That  had  atchievde  so  great  a  conquest 
by  his  might.  495 


PROTHALAMION 

Calme  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trem- 
bling ayre 
Sweete    breathing    Zephyrus    did    softly 

play, 
A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 
Hot  Titans  beames,  which  then  did  glyster 

fay  re : 
When  I,  whom  sullein  care,  5 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitlesse 

stay 
In  princes  court,  and  expectation  vayne 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away, 
Like    empty    shaddowes,    did    aflict    my 

brayne, 
Walkt  forth  to  ease  my  payne  10 

Along    the    shoare    of    silver    streaming 

Themmes; 
Whose  rutty8  bancke,  the  which  his  river 

hemmes, 
Was  paynted  all  with  variable  flowers, 
And  all  the  meades  adornd  with  daintie 

gemmes, 
Fit  to  decke  maydens  bowres,  1 5 

And  crowne  their  paramours, 
Against   the  brydale  day,  which  is  not 

long:9 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I 

end  my  song. 

There,  in  a  meadow,  by  the  rivers  side, 
A  flocke  of  nymphes  I  chaunced  to  espy,  20 
All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 
With  goodly  greenish  locks  all  loose  un- 

tyde, 
As  each  had  bene  a  bryde: 
And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket, 
Made  of  fine  twigs  entrayled  curiously,     25 
In  which  they  gathered  flowers  to  fill  their 

flasket; 
And  with  fine  fingers  cropt  full  feateously10 
The  tender  stalkes  on  hye. 


;  rooty. 


9  distant. 


10  deftly. 


SPENSER 


67 


Of  every  sort,  which  in  that  meadow  grew, 
They   gathered   some;    the   violet   pallid 

blew,  30 

The  little  dazie,  that  at  evening  closes, 
The  virgin  lillie,  and  the  primrose  trew, 
With  store  of  vermeil  roses, 
To  decke  their  bridegromes  posies 
Against  the  brydale  day,  which  was  not 

long:  _    35 

Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I 

end  my  song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  swannes  of  goodly 

hewe 
Come  softly  swimming  downe  along  the 

lee;1 
Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see : 
The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus 

strew  40 

Did  never  whiter  shew, 
Nor  Jove  himselfe,  when  he  a  swan  would 

be 
For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear: 
Yet  Leda  was,  they  say,  as  white  as  he, 
Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing 

neare :  45 

So  purely  white  they  were, 
That  even  the  gentle  streame,  the  which 

them  bare, 
Seem'd  foule  to  them,  and  bad  his  bil- 

lowes  spare 
To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  least  they 

might 
Soyle  their  fayre  plumes  with  water  not  so 

fayre,  50 

And  marre  their  beauties  bright, 
That  shone  as  heavens  light, 
Against  their  brydale  day,  which  was  not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I 

end  my  song. 

Eftsoones  the  nymphes,  which  now  had 

flowers  their  fill,  55 

Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood, 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  christal  flood ; 
Whom  when  they  sawe,  they  stood  amazed 

still, 
Their  wondring  eyes  to  fill. 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so 

fayre,  60 

Of  fowles  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did 

deeme 


Them  heavenly  borne,  or  to  be  that  same 

payre 
Which  through  the  skie  draw  Venus  silver 

teeme; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seeme 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seede,  65 

But  rather  angels  or  of  angels  breede: 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  Somers-heat,  they 

say, 
In  sweetest  season,  when  each  flower  and 

weede 
The  earth  did  fresh  aray; 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day,  70 

Even  as  their  brydale  day,  which  was  not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 

my  song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets 

drew 
Great  store  of  flowers,  the  honour  of  the 

field, 
That  to   the  sense  did  fragrant   odours 

yeild,  75 

All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they 

threw, 
And  all  the  waves  did  strew, 
That   like   old   Peneus   waters   they   did 

seeme, 
When  downe  along  by  pleasant  Tempes 

shore, 
Scattred  with  flowres,  through  Thessaly 

they  streeme,  80 

That  they  appeare,  through  lillies  plen- 
teous store, 
Like  a  brydes  chamber  flore. 
Two  of  those  nymphes,  meane  while,  two 

garlands  bound 
Of  freshest  flowres  which  in  that  mead 

they  found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array,     85 
Their  snowie  foreheads  therewithal!  they 

crownd, 
Whil'st  one  did  sing  this  lay, 
Prepar'd  against  that  day, 
Against  their  brydale  day,  which  was  not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 

my  song.  90 

"Ye  gentle  birdes,  the  worlds  faire  orna- 
ment, 

And  heavens  glorie,  whom  this  happie 
hower 


68 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Doth    leade    unto    your    lovers    blissfull 

bower, 
Joy  may  you  have  and  gentle  hearts  con- 
tent 
Of  your  loves  couplement:  95 

And  let  faire  Venus,  that  is  Queene  of 

Love, 
With  her  heart-quelling  sonne  upon  you 

smile, 
Whose  smile,   they  say,  hath  vertue  to 

remove 
All  loves  dislike,  and  friendships  faultie 

guile 
For  ever  to  assoile.  100 

Let  endlesse  peace  your  steadfast  hearts 

accord, 
And  blessed  plentie  wait  upon  your  bord; 
And  let   your  bed  with  pleasures  chast 

abound, 
That  fruitfull  issue  may  to  you  afford, 
Which  may  your  foes  confound,  105 

And  make  your  joyes  redound, 
Upon  your  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  run  softlie,  till  I  end 

my  song." 

So  ended  she;  and  all  the  rest  around 

To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong,      1 1  o 

Which  said,  their  bridale  daye  should  not 

be  long. 
And   gentle   Eccho   from   the   neighbour 

ground 
Their  accents  did  resound. 
So  forth  those  joyous  birdes  did  passe 

along, 
Adowne  the  lee,  that  to  them  murmurde 

low,  115 

As  he  would  speake,  but  that  he  lackt  a 

tong, 
Yeat  did  by  signes  his  glad  affection  show, 
Making  his  streame  run  slow. 
And  all  the  foule  which  in  his  flood  did 

dwell 
Gan  flock  about  these  twaine,  that  did  ex- 
cell  120 
The  rest  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend1 
The  lesser  starres.    So  they,  enranged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend, 
And  their  best  service  lend, 
Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not 

long:  125 

Sweete  Themmes,  run  softly,  till  I  end 

my  song. 

1  shame. 


At  length  they  all  to  mery  London  came, 
To  mery  London,  my  most  kyndly  nurse, 
That   to  me  gave  this  lifes  first  native 

sourse: 
Though  from  another  place  I   take  my 

name,  130 

An  house  of  auncient  fame. 
There   when   they   came,   whereas   those 

bricky  towres, 
The  which  on  Themmes  brode  aged  backe 

doe  ryde, 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their 

bowers, 
There  whylome  wont  the  Templer  Knights 

to  byde,  135 

Till  they  decayd  through  pride: 
Next  whereunto  there  standes  a  stately 

place, 
Where   oft    I    gayned  giftes  and  goodly 

grace 
Of  that  great  lord  which  therein  wont  to 

dwell, 
Whose    want    too    well    now    feeles    my 

freendles  case:  140 

But  ah!  here  fits  not  well 
Olde  woes,  but  joyes  to  tell, 
Against  the  bridale  daye,  which  is  not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 

my  song. 

Yet    therein    now   doth    lodge    a    noble 

peer,  145 

Great  Englands  glory  and  the  worlds  wide 

wonder, 
Whose  dreadfull   name  late  through  all 

Spaine  did  thunder, 
And  Hercules  two  pillors  standing  neere 
Did  make  to  quake  and  feare. 
Faire  branch  of  honor,  flower  of  chevalrie, 
That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumphes 

fame,  151 

Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victorie, 
And  endlesse  happinesse  of  thine  owne 

name 
That  promise th  the  same: 
That  through  thy  prowesse  and  victorious 

armes  155 

Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  forraine 

harmes; 
And   great    Elisaes    glorious    name   may 

ring 
Through  al  the  world,  fil'd  with  thy  wide 

alarmes, 


SONNETEERS 


60 


Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 
To  ages  following,  160 

Upon  the  brydale  day,  which  is  not  long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,   till  I 
end  my  song. 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord 

issuing, 
Like    radiant    Hesper    when    his    golden 

hayre 
In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fayre, 
Descended  to  the  rivers  open  vewing,      166 
With  a  great  traine  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  bee  seene 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and 

feature, 
Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  anie  queene, 
With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  na- 
ture, 171 
Fit  for  so  goodly  stature: 
That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in 

sight, 
Which  decke  the  bauldricke  of  the  heavens 

bright. 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  rivers  side, 
Received  those  two  faire  brides,  their  loves 

delight,  176 

Which,  at  th'  appointed  tyde, 
Each  one  did  make  his  bryde, 
Against  their  brydale  day,  which  is  not 

long: 
Sweete  Themmes,  runne  softly,  till  I  end 

my  song.  180 


ELIZABETHAN   SONNETEERS 

SIR  THOMAS  WYATT  (1503?-1542) 

THE  LOVER  COMPARETH  HIS 
STATE  TO  A  SHIP  IN  PERILOUS 
STORM  TOSSED  ON  THE  SEA 

My  galley,  charged  with  forgetfulness, 
Thorough   sharp   seas,    in   winter   nights 

doth  pass, 
'Tween   rock   and   rock;    and   eke   mine 

enemy,  alas, 
That  is  my  lord,  steereth  with  cruelness; 
And  every  oar,  a  thought  in  readiness,        5 
As  though  that  death  were  light  in  such  a 

case; 
An  endless  wind  doth  tear  the  sail  apace 
Of  forced  sighs  and  trusty  fearfulness; 


A  rain  of  tears,  a  cloud  of  dark  disdain, 

Hath  done  the  wearied  cords  great  hin- 
derance;  10 

Wreathed  with  error  and  eke  with  igno- 
rance, 

The  stars  be  hid  that  led  me  to  this  pain; 
Drowned  is  Reason,  that  should  me 

comfort ; 
And  I  remain,  despairing  of  the  port. 


HENRY    HOWARD,    EARL    OF 
SURREY    (1517?-1547) 

DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING,  WHERE- 
IN EACH  THING  RENEWS,  SAVE 
ONLY  THE  LOVER 

The  soote1  season  that  bud  and  bloom 

forth  brings, 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill  and  eke  the 

vale; 
The   nightingale   with   feathers   new   she 

sings; 
The  turtle  to  her  make2  hath  told  her  tale : 
Summer  is  come,   for  every  spray  now 

springs;  5 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the 

pale; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter   coat  he 

flings; 
The  fishes  flete3  with  new  repaired  scale; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings; 
The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings.4  n 
Winter  is  worn,  that  was  the  flowers'  bale: 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant 

things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow 


springs 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1686) 
From  ASTROPHEL  AND  STELLA 


Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse  my  love 

to  show, 
That    she,    dear    she,    might    take    some 

pleasure  of  my  pain, — 


1  sweet. 
3  float. 


2  mate. 
4  mixes. 


7° 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Pleasure  might  cause  her  read,   reading 
might  make  her  know. 

Knowledge  might  pity  win,  and  pity  grace 
obtain, — 

I  sought  fit  words  to  paint  the  blackest 
face  of  woe,  5 

Studying  inventions  fine,  her  wits  to  enter- 
tain, 

Oft  turning  others'  leaves,  to  see  if  thence 
would  flow 

Some  fresh  and  fruitful  showers  upon  my 
sunburned  brain. 

But  words  came  halting  forth,  wanting 
Invention's  stay; 

Invention,  Nature's  child,  fled  step-dame 
Study's  blows;  10 

And  others'  feet  still  seemed  but  strangers 
in  my  way. 

Thus,  great  with  child  to  speak,  and  help- 
less in  my  throes, 
Biting  my  truant  pen,  beating  myself 

for  spite; 
"Fool,"  said  my  Muse  to  me,  "  look  in 
thy  heart,  and  write!" 

XXXI 

With    how    sad    steps,    O    Moon,    thou 

climb'st  the  skies! 
How    silently,    and    with    how    wan    a 

face! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly 

place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries! 
Sure,    if    that    long-with-love-acquainted 

eyes  5 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's 

case; 
I  read  it  in   thy  looks:   thy  languished 

grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  de- 
scries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell 

me 
Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of 

wit?  io 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they 

be? 
Do   they   above   love   to  be   loved,   and 

yet 
Those    lovers    scorn   whom    that    love 

doth  possess? 
Do  they  call   virtue  there  ungrateful- 
ness? 


xxxix 

Come,  Sleep!  0  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 
peace, 

The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of 
woe, 

The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  re- 
lease, 

Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and 
low; 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out 
the  prease1  5 

Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth 
throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 
Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest 

bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of   noise  and  blind  of 

light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head :  1 1 

And  if   these   things,  as   being  thine  in 

right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt 

in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image 

see. 

XLI 

Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my 

lance 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtained  the  prize, 
Both   by   the   judgment   of    the   English 

eyes 
And  of  some  sent  from  that  sweet  enemy 

France; 
Horsemen    my     skill     in     horsemanship 

advance,  5 

Town  folks  my  strength;  a  daintier  judge 

applies 
His  praise  to  sleight  which  from  good  use 

doth  rise; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
My  blood  from  them  who  did  excel  in 

this,  10 

Think    Nature    me    a    man-at-arms    did 

make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry!  the  true  cause 

is, 
Stella  looked  on,  and  from  her  heavenly 

face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so 

fair  my  race. 

1  press,  throng. 


SONNETEERS 


7i 


EDMUND  SPENSER  (1552?  1599) 
From  AMORETTI 

XXIV 

When  I  behold  that  beauty's  wonderment, 
And  rare  perfection  of  each  goodly  part, 
Of  nature's  skill  the  only  complement, 
I  honor  and  admire  the  Maker's  art. 
But  when  I  feel  the  bitter,  baleful  smart  5 
Which  her  fair  eyes  unwares  do  work  in 

me, 
That  death  out  of  their  shiny  beams  do 

dart, 
I  think  that  I  a  new  Pandora  see: 
Whom  all  the  gods  in  council  did  agree 
Into  this  sinful  world  from  heaven  to  send, 
That  she  to  wicked  men  a  scourge  should 

be,  11 

For  all  their  faults  with  which  they  did 

offend. 
But  since  ye   are   my  scourge,   I  will 

intreat 
That  for  my  faults  ye  will  me  gently 

beat. 

xxxiv 

Like  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  ocean  wide 
By  conduct  of  some  star  doth  make  her 

way, 
Whenas  a  storm  hath  dimmed  her  trusty 

guide, 
Out  of  her  course  doth  wander  far  astray; 
So  I,  whose  star,  that  wont  with  her  bright 
ray  5 

Me  to  direct,  with  clouds  is  overcast, 
Do  wander  now  in  darkness  and  dismay, 
Through  hidden  perils  round  about  me 

placed. 
Yet  hope  I  well,  that  when  this  storm  is 

past, 
My  Helice,  the  lodestar  of  my  life,  10 

Will  shine  again,  and  look  on  me  at  last, 
With  lovely  light  to  clear  my  cloudy  grief ; 
Till   then   I   wander   careful,   comfort- 
less, 
In  secret  sorrow  and  sad  pensiveness. 

LXIII 

After  long  storms  and  tempests'  sad  assay, 
Which  hardly  I  endured  heretofore, 
In   dread  of  death,   and  dangerous  dis- 
may, 


With  which  my  silly  bark  was  tossed  sore, 
I  do  at  length  descry  the  happy  shore,        5 
In  which  I  hope  ere  long  for  to  arrive: 
Fair  soil  it  seems  from  far,  and  fraught 

with  store 
Of  all  that  dear  and  dainty  is  alive. 
Most  happy  he  that  can  at  last  achieve 
The  joyous  safety  of  so  sweet  a  rest ;  10 

Whose  least  delight  sufficeth  to  deprive 
Remembrance  of  all  pains  which  him  op- 
pressed. 
All  pains  are  nothing  in  respect  of  this, 
All    sorrows    short    that    gain    eternal 
bliss. 

LXX 

Fresh  Spring,  the  herald  of  love's  mighty 

king, 
In  whose  coat-armor  richly  are  displayed 
All  sorts  of  flowers  the  which  on  earth  do 

spring, 
In  goodly  colors  gloriously  arrayed; 
Go  to  my  love,  where  she  is  careless  laid, 5 
Yet  in  her  winter's  bower  not  well  awake; 
Tell  her  the  joyous  time  will  not  be  stayed, 
Unless  she  do  him  by  the  forelock  take; 
Bid  her  therefore  herself  soon  ready  make 
To    wait    on    Love    amongst    his    lovely 

crew;  10 

Where  everyone   that  misseth   then  her 

make1 
Shall  be  by  him  amerced2  with  penance 

due. 
Make  haste,  therefore,  sweet  love,  whilst 

it  is  prime; 
For    none    can   call   again   the   passed 

time. 

LXXV 

One   day   I   wrote   her   name   upon    the 

strand, 
But  came  the  waves  and  washed  it  away; 
Again  I  wrote  it  with  a  second  hand, 
But  came  the  tide  and  made  my  pains 

his  prey. 
"Vain  man,"  said  she,  "that  dost  in  vain 
assay  5 

A  mortal  thing  so  to  immortalize: 
For  I  myself  shall  like  to  this  decay, 
And  eke  my  name  be  wiped  out  like- 
wise." 
"Not  "so,"    quoth   I,    "let   baser    things 
devise 

1  mate.  \  2  punished. 


72 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


To  die  in   dust,   but  you   shall   live  by 

fame:  10 

My  verse  your  virtues  rare  shall  eternize. 

And  in  the  heavens  write  your  glorious 

name. 

Where,  when  as  death  shall  all  the  world 

subdue, 
Our    love    shall    live,    and    later    life 


renew. 


LXXIX 


Men  call  you  fair,  and  you  do  credit  it, 
For  that  yourself  ye  daily  such  do  see; 
But  the  true  fair,  that  is  the  gentle  wit 
And  virtuous  mind,  is  much  more  praised 

of  me: 
For  all  the  rest,  however  fair  it  be,  5 

Shall  turn  to  nought  and  lose  that  glorious 

hue; 
But  only  that  is  permanent  and  free 
From  frail  corruption  that  doth  flesh  ensue. 
That  is  true  beauty;  that  doth  argue  you 
To  be  divine,  and  born  of  heavenly  seed;  10 
Derived  from  that  fair  Spirit  from  whom 

all  true 
And  perfect  beauty  did  at  first  proceed: 
He  only  fair,  and  what   he   fair  hath 

made; 
All   other   fair,   like  flowers,    untimely 

fade. 

SAMUEL  DANIEL   (1562-1619) 

CARE-CHARMER  SLEEP 

Care-charmer    Sleep,    son    of    the    sable 

Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born: 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care,  return! 
And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured 
youth:  6 

Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  un- 
truth. 
Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow; 
Never  let  rising  sun  approve  you  liars,  n 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow. 
Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in 

vain ; 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  dis- 
dain. 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON    (1563-1631) 
SINCE  THERE'S  NO  HELP 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and 

part! 
Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of 

me; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad,  with  all  my 

heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free. 
Shake    hands    for    ever,    cancel    all    our 

vows;  5 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows, 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 
Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's   latest 

breath, 
When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless 

lies;  10 

When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of 

death, 
And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, — 
Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have 

given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him 

yet  recover! 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  (1564-1616) 


XVIII 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of 

May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a 

date; 
Sometime    too    hot    the    eye    of    heaven 

shines,  5 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed; 
And  every  fair1  from  fair  sometime  de- 
clines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  un- 

trimmed; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor    lose    possession    of    that    fair    thou 

ow'st;2  10 

Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in 

his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  grow'st: 

1  beauty.  2  ownest 


SONNETEERS 


73 


So  long  as  men  can  breathe  or  eyes  can 

see, 
So  long  lives  this  and  this  gives  life  to 

thee. 

XXIX 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless 

cries, 
And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing   me   like    to   one   more   rich   in 

hope,  5 

Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends 

possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's 

scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de- 
spising, 
Haply   I   think   on   thee,   and   then   my 

state,  10 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's 

gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such 

wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state 

with  kings. 

xxx 

When    to    the    sessions    of    sweet    silent 

thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's 

waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow,  5 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  date- 
less night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since   can- 
celled woe, 
And  moan  the  expense1  of  many  a  vanished 

sight : 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er    10 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 
But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear 

friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

1  loss. 


XXXIII 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain- tops  with  sovereign 

eye, 
Kissing  with   golden   face   the   meadows 

green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  al- 
chemy, 
Anon  permit  the  basest*  clouds  to  ride      5 
With  ugly  rack2  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace: 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With    all-triumphant    splendor    on    my 

brow;  10 

But  out,  alack!  he  was  but  one  hour  mine; 
The  region3  cloud  hath  masked  him  from 

me  now. 
Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  dis- 

daineth ; 
Suns   of   the   world   may   stain,    when 

heaven's  sun  staineth. 

LXIV 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  de- 
faced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  age; 
When  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down- 
razed, 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage; 
When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain  5 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss  and  loss  with 

store; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of 

state, 
Or  state  itself  confounded  to  decay;        10 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate. 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  love 
away. 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  can- 
not choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to 
lose. 

LXV 

Since   brass,    nor   stone,   nor   earth,    nor 

boundless  sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'er-sways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a 

plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower? 


1  broken  masses  of  flying  cloud. 


3  of  the  upper  air. 


74 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


O,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold 
out  5 

Against  the   wrackful   siege   of  batt'ring 
days, 

When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout, 

Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  de- 
cays? 

O  fearful  meditation!  where,  alack, 

Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest 
lie  hid?  10 

Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift 
foot  back? 

Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid? 
O,  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine 
bright. 

LXVI 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I 

cry: 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimmed  in  jollity, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 
And  gilded  honor  shamefully  misplaced,  5 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 
And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority,  ' 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill,     10 
And  simple  truth  miscalled  simplicity,1 
And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill. 
Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I 

be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone. 

LXXI 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to 

dwell : 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not    5 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be 

forgot 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you 

woe. 
O,  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When   I  perhaps  compounded  am   with 
clay,  10 

Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  re- 
hearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay, 

■  folly. 


Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into 

your  moan 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

LXXIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  be- 
hold 

When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do 
hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 
the  cold, 

Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet 
birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day  5 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west; 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take 
away, 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in 
rest. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of   such 
fire 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie,     1  o 

As   the  death-bed  whereon  it   must  ex- 
pire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nour- 
ished by. 
This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy 

love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave 
ere  long. 

xcvni 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied2  April  dressed  in  all  his 

trim 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped 

with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds  nor  the  sweet 

smell  5 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where 

they  grew; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  de- 
light, 11 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,   and,   you 

away, 
As  with  your  shadow,  I  with  these  did 

play. 

2  gorgeously  variegated. 


SONG  WRITERS 


75 


cvi 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead  and  lovely  knights; 
Then,   in   the  blazon  of    sweet  beauty's 
best,  5 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  ex- 
pressed 
Even  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 
So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring;         10 
And,  for  they  looked  but  with  divining 

eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to 
sing: 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present 

days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues 
to  praise. 

cxvi 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.    Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 
0,  no !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark  5 

That   looks   on    tempests    and    is   never 

shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wand'ring  bark, 
Whose   worth's    unknown,    although    his 

height  be  taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips 

and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and 

weeks,  1 1 

But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

CXLVT 

Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth, 
Thrall  to  these  rebel  powers   that   thee 

array, 
Why  dost   thou   pine  within   and  suffer 

dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 
Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 5 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge?    Is  this  thy  body's  end? 


Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's 

loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store ;io 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 
So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds 

on  men, 
And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more 
dying  then. 

ELIZABETHAN  SONG  WRITERS 

ANONYMOUS 

BACK    AND    SIDE    GO    BARE,    GO 
BARE 

Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare, 
Both  hand  and  foot  go  cold; 

But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale 
enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I  cannot  eat  but  little  meat,  5 

My  stomach  is  not  good; 
But  sure  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothing  a-cold;  10 

I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side,  etc. 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nutbrown  toast, 

And  a  crab1  laid  in  the  fire;  15 

A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead, 

Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  nor  snow,  no  wind,  I  trow, 

Can  hurt  me  if  it  would, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throughly  lapt  20 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side,  etc. 

And  Tib  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  ye  may  see  25 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek; 
Then  doth  she  trowl2  to  me  the  bowl 

Even  as  a  maltworm3  should. 
And  saith,  "Sweetheart,  I  have  take  my 
part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old."  30 

Back  and  side,  etc. 

1  apple.  2  pass.  3  a  tippler. 


76 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and 
wink, 
Even  as  good  fellows  should  do; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to.  35 

And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured1  bowls, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 
Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 

Back  and  side,  go  bare,  go  bare,      40 

Both  hand  and  foot  go  cold; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale 
enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 


SIR  EDWARD  DYER  (1560P-1607) 
MY  MIND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  IS 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 
Such  present  joys  therein  I  find 

That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind : 

Though  much  I  want  which  most  would 
have,  5 

Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  feed  a  loving  eye;  10 

To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall: 
For  why?    My  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  [surfeits]  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft  15 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all; 

They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear: 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice;         20 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies: 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  cravens 
I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 

They  are  but  poor,   though  much  they 
have, 
And  I  am  rich  with  little  store: 

They  poor,  I  rich;  they  beg,  I  give; 

They  lack,  I  leave;  they  pine,  I  live.       30 

1  emptied. 


I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  pain; 
No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain: 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend;  35 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end. 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lust. 

Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will ; 
Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust ; 

A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill:      40 
But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find 
Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence; 
I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please,  45 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence: 
Thus  do  I  live;  thus  will  I  die; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1554-1586) 
LOVE  IS  DEAD 

Ring  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shows 
be  spread; 
For  Love  is  dead: 
All  Love  is  dead,  infected 

With  plague  of  deep  disdain: 

Worth,  as  nought  worth,  rejected, 

And  Faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 
From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 
From  such  a  female  franzie,2 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us! 

Weep,  neighbors,  weep;  do  you  not  hear  it 
said 
That  Love  is  dead? 
His  death-bed,  peacock's  folly; 

His  winding-sheet  is  shame; 

His  will,  false- seeming  holy; 

His  sole  exec'tor,  blame. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 
From  such  a  female  franzie, 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us! 


Let  dirge  be  sung,  and  trentals  rightly  read, 
For  Love  is  dead; 

Sir  Wrong  his  tomb  ordaineth 
My  mistress'  marble  heart; 

Which  epitaph  containeth,  25 

2  frenzy. 


SONG  WRITERS 


77 


''Her  eyes  were  once  his  dart." 
From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 
From  such  a  female  franzie, 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us!  30 

Alas,  I  lie:  rage  hath  this  error  bred; 
Love  is  not  dead; 
Love  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth 

In  her  unmatched  mind, 

Where  she  his  counsel  keepeth,        35 

Till  due  deserts  she  find. 

Therefore  from  so  vile  fancy, 

To  call  such  wit  a  franzie, 

Who  Love  can  temper  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us!  40 


JOHN   LYLY   (1554?-1606) 
CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 

At  cards  for  kisses;  Cupid  paid. 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 

His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows; 

Loses  them  too;  then  down  he  throws      5 

The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 

Growing  on's  cheek  (but  none  knowrs  how) ; 

With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
'  And  then  the  dimple,  of  his  chin ; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win.  1  o 

;  At  last  he  set1  her  both  his  eyes; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

0  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee? 

What  shall,  alas!  become  of  me? 


SPRING'S  WELCOME 

';  What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail? 
;  0  'tis  the  ravished  nightingale. 

"Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,  tereu,"  she  cries, 
;  And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 

Brave  prick-song!  who  is't  now  we  hear?  5 
I  None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear; 
j  Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings, 

The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings, 
i  Hark,  hark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
,  Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note;        10 
j  Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing, 
i  Cuckoo,  to  welcome  in  the  spring; 
I  Cuckoo,  to  welcome  in  the  spring! 

1  wagered. 


GEORGE  PEELE  (1558?-1597?) 

CUPID'S  CURSE 

CEnone.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 
As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
The    fairest    shepherd    on    our 
green, 
A  love  for  any  lady. 
Paris.      Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 5 
As  fair  as  any  may  be; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 
And  for  no  other  lady. 
(En.  My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay, 

As  fresh  as  bin2   the  flowers   in 
May,  10 

And  of  my  love  my  roundelay, 
My  merry,  merry  roundelay, 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 
"They  that  do  change  old  love  for 
new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse! "  15 
Ambo  simul.3  They  that  do  change,  etc. 
(En.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 
Par.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 

Thy  love  is  fair,  etc. 
(En.  My   love    can    pipe,    my   love   can 
sing,  20 

My  love  can4  many  a  pretty  thing, 
And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 
My  merry,  merry  roundelays, 

Amen  to  Cupid's  curse, — 
"They  that  do  change,"  etc.  25 

Par.  They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Ambo.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 


ROBERT  GREENE  (1660?-1592) 
SWEET  ARE  THE  THOUGHTS 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savor  of  con- 
tent; 
The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown ; 

Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber 
spent; 
The  poor  estate  scorns  fortune's  angry 
f  rown : 

Such   sweet   content,    such   minds,    such 
sleep,  such  bliss,  5 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

2  are.  3  Both  together.  *  knows  how  to  do. 


78 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


The  homely  house  that  harbors  quiet  rest; 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  nor 

care; 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music 

best; 
The  sweet  consort1  of  mirth  and  music's 

fare;  10 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss: 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom 

is. 


SEPHESTIA'S  SONG  TO  HER  CHILD 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy; 
When  thy  father  first  did  see         5 
Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 
He  was  glad,  I  was  woe; 
Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy.         10 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 
Like  pearl  drops  from  a  flint, 
Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes,         15 
That  one  another's  place  supplies; 
Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part, 
Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 
When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy.        20 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 

When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 
Mother  cried,  baby  leapt; 
More  he  crowed,  more  he  cried, 
Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide: 
He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 
Child  and  mother,  baby  bless, 
For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 
Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon 
knee, 

When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for 
thee. 


25 


30 
my 


harmony. 


5 


THOMAS  LODGE  (1558?-1625) 
ROSALIND'S  MADRIGAL 

Love  in  my  bosom  like  a  bee 

Doth  suck  his  sweet; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest. 

Ah,  wanton,  will  ye? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he, 

With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee, 

The  livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing;  15 

He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing; 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting. 

Whist,2  wanton,  still  ye! 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence,  20 

And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence. 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in, 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin, 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin.    25 
Alas!  what  hereby  shall  I  win 

If  he  gainsay  me? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy,  $ 

Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee. 
0  Cupid,  so  thou  pity  me,  3 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee! 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 
(1664-1693) 

THE   PASSIONATE   SHEPHERD   TO 
HIS  LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  fields, 
Woods,  or  steepy  mountains,  yields. 

2  hush. 


SOXG   WRITERS 


79 


And  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks,  5 

Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies,  10 

A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle: 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold,  15 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold; 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love.  20 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delights  each  May  morning; 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 


THOMAS  NASH   (1567-1601) 

LITANY  IN  TIME  OF  PLAGUE 

Adieu,  farewell,  earth's  bliss, 
This  world  uncertain  is: 
Fond1  are  life's  lustful  joys, 
Death  proves  them  all  but  toys. 
None  from  his  darts  can  fly; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

Rich  men,  trust  not  in  wealth, 
Gold  cannot  buy  you  health; 
Physic  himself  must  fade; 
All  things  to  end  are  made; 
The  plague  full  swift  goes  by; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

Beauty  is  but  a  flower, 
Which  wrinkles  wall  devour: 
Brightness  falls  from  the  air; 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair; 
Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 

1  foolish. 


Strength  stoops  unto  the  grave; 
Worms  feed  on  Hector  brave; 
Swords  may  not  fight  with  fate; 
Earth  still  holds  ope  her  gate;        25 
Come,  come,  the  bells  do  cry; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 


W7it  with  his  wantonness, 
Tasteth  death's  bitterness; 
Hell's  executioner 
Hath  no  ears  for  to  hear 
What  vain  art  can  reply; 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 


30 


35 


Haste  therefore  each  degree 
To  welcome  destiny: 
Heaven  is  our  heritage, 
Earth  but  a  player's  stage; 
Mount  we  unto  the  sky;  40 

I  am  sick,  I  must  die. 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us! 


SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH  (1552?-1618) 
HIS  PILGRIMAGE 

Give  me  my  scallop-shell2  of  quiet, 
My  staff  of  faith  to  walk  upon, 

My  scrip  of  joy,  immortal  diet, 
My  bottle  of  salvation, 

My  gown  of  glory,  hope's  true  gage  ;3  5 

And  thus  I'll  take  my  pilgrimage. 

Blood  must  be  my  body's  balmer; 

No  other  balm  will  there  be  given ; 
Whilst  my  soul,  like  a  quiet  palmer, 

Travelleth  towards  the  land  of  heaven, 
Over  the  silver  mountains,  n 

Where  spring  the  nectar  fountains. 
There  will  I  kiss 
The  bowl  of  bliss; 
And  drink  mine  everlasting  fill  15 

Upon  every  milken  hill. 
My  soul  will  be  a-dry  before; 
But,  after,  it  will  thirst  no  more. 

Then  by  that  happy  blissful  day 

More  peaceful  pilgrims  I  shall  see,         20 

That  have  cast  off  their  rags  of  clay, 
And  walk  apparelled  fresh  like  me. 

2  badge  of  a  pilgrim.  3  pledge. 


So 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


I'll  take  them  first, 

To  quench  their  thirst 
And  taste  of  nectar  suckets1  25 

At  those  clear  wells 

Where  sweetness  dwells, 
Drawn  up  by  saints  in  crystal  buckets. 

And  when  our  bottles  and  all  we 
Are  filled  with  immortality,  30 

Then  the  blessed  paths  we'll  travel, 
Strowed  with  rubies  thick  as  gravel; 
Ceilings  of  diamonds,  sapphire  floors, 
High  walls  of  coral,  and  pearly  bowers. 

From  thence  to  Heaven's  bribeless  hall, 
Where  no  corrupted  voices  brawl ;  36 

No  conscience  molten  into  gold; 
No  forged  accuser  bought  or  sold; 
No  cause  deferred,   no  vain-spent   jour- 
ney, 
For  there  Christ  is  the  King's  Attorney,  40 
Who  pleads  for  all,  without  degrees, 
And  he  hath  angels  but  no  fees. 

And  when  the  grand  twelve  million  jury 
Of  our  sins,  with  direful  fury, 
Against  our  souls  black  verdicts  give,       45 
Christ  pleads  his  death;  and  then  we  live. 

Be  Thou  my  speaker,  taintless  Pleader! 
Unblotted  Lawyer!  true  Proceeder! 
Thou  giv'st  salvation,  even  for  alms, 
Not  with  a  bribed  lawyer's  palms.  50 

And  this  is  mine  eternal  plea 
To  Him  that  made  heaven  and  earth  and 

sea: 
That,  since  my  flesh  must  die  so  soon, 
And  want  a  head  to  dine  next  noon, 
Just  at  the  stroke,  when  my  veins  start 

and  spread,  55 

Set  on  my  soul  an  everlasting  head! 

Then  am  I  ready,  like  a  palmer  fit, 
To  tread  those  blest  paths,  which  before  I 
writ. 


THE   CONCLUSION 

Even  such  is  time,  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust; 
Who  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 


When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways,       5 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days: 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL  (1661?-1595) 

THE   BURNING   BABE 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  stood  shiver- 
ing in  the  snow, 
Surprised  I  was  with  sudden  heat  which 

made  my  heart  to  glow; 
And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye  to  view  what 

fire  was  near, 
A  pretty  babe,  all  burning  bright,  did  in 

the  air  appear, 
Who,  scorched  with  excessive  heat,  such 

floods  of  tears  did  shed,  5 

As  though  his  floods  should  quench  his 

flames  which  with  his  tears  were  fed; 
"Alas!"  quoth  he,  "but  newly  born  in 

fiery  heats  I  fry, 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts  or 

feel  my  fire  but  I ! 
My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  is,  the  fuel, 

wounding  thorns; 
Love  is  the  fire  and  sighs  the  smoke,  the 

ashes,  shame  and  scorns;  10 

The  fuel  Justice  layeth  on,  and  Mercy 

blows  the  coals; 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought  are 

men's  defiled  souls ; 
For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am  to  work 

them  to  their  good, 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath  to  wash  them  in 

my  blood." 
With  this  he  vanished  out  of  sight,  and 

swiftly  shrunk  away,  15 

And  straight  I  called  unto  mind  that  it 

was  Christmas-day. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  (1564-1616) 
SONGS  FROM  THE  PLAYS 

From  Love's  Labor's  Lost 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 


SONG   WRITERS 


81 


When  blood  is  nipped  and  ways  be  foul ,     5 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

Tu-whit,  to-who, 

A  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel1  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow,         10 
And    coughing    drowns    the    parson's 
saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs2  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl,  15 

Tu-whit,  to-who, 
A  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

From  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Who  is  Silvia?    what  is  she, 
That  all  our  swains  commend  her? 

Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she; 
The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

That  she  might  admired  be.  5 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness, 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there.  10 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing 

That  Silvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling; 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring.  15 

From  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I  do  wander  everywhere,  5 

Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere; 

And  I  serve  the  fairy  Queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green. 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see:  10 

Those  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 

I  must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 

And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

1  cool  by  stirring.  -'  apples. 


From  The  Merchant  of  Venice 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy3  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 

Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell; 

I'll  begin  it, — Ding-dong,  bell. 

Ding,  dong,  bell. 


From  As  You  Like  It 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither!     5 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun,  10 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy  15 

But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen,  5 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh  ho!  sing,  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green 

holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving 
mere  folly: 
Then,  heigh  ho,  the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly.  10 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky! 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot; 

3  love. 


82 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Though  thou  the  waters  warp,1 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remembered  not. 

Heigh  ho!    sing,  heigh  ho!    etc. 


tS 


It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
That  o'er  the  green  corn*field  did  pass 

In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring 
time, 
When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding;s 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie, 

In  spring  time,  etc.  10 

This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  life  was  but  a  flower 
In  spring  time,  etc. 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time,       15 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  etc. 

From  Twelfth  Night 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear,  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low: 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting,  5 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  'Tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure: 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty;  10 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

From  Measure  for  Measure 

Take,  O,  take  those  lips  away, 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn; 

And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn : 

But  my  kisses  bring  again,  bring  again;  5 

Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain,  sealed  in 


vain. 


1  transform. 


From  Antony  and  Cleopatra 

Come,  thou  monarch  of  the  vine, 
Plumpy  Bacchus  with  pink  eyne!2 
In  thy  vats  our  cares  be  drowned, 
With  thy  grapes  our  hairs  be  crowned ! 
Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round,  5 

Cup  us,  till  the  world  go  round! 

From  Cymbeline 

Hark,  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  at  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced3  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin  5 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise! 
Arise,  arise! 


Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  wages: 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must,  5 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great; 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak:  10 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone;4 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash;  15 

Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan: 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee! 

Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee!  20 

Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee! 

Nothing  ill  come  near  thee! 
Quiet  consummation  have; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave! 

From  The  Tempest 
Ariel's  Songs 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands; 
Curtsied  when  you  have,  and  kissed 

The  wild  waves  whist,5 

2  eyes.         3  cup-shaped.  <  thunderbolt,         'hushed. 


SONG  WRITERS 


83 


Foot  it  featly1  here  and  there, 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 
Hark,  hark! 

Bow-wow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark: 

Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark!    I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow. 


Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies: 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes; 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change  5 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 

Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 

Ding-dong ! 

Hark!    now    I    hear    them, — Ding-dong, 
bell! 


Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry; 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily.  5 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under   the   blossom   that   hangs   on   the 
bough. 

ANONYMOUS 

HEY  NONNY  NO! 

Hey  nonny  no! 
Men  are  fools  that  wish  to  die! 
Is't  not  fine  to  dance  and  sing 
When  the  bells  of  death  do  ring? 
Is't  not  fine  to  swim  in  wine,  5 

And  turn  upon  the  toe, 
And  sing  hey  nonny  no, 
When  the  winds  blow  and  the  seas  flow? 

Hey  nonny  no! 

THOMAS  CAMPION  (1567-1620) 

OF  CORINNA'S   SINGING 

When  to  her  lute  Corinna  sings, 
Her  voice  revives  the  leaden  strings, 
And  doth  in  highest  notes  appear 
As  any  challenged  echo  clear; 

1  neatly. 


But  when  she  doth  of  mourning  speak,       5 

E'en  with  her  sighs  the  strings  do  break. 

And  as  her  lute  doth  live  or  die, 

Led  by  her  passion,  so  must  I : 

For  when  of  pleasure  she  doth  sing, 

My  thoughts  enjoy  a  sudden  spring;         10 

But  if  she  doth  of  sorrow  speak, 

E'en  from  my  heart  the  strings  do  break. 

WHEN  THOU   MUST  HOME 

When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  under- 
ground, 
And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 
The    beauteous    spirits    do    engirt    thee 

round, 
White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finished  love       5 
From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music 
hell  can  move; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  de- 
lights, 

Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth 
did  make, 

Of  journeys  and  great  challenges  of 
knights, 

And  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's 
sake;  10 

When  thou  hast  told  these  honors  done  to 
thee, 

Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder 
me. 

COME,   CHEERFUL  DAY 

Come,  cheerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to 
me; 
For  while   thou  view'st   me   with   thy 
fading  light, 
Part  of  my  life  doth  still  depart  with  thee. 
And  I  still  onward  haste  to  my  last 
night. 
Time's  fatal  wings  do  ever  forward  fly :       5 
So  every  day  we  live  a  day  we  die. 

But   O   ye    nights,   ordained    for   barren 
rest, 
How  are  my  days  deprived  of  life  in  you 
When  heavy  sleep  my  soul  hath  dispossest, 
By  feigned   death   life   sweetly  to   re- 
new! 10 
Part  of  my  life  in  that,  you  life  deny: 
So  every  day  we  live,  a  day  we  die. 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


NOW  WINTER  NIGHTS   ENLARGE 

Now  winter  nights  enlarge 

The  number  of  their  hours; 

And  clouds  their  storms  discharge 

Upon  the  airy  towers. 

Let  now  the  chimneys  blaze,  5 

And  cups  o'erflow  with  wine, 

Let  well-tuned  words  amaze 

With  harmony  divine. 

Now  yellow  waxen  lights 

Shall  wait  on  honey  love;  10 

While    youthful     revels,     masques,     and 

courtly  sights, 
Sleep's  leaden  spells  remove. 

This  time  doth  well  dispense 

With  lovers'  long  discourse; 

Much  speech  hath  some  defence,  15 

Though  beauty  no  remorse. 

All  do  not  all  things  well: 

Some  measures  comely  tread, 

Some  knotted  riddles  tell, 

Some  poems  smoothly  read.  20 

The  summer  hath  his  joys, 

And  winter  his  delights; 

Though  love  and  all  his  pleasures  are  but 

toys, 
They  shorten  tedious  nights. 


CHERRY-RIPE 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  grow; 
A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow: 
There  cherries  grow,  which  none  may 
buy  S 

Till  "Cherry-ripe"  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl  a  double  row, 

Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows,      9 

They  look  like  rosebuds  filled  with  snow; 

Yet  them  nor  peer  nor  prince  can  buy 

Till  "  Cherry-ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threatening  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill  15 
All  that  attempt,  with  eye  or  hand, 
Those  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh 
Till  "  Cherry-ripe  "  themselves  do  cry. 


CHANCE  AND   CHANGE 

What  if  a  day,  or  a  month,  or  a  year, 
Crown    thy    delights,    with    a    thousand 
sweet  contentings? 

Cannot  a  chance  of  a  night  or  an  hour 
Cross  thy  desires  with  as  many  sad  tor- 

mentings? 
Fortune,  honor,  beauty,  youth,  5 

Are  but  blossoms  dying; 
Wanton  pleasure,  doting  love, 

Are  but  shadows  flying; 
All  our  joys  are  but  toys, 

Idle  thoughts  deceiving;  10 

None  have  power  of  an  hour 

In  their  life's  bereaving. 

Earth's  but  a  point  to  the  world,  and  a 
man 
Is  but  a  point  to  the  world's  compared 
centre;  14 

Shall  then  a  point  of  a  point  be  so  vain 
As  to  triumph  in  a  silly  point's  adventure? 
All  is  hazard  that  we  have, 

There  is  nothing  biding; 
Days  of  pleasure  are  like  streams 

Through  fair  meadows  gliding.  20 

Weal  and  woe,  Time  doth  go, 

Time  is  never  turning: 
Secret  fates  guide  our  states, 

Both  in  mirth  and  mourning. 


THOMAS  DEKKER  (1572?-/?.  1632) 

O   SWEET  CONTENT 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slum- 
bers? 

0  sweet  content! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed? 

O  punishment! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  num- 
bers? 6 
O  sweet  content !  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 

Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face, 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny ! 

Canst  drink   the  waters  of  the  crisped1 
spring?  11 

0  sweet  content! 

1  rippling. 


SONG  WRITERS 


85 


Swim'st   thou   in   wealth,   yet   sink'st   in 
thine  own  tears? 

0  punishment! 

Then    he    that    patiently  want's   burden 
bears  15 

No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king! 
O  sweet  content!  O  sweet,  O  sweet  con- 
tent! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace; 
Honest  labor  bears  a  lovely  face. 
Then    hey     nonny    nonny,     hey    nonny 
nonny! 

LULLABY 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise; 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby: 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby.  5 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you ; 

You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you; 

Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 

And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby: 

Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby.  10 

MICHAEL   DRAYTON    (1563-1631) 

AGINCOURT 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance,1 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main,  5 

At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 

Furnished  in  warlike  sort,  10 

Marcheth  towards  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour; 
Skirmishing,  day  by  day, 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay  15 

With  all  his  power. 

Which,2  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 
To  the  King  sending;  20 

1  raise.  2  the  French  general. 


Which3  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet  with  an  angry  smile, 
Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men,  25 

Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then: 
''Though  they  to  one  be  ten 

Be  not  amazed! 
Yet  have  we  well  begun: 
Battles  so  bravely  won  30 

Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
"This  my  full  rest4  shall  be: 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me,  35 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me.  40 

"Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell; 

No  less  our  skill  is, 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great,       45 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 

The  eager  vaward5  led;  50 

With  the  main,6  Henry  sped 

Amongst  his  henchmen: 
Exeter  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  man  not  there! 
0  Lord,  how  hot  they  were  55 

On  the  false  Frenchmen! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone: 
Armor  on  armor  shone; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear,  was  wonder;  60 

That,7  with  the  cries  they  make, 
The  very  earth  did  shake; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became,  65 

O  noble  Erpingham, 


3  the  command  to  send  a  ransom. 
5  advance  guard.  6  main  host. 


4  resolution. 
7  so  that. 


86 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Which  didst  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly,  7° 

The  English  archery 

Stuck  the  French  horses, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 

Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 

That  like  to  serpents  stung,  75 

Piercing  the  weather; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But,  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together.  80 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy: 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent,       85 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent, 
Down  the  French  peasants  went: 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  King, 

His  broad  sword  brandishing,  90 

Down  the  French  host  did  ding,1 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent,2 
And  many  a  cruel  dent  95 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Gloucester,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother,  100 

Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright; 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade,  105 

Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby  no 

Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray; 


1  strike. 


2  besprinkled. 


Which  fame  did  not  delay  115 

To  England  to  carry. 
O  when  shall  English  men 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen? 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry?  120 


BEN  JONSON   (1573?-1637) 

HYMN  TO  DIANA 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light,  5 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close:   10 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart  15 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 


SONG  TO  CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise        5 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee  10 

As  giving  it  a  hope,  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be. 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me;  14 

Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 


SONG  WRITERS 


87 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF   CHARIS 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty  5 

Unto  her  beauty; 
And  enamored,  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she 
would  ride.  10 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  comprise th! 

Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother      15 
Than  words  that  soothe  her; 
And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements' 
strife.  .  20 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow, 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  o'  the  beaver?       25 
Or  swan's  down  ever? 

Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  briar? 
Or  the  nard1  i'  the  fire? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee? 

0  so  white,  O  so  soft,  O  so  sweet  is  she !     30 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MY  BELOVED, 
MASTER  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy 

name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such 
As  neither  man  nor  muse  can  praise  too 

much. 
'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But 

these  ways  5 

Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise ; 
For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 
Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes 

right ; 

1  spikenard. 


Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  ad- 
vance 
The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by 

chance;  10 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise, 
And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to 

raise. 
These   are,   as   some   infamous   bawd   or 

whore 
Should  praise  a  matron.    What  could  hurt 

her  more? 
But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  in- 
deed, 15 
Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 
I  therefore  will  begin.    Soul  of  the  age, 
The  applause,  delight,  the  wonder  of  our 

stage, 
My  Shakespeare,  rise !  I  will  not  lodge  thee 

by 
Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie  20 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room : 
Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 
And  art  alive  still  while  thy  book  doth 

live, 
And  we  have  wits  to  read  and  praise  to 

give. 
That  I  not  mix  thee  so  my  brain  excuses — 
I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned 

Muses;  26 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of 

years, 
I   should   commit2   thee  surely  with  thy 

peers, 
And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lyly  out- 
shine, 
Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlowe's  mighty 

line.  30 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin  and 

less  Greek, 
From  thence  to  honor  thee,  I  would  not 

seek 
For    names,    but    call    forth    thundering 

^Eschylus, 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 
Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead,  35 
To  life  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread, 
And  shake  a  stage;  or  when  thy  socks  were 

on, 
Leave  thee  alone  for  the  comparison 
Of  all  that  insolent   Greece  or  haughty 

Rome 
Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes 

come.  40 

2  compare. 


88 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


Triumph,  my  Britain,  thou  hast  one  to 

show 
To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 
He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time! 
And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime, 
When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 
Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm.       46 
Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs 
And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines, 
Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit, 
As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit: 
The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes,        51 
Neat   Terence,   witty   Plautus,   now   not 

please, 
But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie, 
As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 
Yet  must  I  not  give  Nature  all ;  thy  art,   55 
My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part: 
For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be, 
His  art  doth  give  the  fashion;  and  that  he1 
Who  casts2  to  write  a  living  line  must 

sweat, 
(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second 

heat  60 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil,  turn  the  same 
(And  himself  with  it)   that  he  thinks  to 

frame, 
Or,  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn ; 
For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 
And  such  wert  thou;  look  how  the  father's 

face  65 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 
Of    Shakespeare's     mind    and    manners 

brightly  shines 
In  his  well  turned  and  true  filed3  lines, 
In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 
As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance.     70 
Sweet  Swan  of  Avon!  what  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 
And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of 

Thames, 
That  so  did  take4  Eliza5  and  our  James ! 
But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere       75 
Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there! 
Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  poets,  and  with 

rage 
Or  influence  chide  or  cheer  the  drooping 

stage, 
Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath 

mourned  like  night, 
And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's 

light. 


1  man. 

'  captivate. 


plans. 


3  polished. 

6  Queen  Elizabeth. 


From  A  PINDARIC  ODE 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  men  better  be; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred 

year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sear: 
A  lily  of  a  day  5 

Is  fairer  far  in  May; 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night, 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect 
be.  10 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  SALATHIEL  PAVY 

Weep  with  me  all  you  that  read 

This  little  story; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive  5 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  heaven  and  nature  seemed  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 
Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen 

When  fates  turned  cruel,  10 

Yet  three  filled  zodiacs6  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel; 
And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As,    sooth,    the    Parcae7    thought    him 
one,  15 

He  played  so  truly. 
So,  by  error,  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented, 
But  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late! 

They  have  repented;  20 

And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him; 
But  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 


JOHN  DONNE  (1573-1631) 
GO  AND  CATCH  A  FALLING  STAR 

Go  and  catch  a  falling  star, 

Get  with  child  a  mandrake  root, 

Tell  me  where  all  past  years  are, 
Or  who  cleft  the  Devil's  foot; 

"  years.  ^  the  Fates. 


SONG  WRITERS 


So 


Teach  me  to  hear  mermaids  singing,         5 

0!  were  we  wakened  by  this  tyranny 

Or  to  keep  off  envy's  stinging, 

To  ungod  this  child  again,  it  could 

not 

And  find 

be 

20 

What  wind 

I  should  love  her  who  loves  not  me. 

Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

Rebel  and  atheist  too,  why  murmur  I 

? 

If  thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights,         10 

As  though  I  felt  the  worst  that 

love 

Things  invisible  go  see, 

could  do? 

Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights 

Love  may  make  me  leave  loving,  or  might 

Till  Age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee ; 

try 

Thou,  when  thou  return'st,  wilt  tell  me 

A  deeper  plague,  to  make  her  love 

■  me 

All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee,       15 

too; 

25 

And  swear 

Which,  since  she  loves  before,  I'm  loth  to 

No  where 

see. 

Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 

Falsehood  is  worse  than  hate;  and 
must  be, 

that 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know; 

If  she  whom  I  love  should  love  me. 

Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet.              20 

Yet  do  not;  I  would  not  go, 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 

Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her, 

SWEETEST  LOVE,  I  DO  NOT 

GO 

And  last  till  you  write  your  letter, 

1            Yet  she                                            2  s 

Sweetest  love,  I  do  not  go 

Will  be 

For  weariness  of  thee, 

False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three. 

Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 
A  fitter  love  for  me; 

But  since  that  I 

5 

LOVE'S  DEITY 

At  the  last  must  part,  'tis  best 
Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest, 

II  long  to  talk  with  some  old  lover's  ghost 

By  feigned  deaths  to  die. 

Who  died  before  the  god  of  love  was 

born. 

Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 

jl  cannot  think  that  he  who  then  loved 

And  yet  is  here  today; 

10 

most 

He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense, 

!     Sunk  so  low  as  to  love  one  which  did 

Nor  half  so  short  a  way; 

scorn. 

Then  fear  not  me, 

;But  since  this  god  produced  a  destiny,     5 

But  believe  that  I  shall  make 

And  that  vice-nature,  custom,  lets  it  be, 

Speedier  journeys,  since  I  take 

IS 

I  must  love  her  that  loves  not  me. 

More  wings  and  spurs  than  he. 

.Sure,  they  which  made  him  god,  meant  not 

0  how  feeble  is  man's  power, 

so  much, 

That,  if  good  fortune  fall, 

Nor  he  in  his  young  godhead  practiced  it. 

Cannot  add  another  hour, 

But  when  an  even  flame  two  hearts  did 

Nor  a  lost  hour  recall; 

20 

touch,                                                  10 

But  come  bad  chance, 

His  office  was  indulgently  to  fit 

And  we  join  to  it  our  strength, 

Actives  to  passives.    Correspondency 

And  we  teach  it  art  and  length, 

Dnly  his  subject  was;  it  cannot  be 

Itself  o'er  us  to  advance. 

■    Love,  till  I  love  her  who  loves  me. 

. 

When  thou  sigh'st,  thou  sigh'st  not  wind, 

IBut  every  modern  god  will  now  extend  15 

But  sigh'st  my  soul  away; 

26 

I    His  vast  prerogative  as  far  as  Jove : 

When  thou  weep'st,  unkindly  kind 

To  rage,  to  lust,  to  write  to,  to  commend, 

My  life's  blood  doth  decay: 

I    All  is  the  purlieu  of  the  god  of  love. 

It  cannot  be 

9° 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


That  thou  lovest  me  as  thou  say'st,    30 
If  in  thine  my  life  thou  waste, 
That  art  the  best  of  me. 

Let  not  thy  divining  heart 

Forethink  me  any  ill; 
Destiny  may  take  thy  part  35 

And  may  thy  fears  fulfil. 
But  think  that  we 
Are  but  turned  aside  to  sleep: 
They  who  one  another  keep 

Alive,  ne'er  parted  be.  40 


DEATH 

Death,  be  not  proud,  though  some  have 

called  thee 
Mighty  and  dreadful,  for  thou  art  not  so; 
For  those  whom  thou  think'st  thou  dost 

overthrow 
Die  not,  poor  Death;  nor  yet  canst  thou 

kill  me. 
From  rest  and  sleep,  which  but  thy  pic- 
ture be,  5 
Much  pleasure,  then  from  thee  much  more 

must  flow; 
And  soonest  our  best  men  with  thee  do 

go- 
Rest  of  their  bones  and  souls'  delivery! 
Thou'rt  slave  to  Fate,  chance,  kings,  and 

desperate  men, 
And  dost  with  poison,  war,  and  sickness 

dwell,  10 

And  poppy  or  charms  can  make  us  sleep  as 

well, 
And  better  than  thy  stroke;  why  swell 'st 

thou  then? 
One  short  sleep  past,  we  wake  eternally, 
And  death  shall  be  no  more:  Death,  thou 

shalt  die! 


FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  (1584-1616) 

EVEN  SUCH  IS  MAN 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 

Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 

Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood,     5 

Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood: 


Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to  night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies, 
The  spring  intombed  in  autumn  lies;      u 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot, 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot. 


ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  this  heap  of  stones; 

Here  they  lie  had  realms  and  lands,  5 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands; 

Where  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 

They  preach,  "In  greatness  is  no  trust." 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest,  royal'st  seed  10 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin; 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried, 

"Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they 

died." 
Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things,  15 

Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  kings. 
Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 
Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 


JOHN  FLETCHER  (1579-1625) 

SWEETEST  MELANCHOLY 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly! 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy; 

O  sweetest  melancholy! 

Welcome,  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground,     1 
A  tongue  chained  up  without  a  sound. 
Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  Passion  loves; 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls. 


SONG  WRITERS 


9i 


A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan,  16 

These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon. 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy 

valley; 
Nothing's    so    dainty    sweet    as    lovely 
melancholy. 

CARE-CHARMING  SLEEP 

Care-charming   Sleep,    thou  easer   of   all 

woes, 
I  Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
I  On  this  afflicted  prince;  fall  like  a  cloud 

In  gentle  showers;  give  nothing  that  is 

loud 
;  Or  painful  to  his  slumbers ;  easy,  sweet,  5 
1  And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  Night, 
!Pass  by  his  troubled  senses;  sing  his  pain 
i  Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  silver  rain ; 
Tnto  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  slide, 

And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride.    10 

SONG  TO  BACCHUS 

God  Lyaeus,  ever  young, 

Ever  honored,  ever  sung, 

Stained  with  blood  of  lusty  grapes, 

In  a  thousand  lusty  shapes, 

Dance  upon  the  mazer's1  brim,  5 

In  the  crimson  liquor  swim; 

From  thy  plenteous  hand  divine 

Let  a  river  run  with  wine; 

God  of  youth,  let  this  day  here 

Enter  neither  care  nor  fear!  10 

JOHN  WEBSTER  (1580?-1626?) 

A   DIRGE 

:Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 
:Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 
Call  unto  his  funeral  dole  5 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 
jTo  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him 

warm, 
And,  when  gay  tombs  are  robbed,  sustain 

no  harm; 
'But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to 

men,  9 

|For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 

1  cup's. 


HARK,  NOW  EVERYTHING  IS  STILL 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still, 

The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler2  shrill, 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud. 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent, — ■  5 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent; 

A  long  war  disturbed  your  mind, — 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  signed. 

Of  what  is't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping? 

Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping,  10 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet, 

And — the  foul  fiend  more  to  check —        15 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck. 

'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day; 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE  (1591-1643?) 

ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER  OF 
PEMBROKE 

Underneath  this  sable  herse3 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse: 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother: 
Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another 
Fair  and  learn'd  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 

ELIZABETHAN  PROSE 

SIR  THOMAS  NORTH  (1535?-1601?) 
THE  DEATH  OF  OESAR 

From  THE   LIFE   OF   JULIUS   CAESAR 

The  Romans  inclining  to  Caesar's  pros- 
perity, and  taking  the  bit  in  the  mouth, 
supposing  that  to  be  ruled  by  one  man 
alone,  it  would  be  a  good  mean  for  them 
to  take  breath  a  little,  after  so  many 
troubles  and  miseries  as  they  had  abidden 
in  these  civil  wars,  they  chose  him  per- 
petual Dictator.  This  was  a  plain  tyr- 
anny: for  to  this  absolute  power  of  Dic- 
tator they  added  this,  never  to  be  [10 
afraid  to  be  deposed.  Cicero  propounded 
before  the  Senate  that  they  should  give 


-  plover. 


3  tomb. 


02 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


him  such  honors  as  were  meet  for  a 
man;  howbeit  others  afterwards  added  to, 
honors  beyond  all  reason.  For,  men 
striving  who  should  most  honor  him,  they 
made  him  hateful  and  troublesome  to 
themselves  that  most  favored  him,  by 
reason  of  the  unmeasurable  greatness  and 
honors  which  they  gave  him.  There-  [20 
upon  it  is  reported  that  even  they  that 
most  hated  him  were  no  less  favorers  and 
furtherers  of  his  honors  than  they  that 
most  flattered  him;  because  they  might 
have  greater  occasions  to  rise,  and  that 
it  might  appear  they  had  just  cause  and 
color  to  attempt  that  they  did  against 
him. 

And  now  for  himself,  after  he  had 
ended  his  civil  wars  he  did  so  honor-  [30 
ably  behave  himself  that  there  was  no 
fault  to  be  found  in  him;  and  therefore, 
methinks,  amongst  other  honors  they 
gave  him,  he  rightly  deserved  this,  that 
they  should  build  him  a  temple  of  clem- 
ency, to  thank  him  for  his  courtesy  he  had 
used  unto  them  in  his  victory.  For  he 
pardoned  many  of  them  that  had  borne 
arms  against  him,  and,  furthermore,  did 
prefer  some  of  them  to  honor  and  [40 
office  in  the  commonwealth:  as,  amongst 
others,  Cassius  and  Brutus,  both  the  which 
were  made  Praetors.  And  where  Pom- 
pey's  images  had  been  thrown  down,  he 
caused  them  to  be  set  up  again ;  whereupon 
Cicero  said  then,  That  Caesar  setting  up 
Pompey's  images  again,  he  made  his  own 
to  stand  the  surer.  And  when  some  of 
his  friends  did  counsel  him  to  have  a 
guard  for  the  safety  of  his  person,  and  [50 
some  also  did  offer  themselves  to  serve 
him,  he  would  never  consent  to  it,  but 
said,  It  was  better  to  die  once,  than  always 
to  be  afraid  of  death. 


But  his  enemies  that  envied  his  great- 
ness did  not  stick  to  find  fault  withal.  As 
Cicero  the  orator,  when  one  said,  Tomor- 
row the  star  Lyra  will  rise:  Yea,  said  he, 
at  the  commandment  of  Caesar,  as  if  men 
were  compelled  to  say  and  think  by  [60 
Caesar's  edict.  But  the  chiefest  cause  that 
made  him  mortally  hated  was  the  covet- 
ous desire  he  had  to  be  called  king:  which 
first  gave  the  people  just  cause,  and  next 


his  secret  enemies  honest  color,  to  bear 
him  ill-will. 


The  people  went  straight  unto  Marcus 
Brutus,  who  from  his  father  came  of  the 
first  Brutus,  and  by  his  mother,  of  the 
house  of  the  Servilians,  a  noble  house  [70 
as  any  was  in  Rome,  and  was  also  nephew 
and  son-in-law  of  Marcus  Cato.  Not- 
withstanding, the  great  honors  and  favors 
Caesar  showed  unto  him  kept  him  back, 
that  of  himself  alone  he  did  not  conspire 
nor  consent  to  depose  him  of  his  kingdom. 
For  Caesar  did  not  only  save  his  life  after 
the  battle  of  Pharsalia  when  Pompey  fled, 
and  did  at  his  request  also  save  many 
more  of  his  friends  beside,  but  further-  [80 
more  he  put  a  marvellous  confidence  in 
him.  For  he  had  already  preferred  him 
to  the  Praetorship  for  that  year,  and 
furthermore  was  appointed  to  be  Consul 
the  fourth  year  after  that,  having  through 
Caesar's  friendship  obtained  it  before 
Cassius,  who  likewise  made  suit  for  the 
same;  and  Caesar  also,  as  it  is  reported, 
said  in  this  contention,  Indeed  Cassius 
hath  alleged  best  reason,  but  yet  shall  [90 
he  not  be  chosen  before  Brutus.  Some  one 
day  accusing  Brutus  while  he  practised 
this  conspiracy,  Caesar  would  not  hear  of 
it,  but  clapping  his  hand  on  his  body,  told 
them,  Brutus  will  look  for  this  skin: 
meaning  thereby  that  Brutus  for  his 
virtue  deserved  to  rule  after  him,  but  yet 
that  for  ambition's  sake  he  would  not 
show  himself  unthankful  or  dishonorable. 

Now  they  that  desired  change,  and  [100 
wished  Brutus  only  their  prince  and  gover- 
nor above  all  other,  they  durst  not  come 
to  him  themselves  to  tell  him  what  they 
would  have  him  to  do,  but  in  the  night 
did  cast  sundry  papers  into  the  Praetor's 
seat  where  he  gave  audience,  and  the 
most  of  them  to  this  effect :  Thou  sleepest, 
Brutus,  and  art  not  Brutus  indeed.  Cas- 
sius, finding  Brutus'  ambition  stirred  up 
the  more  by  these  ambitious  bills,  did  [no 
prick  him  forward,  and  egg  him  on  the 
more,  for  a  private  quarrel  he  had  con- 
ceived against  Caesar,  the  circumstance 
whereof  we  have  set  down  more  at  large 
in  Brutus'  life.  Caesar  also  had  Cassius 
in    great    jealousy,    and    suspected    him 


NORTH 


93 


much;  whereupon  he  said  on  a  time  to  his 

friends,  What  will  Cassius  do,  think  ye? 

I  like  not  his  pale  looks.     Another  time 

when  Caesar's  friends  complained  unto  [120 

him  of  Antonius  and  Dolabella,  that  they 

pretended  some  mischief  towards  him,  he 

answered  them  again,  As  for  those  fat  men 

and    smooth-combed    heads,    quoth    he, 

I  never  reckon  of  them;  but  these  pale- 

visaged  and  carrion  lean  people,  I  fear 

them  most;  meaning  Brutus  and  Cassius. 

Certainly,  destiny  may  easier  be  fore- 

j  seen  than  avoided,  considering  the  strange 

I  and  wonderful  signs  that  were  said  [130 

\  to  be  seen  before  Caesar's   death.     For 

touching   the  fires   in   the   element,   and 

l  spirits  running  up  and  down  in  the  night, 

1  and  also  the  solitary  birds  to  be  seen  at 

noondays   sitting   in    the   great    market- 

•■  place,  are  not  all  these  signs  perhaps  worth 

j  the  noting,  in  such  a  wonderful  chance  as 

happened?     But  Strabo  the  Philosopher 

i  writeth  that  divers  men  were  seen  going 

up  and  down  in  fire;  and  furthermore  [140 

that  there  was  a  slave  of  the  soldiers  that 

did  cast  a  marvellous  burning  flame  out  of 

his  hand,  insomuch  as  they  that  saw  it 

thought  he  had  been  burnt,  but  when  the 

fire  was  out  it  was  found  he  had  no  hurt. 

1  Caesar  self  also  doing  sacrifice  unto  the 

'gods,  found  that  one  of  the  beasts  which 

I  was  sacrificed  had  no  heart;  and  that  was 

;a  strange  thing  in  nature,  how  a  beast 

]  could  live  without  a  heart.    Further-  [150 

;  more,  there  was  a  certain  soothsayer  that 

had  given  Caesar  warning  long  time  afore, 

j  to  take  heed  of  the  day  of  the  Ides  of 

I  March    (which    is    the    fifteenth    of    the 

month),  for  on  that  day  he  should  be  in 

great    danger.      That    day    being    come, 

Caesar  going  unto  the  Senate-house,  and 

speaking    merrily    unto    the    soothsayer, 

'told  him,  The  Ides  of  March  be  come;  So 

I  be  they,  softly  answered  the  sooth-  [160 

sayer,  but  yet  are  they  not  past.     And 

I  the  very  day  before  Caesar,  supping  with 

;  Marcus  Lepidus,  sealed  certain  letters  as 

I  he  was  wont  to  do  at  the  board;  so  talk 

■falling  out  amongst  them,  reasoning  what 

death    was    best,    he,    preventing    their 

; opinions,  cried  out  aloud,  Death  unlooked 

.for.     Then  going  to  bed  the  same  night 

as  his  manner  was,  and  lying  with  his 

wife  Calpurnia,  all  the  windows  and  [170 


doors  of  his  chamber  flying  open,  the 
noise  awoke  him,  and  made  him  afraid 
when  he  saw  such  light;  but  more  when 
he  heard  his  wife  Calpurnia,  being  fast 
asleep,  weep  and  sigh,  and  put  forth 
many  fumbling,  lamentable  speeches. 
For  she  dreamed  that  Caesar  was  slain, 
and  that  she  had  him  in  her  arms.  Others 
also  do  deny  that  she  had  any  such  dream, 
as,  amongst  other,  Titus  Livius  writ-  [180 
eth  that  it  was  in  this  sort.  The  Senate 
having  set  upon  the  top  of  Caesar's  house, 
for  an  ornament  and  setting  forth  of 
the  same,  a  certain  pinnacle,  Calpurnia 
dreamed  that  she  saw  it  broken  down,  and 
that  she  thought  she  lamented  and  wept 
for  it.  Insomuch  that  Caesar  rising  in 
the  morning,  she  prayed  him  if  it  were 
possible  not  to  go  out  of  the  doors  that 
day,  but  to  adjourn  the  session  of  [190 
the  Senate  until  another  day.  Thereby 
it  seemed  that  Caesar  likewise  did  fear 
and  suspect  somewhat,  because  his  wife 
Calpurnia  until  that  time  was  never 
given  to  any  fear  or  superstition;  and 
then  for  that  he  saw  her  so  troubled  in 
mind  with  this  dream  she  had.  But  much 
more  afterwards,  when  the  soothsayers, 
having  sacrificed  many  beasts  one  after 
another,  told  him  that  none  did  like  [200 
them;  then  he  determined  to  send  An- 
tonius to  adjourn  the  session  of  the 
Senate. 


But  in  the  meantime  came  Decius 
Brutus,  surnamed  Albinus,  in  whom 
Caesar  put  such  confidence  that  in  his  last 
will  and  testament  he  had  appointed  him 
to  be  his  next  heir,  and  yet  was  of  the 
conspiracy  with  Cassius  and  Brutus;  he, 
fearing  that  if  Caesar  did  adjourn  the  [210 
session  that  day  the  conspiracy  would 
out,  laughed  the  soothsayers  to  scorn 
and  reproved  Caesar,  saying  that  he  gave 
the  Senate  occasion  to  mislike  with  him, 
and  that  they  might  think  he  mocked 
them,  considering  that  by  his  command- 
ment they  were  assembled,  and  that  they 
were  ready  willingly  to  grant  him  all 
things,  and  to  proclaim  him  king  of  all 
the  provinces  of  the  empire  of  Rome  [220 
out  of  Italy,  and  that  he  should  wear  his 
diadem  in  all  other  places  both  by  sea 


94 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


and  land.  And  furthermore,  that  if  any 
man  should  tell  them  from  him  they 
should  depart  for  that  present  time,  and 
return  again  when  Calpurnia  should  have 
better  dreams,  what  would  his  enemies 
and  ill-willers  say,  and  how  could  they 
like  of  his  friend's  words?  And  who  could 
persuade  them  otherwise  but  that  [230 
they  would  think  his  dominion  a  slavery 
unto  them  and  tyrannical  in  himself? 
And  yet  if  it  be  so,  said  he,  that  you 
utterly  mislike  of  this  day,  it  is  better 
that  you  go  yourself  in  person,  and, 
saluting  the  Senate,  to  dismiss  them  till 
another  time.  Therewithal  he  took  Caesar 
by  the  hand  and  led  him  out  of  his  house. 
Caesar  was  not  gone  far  from  his  house 
but  a  bondman,  a  stranger,  did  what  [240 
he  could  to  speak  with  him;  and  when  he 
saw  he  was  put  back  by  the  great  press 
and  multitude  of  people  that  followed 
him,  he  went  straight  into  his  house  and 
put  himself  into  Calpurnia 's  hands  to 
be  kept  till  Caesar  came  back  again,  telling 
her  that  he  had  great  matters  to  impart 
unto  him.  And  one  Artemidorus  also, 
born  in  the  Isle  of  Gnidos,  a  doctor  of 
rhetoric  in  the  Greek  tongue,  who  by  [250 
means  of  his  profession  was  very  familiar 
with  certain  of  Brutus'  confederates,  and 
therefore  knew  the  most  part  of  all  their 
practices  against  Caesar,  came  and  brought 
him  a  little  bill  written  with  his  own  hand, 
of  all  that  he  meant  to  tell  him.  He, 
marking  how  Caesar  received  all  the  sup- 
plications that  were  offered  him,  and  that 
he  gave  them  straight  to  his  men  that 
were  about  him,  pressed  nearer  to  [260 
him,  and  said:  Caesar,  read  this  memorial 
to  yourself,  and  that  quickly,  for  they  be 
matters  of  great  weight,  and  touch  you 
nearly.  Caesar  took  it  of  him  but  could 
never  read  it,  though  he  many  times 
attempted  it,  for  the  number  of  people 
that  did  salute  him;  but  holding  it  still  in 
his  hand,  keeping  it  to  himself,  went  on 
withal  into  the  Senate-house.  Howbeit 
other  are  of  opinion  that  it  was  some  [270 
man  else  that  gave  him  that  memorial, 
and  not  Artemidorus,  who  did  what  he 
could  all  the  way  as  he  went  to  give  it 
Caesar,  but  he  was  always  repulsed  by 
the  people.  For  these  things,  they  may 
seem  to  come  by  chance,  but  the  place 


where  the  murder  was  prepared,  and 
where  the  Senate  were  assembled,  and 
where  also  there  stood  up  an  image  of 
Pompey  dedicated  by  himself  amongst  [280 
other  ornaments  which  he  gave  unto  the 
theatre:  all  these  were  manifest  proofs 
that  it  was  the  ordinance  of  some  god 
that  made  this  treason  to  be  executed, 
specially  in  that  very  place.  It  is  also 
reported  that  Cassius  (although  other- 
wise he  did  favor  the  doctrine  of  Epicurus), 
beholding  the  image  of  Pompey,  before 
they  entered  into  the  action  of  their  \ 
traitorous  enterprise,  he  did  softly  [290  , 
call  upon  it  to  aid  him.  But  the  instant 
danger  of  the  present  time,  taking  away  , 
his  former  reason,  did  suddenly  put  him 
into  a  furious  passion,  and  made  him  like 
a  man  half  beside  himself. 

Now  Antonius,  that  was  a  faithful 
friend  to  Caesar,  and  a  valiant  man  be- 
sides of  his  hands,  Decius  Brutus  Albinus 
entertained  out  of  the  Senate-house, 
having  begun  a  long  tale  of  set  pur-  [300 
pose.  So  Caesar  coming  into  the  house, 
all  the  Senate  stood  up  on  their  feet  to  do 
him  honor.  Then  part  of  Brutus'  com- 
pany and  confederates  stood  round  about 
Caesar's  chair,  and  part  of  them  also  came 
towards  him,  as  though  they  made  suit 
with  Metellus  Cimber  to  call  home  his 
brother  again  from  banishment;  and  thus 
prosecuting  still  their  suit,  they  followed 
Caesar  till  he  was  set  in  his  chair.  [310 
Who,  denying  their  petitions,  and  being 
offended  with  them  one  after  another, 
because  the  more  they  were  denied  the 
more  they  pressed  upon  him,  and  were 
the  earnester  with  him,  Metellus,  at 
length,  taking  his  gown  with  both  his 
hands,  pulled  it  over  his  neck,  which 
was  the  sign  given  the  confederates  to 
set  upon  him.  Then  Casca  behind  him 
strake  him  in  the  neck  with  his  sword;  [320 
howbeit,  the  wound  was  not  great  nor 
mortal,  because  it  seemed  the  fear  of 
such  a  devilish  attempt  did  amaze  him 
and  take  his  strength  from  him,  that  he 
killed  him  not  at  the  first  blow.  But 
Caesar  turning  straight  unto  him,  caught 
hold  of  his  sword  and  held  it  hard;  and 
they  both  cried  out,  Caesar  in  Latin,  0 
vile  traitor  Casca,  what  doest  thou?  And 
Casca  in  Greek  to  his  brother,  Brother,  [330 


NORTH 


95 


help  me.  At  the  beginning  of  this  stir 
they  that  were  present,  not  knowing  of 
the  conspiracy,  were  so  amazed  with  the 
horrible  sight  they  saw  they  had  no  power 
to  fly,  neither  to  help  him,  not  so  much 
as  once  to  make  any  outcry.  They  on 
the  other  side  that  had  conspired  his  death 
compassed  him  in  on  every  side  with  their 
swords  drawn  in  their  hands,  that  Caesar 
turned  him  nowhere  but  he  was  [340 
stricken  at  by  some,  and  still  had  naked 
swords  in  his  face,  and  was  hacked  and 
mangled  among  them  as  a  wild  beast 
taken  of  hunters.  For  it  was  agreed  among 
them  that  every  man  should  give  him  a 
wound,  because  all  their  parts  should  be  in 
this  murder;  and  then  Brutus  himself  gave 
him  one  wound.  Men  report  also  that 
Caesar  did  still  defend  himself  against 
the  rest,  running  every  way  with  his  [350 
body;  but  when  he  saw  Brutus,  with  his 
sword  drawn  in  his  hand,  then  he  pulled 
his  gown  over  his  head  and  made  no  more 
resistance,  and  was  driven,  either  casually 
or  purposely,  by  the  counsel  of  the  con- 
spirators, against  the  base  whereupon 
Pompey's  image  stood,  which  ran  all  of 
a  gore-blood  till  he  was  slain.  Thus  it 
seemed  that  the  image  took  just  revenge 
of  Pompey's  enemy,  being  thrown  [360 
down  on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  and  yield- 
ing up  his  ghost  there,  for  the  number  of 
wounds  he  had  upon  him.  For  it  is  re- 
ported that  he  had  three-and-twenty 
wounds  upon  his  body;  and  divers  of  the 
conspirators  did  hurt  themselves,  striking 
one  body  with  so  many  blows. 

When  Caesar  was  slain  the  Senate 
(though  Brutus  stood  in  the  midst  among 
them,  as  though  he  would  have  said  [370 
somewhat  touching  this  fact)  presently 
ran  out  of  the  house,  and  flying,  filled  all 
the  city  with  marvellous  fear  and  tumult. 
Insomuch  as  some  did  shut-to  their  doors, 
others  forsook  their  shops  and  ware- 
houses, and  others  ran  to  the  place  to  see 
what  the  matter  was;  and  others  also, 
that  had  seen  it,  ran  home  to  their  houses 
again.  But  Antonius  and  Lepidus,  which 
were  two  of  Caesar's  chiefest  friends,  [380 
secretly  conveying  themselves  away,  fled 
into  other  men's  houses  and  forsook  their 
own.  Brutus  and  his  confederates  on  the 
other  side,  being  yet  hot  with  this  murder 


they  had  committed,  having  their  swords 
drawn  in  their  hands,  came  all  in  a  troop 
together  out  of  the  Senate  and  went  into 
the  market-place;  not  as  men  that  made 
countenance  to  fly,  but  otherwise  boldly 
holding  up  their  heads  like  men  of  [390 
courage,  and  called  to  the  people  to  defend 
their  liberty,  and  stayed  to  speak  with 
every  great  personage  whom  they  met 
in  their  way.  Of  them,  some  followed 
this  troop,  and  went  amongst  them  as 
if  they  had  been  of  the  conspiracy,  and 
falsely  challenged  part  of  the  honor  with 
them;  amongst  them  was  Caius  Octavius 
and  Lentulus  Spinther.  But  both  of  them 
were  afterwards  put  to  death  for  their  [400 
vain  covetousness  of  honor  by  Antonius 
and  Octavius  Caesar  the  younger,  and 
yet  had  no  part  of  that  honor  for  the 
which  they  were  put  to  death,  nor  did 
any  man  believe  that  they  were  any  of 
the  confederates  or  of  counsel  with  them. 
For  they  that  did  put  them  to  death 
took  revenge  rather  of  the  will  they  had 
to  offend  than  of  any  fact  they  had  com- 
mitted. [410 
The  next  morning  Brutus  and  his  con- 
federates came  into  the  market-place  to 
speak  unto  the  people,  who  gave  them 
such  audience  that  it  seemed  they  neither 
greatly  reproved  nor  allowed  the  fact;  for 
by  their  great  silence  they  showed  that 
they  were  sorry  for  Caesar's  death,  and 
also  that  they  did  reverence  Brutus. 
Now  the  Senate  granted  general  pardon 
for  all  that  was  past,  and  to  pacify  [420 
every  man  ordained  besides  that  Caesar's 
funerals  should  be  honored  as  a  god,  and 
established  all  things  that  he  had  done; 
and  gave  certain  provinces  also  and  con- 
venient honors  unto  Brutus  and  his  con- 
federates, whereby  every  man  thought 
all  things  were  brought  to  good  peace 
and  quietness  again.  But  when  they 
had  opened  Caesar's  testament  and  found 
a  liberal  legacy  of  money  bequeathed  [430 
unto  every  citizen  of  Rome,  and  that  they 
saw  his  body  (which  was  brought  into 
the  market-place)  all  bemangled  with 
gashes  of  swords,  then  there  was  no  order 
to  keep  the  multitude  and  common  people 
quiet,  but  they  plucked  up  forms,  tables 
and  stools,  and  laid  them  all  about  the 
body,  and  setting  them  afire,  burnt  the 


96 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


corpse.  Then  when  the  fire  was  well 
kindled,  they  took  the  firebrands  and  [440 
went  unto  their  houses  that  had  slain 
Caesar,  to  set  them  afire.  Others  also  ran 
up  and  down  the  city  to  see  if  they  could 
meet  with  any  of  them,  to  cut  them  in 
pieces;  howbeit  they  could  meet  with 
never  a  man  of  them,  because  they  had 
locked  themselves  up  safely  in  their 
houses.  There  was  one  of  Caesar's  friends 
called  Cinna,  that  had  a  marvellous  strange 
and  terrible  dream  the  night  be-  [450 
fore.  He  dreamed  that  Caesar  bade  him 
to  supper,  and  that  he  refused  and  would 
not  go;  then  that  Caesar  took  him  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  against  his  will.  Now 
Cinna  hearing  at  that  time  that  they 
burnt  Caesar's  body  in  the  market-place, 
notwithstanding  that  he  feared  his  dream 
and  had  an  ague  on  him  besides,  he 
went  into  the  market-place  to  honor  his 
funerals.  When  he  came  thither  one  of  [460 
the  mean  sort  asked  him  what  his  name 
was.  He  was  straight  called  by  his  name. 
The  first  man  told  it  to  another,  and  that 
other  unto  another,  so  that  it  ran  straight 
through  them  all,  that  he  was  one  of  them 
that  murdered  Caesar  (for  indeed  one  of 
the  traitors  to  Caesar  was  also  called 
Cinna,  as  himself);  wherefore  taking  him 
for  Cinna  the  murderer,  they  fell  upon 
him  with  such  fury  that  they  presently  [470 
despatched  him  in  the  market-place.  This 
stir  and  fury  made  Brutus  and  Cassius 
more  afraid  than  of  all  that  was  past, 
and  therefore  within  few  days  after  they 
departed  out  of  Rome;  and  touching  their 
doings  afterwards,  and  what  calamity  they 
suffered  till  their  deaths,  we  have  written 
it  at  large  in  the  life  of  Brutus. 

Caesar  died  at  six-and-fifty  years  of  age, 
and  Pompey  also  lived  not  passing  [480 
four  years  more  than  he.  So  he  reaped 
no  other  fruit  of  all  his  reign  and  dominion, 
which  he  had  so  vehemently  desired  all 
his  life  and  pursued  with  such  extreme 
danger,  but  a  vain  name  only,  and  a 
superficial  glory  that  procured  him  the 
envy  and  hatred  of  his  country.  But  his 
great  prosperity  and  good  fortune  that 
favored  him  all  his  lifetime  did  con- 
tinue afterwards  in  the  revenge  of  his  [490 
death,  pursuing  the  murderers  both  by 
sea  and  land  till  they  had  not  left  a  man 


more  to  be  executed  of  all  them  that  were 
actors  or  counsellors  in  the  conspiracy  of 
his  death.  Furthermore,  of  all  the  chances 
that  happen  unto  men  upon  the  earth, 
that  which  came  to  Cassius  above  all 
other  is  most  to  be  wondered  at.  For  he 
being  overcome  in  battle  at  the  jour- 
ney of  Philippi,  slew  himself  with  the  [500 
same  sword  with  the  which  he  strake 
Caesar.  Again,  of  signs  in  the  element, 
the  great  comet  which  seven  nights  to- 
gether was  seen  very  bright  after  Caesar's 
death,  the  eighth  night  after  was  never 
seen  more.  Also  the  brightness  of  the 
sun  was  darkened,  the  which  all  that  year 
through  rose  very  pale  and  shined  not  out, 
whereby  it  gave  but  small  heat;  therefore 
the  air,  being  very  cloudy  and  dark  [510 
by  the  weakness  of  the  heat  that  could 
not  come  forth,  did  cause  the  earth  to 
bring  forth  but  raw  and  unripe  fruit, 
which  rotted  before  it  could  ripe. 

But  above  all,  the  ghost  that  appeared 
unto  Brutus  showed  plainly  that  the 
gods  were  offended  with  the  murder  of 
Caesar.  The  vision  was  thus.  Brutus  being 
ready  to  pass  over  his  army  from  the 
city  of  Abydos  to  the  other  coast  lying  [520 
directly  against  it,  slept  every  night  (as 
his  manner  was)  in  his  tent,  and  being 
yet  awake,  thinking  of  his  affairs  (for  by 
report  he  was  as  careful  a  captain,  and 
lived  with  as  little  sleep,  as  ever  man  did), 
he  thought  he  heard  a  noise  at  his  tent 
door,  and  looking  toward  the  light  of  the 
lamp  that  waxed  very  dim,  he  saw  a 
horrible  vision  of  a  man  of  wonderful 
greatness  and  dreadful  look,  which  at  [530 
the  first  made  him  marvellously  afraid. 
But  when  he  saw  that  it  did  him  no  hurt, 
but  stood  by  his  bedside  and  said  nothing, 
at  length  he  asked  him  what  he  was.  The 
image  answered  him:  I  am  thy  ill  angel, 
Brutus,  and  thou  shalt  see  me  by  the 
city  of  Philippi.  Then  Brutus  replied 
again,  and  said:  Well,  I  shall  see  thee 
then.  Therewithal,  the  spirit  presently 
vanished  from  him.  After  that  time  [540 
Brutus  being  in  battle  near  unto  the 
city  of  Philippi,  against  Antonius  and 
Octavius  Caesar,  at  the  first  battle  he  won 
the  victory,  and  overthrowing  all  them 
that  withstood  him,  he  drave  them  into 
young  Caesar's  camp,  which  he  took.    The 


LYLY 


97 


second  battle  being  at  hand,  this  spirit 
appeared  again  unto  him,  but  spake  never 
a  word.  Thereupon  Brutus,  knowing  he 
should  die,  did  put  himself  to  all  hazard  [550 
in  battle,  but  yet  fighting  could  not  be 
slain.  So  seeing  his  men  put  to  flight  and 
overthrown,  he  ran  unto  a  little  rock 
not  far  off,  and  there  setting  his  sword's 
point  to  his  breast,  fell  upon  it  and  slew 
himself,  but  yet  as  it  is  reported,  with  the 
help  of  his  friend  that  despatched  him. 


JOHN  LYLY  (1654?-1606) 

QUEEN  ELIZABETH 

From  Euphues  and  His  England 

This  queen  being  deceased,  Elizabeth, 
being  of  the  age  of  twenty-two  years,  of 
more  beauty  than  honor,  and  yet  of  more 
honor  than  any  earthly  creature,  was 
called  from  a  prisoner  to  be  a  prince,  from 
the  castle  to  the  crown,  from  the  fear  of 
losing  her  head,  to  be  supreme  head. 

Touching  the  beauty  of  this  prince,  her 
countenance,  her  personage,  her  majesty, 
I  cannot  think  that  it  may  be  suffi-  [10 
ciently  commended,  when  it  cannot  be 
too  much  marveled  at;  so  that  I  am  con- 
strained to  say  as  Praxitiles  did,  when  he 
began  to  paint  Venus  and  her  son,  who 
doubted  whether  the  world  could  afford 
colors  good  enough  for  two  such  fair  faces, 
and  I,  whether  our  tongue  can  yield  words 
to  blaze  that  beauty,  the  perfection 
whereof  none  can  imagine;  which  seeing 
it  is  so,  I  must  do  like  those  that  want  [20 
a  clear  sight,  who,  being  not  able  to  dis- 
cern the  sun  in  the  sky,  are  enforced  to 
behold  it  in  the  water.  Zeuxis,  having 
before  him  fifty  fair  virgins  of  Sparta 
whereby  to  draw  one  amiable  Venus,  said 
that  fifty  more  fairer  than  those  could  not 
minister  sufficient  beauty  to  show  the 
goddess  of  beauty;  therefore,  being  in 
despair  either  by  art  to  shadow  her,  or 
by  imagination  to  comprehend  her,  he  [30 
drew  in  a  table  a  fair  temple,  the  gates 
open,  and  Venus  going  in  so  as  nothing 
could  be  perceived  but  her  back,  wherein 
he  used  such  cunning  that  Apelles  himself, 
seeing  this  work,  wished  that  Venus  would 


turn  her  face,  saying  that  if  it  were  in  all 
parts  agreeable  to  the  back,  he  would 
become  apprentice  to  Zeuxis,  and  slave  to 
Venus.  In  the  like  manner  fareth  it  with 
me,  for  having  all  the  ladies  in  Italy,  [40 
more  than  fifty  hundred,  whereby  to  color 
Elizabeth,  I  must  say  with  Zeuxis  that 
as  many  more  will  not  suffice,  and  there- 
fore in  as  great  an  agony  paint  her  court 
with  her  back  towards  you,  for  that  I 
cannot  by  art  portray  her  beauty,  wherein, 
though  I  want  the  skill  to  do  it  as  Zeuxis 
did,  yet  viewing  it  narrowly,  and  compar- 
ing it  wisely,  you  all  will  say  that  if 
her  face  be  answerable  to  her  back,  you  [50 
will  like  my  handicraft  and  become  her 
handmaids.  In  the  mean  season,  I  leave 
you  gazing  until  she  turn  her  face,  im- 
agining her  to  be  such  a  one  as  nature 
framed,  to  that  end  that  no  art  should 
imitate,  wherein  she  hath  proved  herself 
to  be  exquisite,  and  painters  to  be  apes. 

This  beautiful  mold  when  I  beheld  to 
be  indued  with  chastity,  temperance,  mild- 
ness, and  all  other  good  gifts  of  na-  [60 
ture  (as  hereafter  shall  appear),  when  I 
saw  her  to  surpass  all  in  beauty,  and  yet  a 
virgin,  to  excel  all  in  piety,  and  yet  a 
prince,  to  be  inferior  to  none  in  all  the 
lineaments  of  the  body,  and  yet  superior 
to  every  one  in  all  gifts  of  the  mind,  I  be- 
gan thus  to  pray,  that  as  she  hath  lived 
forty  years  a  virgin  in  great  majesty,  so 
she  may  live  four  score  years  a  mother 
with  great  joy,  that  as  with  her  we  have  [70 
long  time  had  peace  and  plenty,  so  by 
her  we  may  ever  have  quietness  and 
abundance,  wishing  this  even  from  the 
bottom  of  a  heart  that  wisheth  well  to 
England,  though  feareth  ill,  that  either 
the  world  may  end  before  she  die,  or  she 
live  to  see  her  children's  children  in  the 
world;  otherwise  how  tickle  their  state 
is  that  now  triumph,  upon  what  a  twist 
they  hang  that  now  are  in  honor,  [80 
they  that  live  shall  see,  which  I  to  think 
on,  sigh!  But  God  for  his  mercy's  sake, 
Christ  for  his  merit's  sake,  the  Holy 
Ghost  for  his  name's  sake,  grant  to  that 
realm  comfort  without  any  ill  chance,  and 
the  prince  they  have  without  any  other 
change,  that  the  longer  she  liveth  the 
sweeter  she  may  smell,  like  the  bird  Ibis, 
that  she  may  be  triumphant  in  victories 


98 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


like  the  palm  tree,  fruitful  in  her  [90 
age  like  the  vine,  in  all  ages  prosperous,  to 
all  men  gracious,  in  all  places  glorious, 
so  that  there  be  no  end  of  her  praise  until 
the  end  of  all  flesh. 

Thus  did  I  often  talk  with  myself,  and 
wish  with  mine  whole  soul. 

Why  should  I  talk  of  her  sharp  wit, 
excellent  wisdom,  exquisite  learning,  and 
all  other  qualities  of  the  mind,  wherein  she 
seemeth  as  far  to  excel  those  that  have  [100 
been  accounted  singular,  as  the  learned 
have  surpassed  those  that  have  been 
thought  simple. 

In  questioning,  not  inferior  to  Nicaulia, 
the  queen  of  Saba,  that  did  put  so  many 
hard  doubts  to  Solomon;  equal  to  Nicos- 
trata  in  the  Greek  tongue,  who  was 
thought  to  give  precepts  for  the  better 
perfection;  more  learned  in  the  Latin 
than  Amalasunta;  passing  Aspasia  in  [no 
philosophy,  who  taught  Pericles;  exceed- 
ing in  judgment  Themistoclea,  who  in- 
structed Pythagoras.  Add  to  these  qual- 
ities, those  that  none  of  these  had:  the 
French  tongue,  the  Spanish,  the  Italian, 
not  mean  in  every  one,  but  excellent  in 
all;  readier  to  correct  escapes  in  those 
languages  than  to  be  controlled;  fitter  to 
teach  others  than  learn  of  any;  more  able 
to  add  new  rules  than  to  err  in  the  [120 
old;  insomuch  as  there  is  no  ambassador 
that  cometh  into  her  court  but  she  is  will- 
ing and  able  both  to  understand  his  mes- 
sage and  utter  her  mind;  not  like  unto  the 
kings  of  Assyria,  who  answer  ambassadors 
by  messengers,  while  they  themselves 
either  dally  in  sin  or  snort  in  sleep.  Her 
godly  zeal  to  learning,  with  her  great 
skill,  hath  been  so  manifestly  approved 
that  I  cannot  tell  whether  she  deserve  [130 
more  honor  for  her  knowledge,  or  admira- 
tion for  her  courtesy,  who  in  great  pomp 
hath  twice  directed  her  progress  unto  the 
universities  with  no  less  joy  to  the  stu- 
dents than  glory  to  her  state.  Where, 
after  long  and  solemn  disputations  in 
law,  physic,  and  divinity,  not  as  one 
wearied  with  scholars'  arguments,  but 
wedded  to  their  orations,  when  every 
one  feared  to  offend  in  length,  she  [140 
in  her  own  person,  with  no  less  praise  to 
her  Majesty  than  delight  to  her  subjects, 
with  a  wise  and  learned  conclusion,  both 


gave  them  thanks,  and  put  herself  to 
pains.  O  noble  pattern  of  a  princely 
mind,  not  like  to  the  kings  of  Persia,  who 
in  their  progresses  did  nothing  else  but 
cut  sticks  to  drive  away  the  time,  nor 
like  the  delicate  lives  of  the  Sybarites,  who 
would  not  admit  any  art  to  be  exer-  [150 
cised  within  their  city  that  might  make 
the  least  noise.  Her  wit  so  sharp,  that 
if  I  should  repeat  the  apt  answers,  the 
subtle  questions,  the  fine  speeches,  the 
pithy  sentences,  which  on  the  sudden 
she  hath  uttered,  they  would  rather  breed 
admiration  than  credit.  But  such  are 
the  gifts  that  the  living  God  hath  indued 
her  withal,  that  look  in  what  art  or  lan- 
guage, wit  or  learning,  virtue  or  beauty  [160 
any  one  hath  particularly  excelled  most, 
she  only  hath  generally  exceeded  every 
one  in  all,  insomuch  that  there  is  nothing 
to  be  added  that  either  man  would  wish 
in  a  woman,  or  God  doth  give  to  a  crea- 
ture. 

I  let  pass  her  skill  in  music,  her  knowl- 
edge in  all  the  other  sciences,  whenas  I 
fear  lest  by  my  simplicity  I  should  make 
them  less  than  they  are,  in  seeking  to  [170 
show  how  great  they  are,  unless  I  were 
praising  her  in  the  gallery  of  Olympia, 
where  giving  forth  one  word,  I  might 
hear  seven. 

But  all  these  graces,  although  they  be 
to  be  wondered  at,  yet  her  politic  gov- 
ernment, her  prudent  counsel,  her  zeal  to 
religion,  her  clemency  to  those  that  sub- 
mit, her  stoutness  to  those  that  threaten, 
so  far  exceed  all  other  virtues  that  [180 
they  are  more  easy  to  be  marveled  at  than 
imitated. 

Two  and  twenty  years  hath  she  borne 
the  sword  with  such  justice,  that  neither 
offenders  could  complain  of  rigor,  nor 
the  innocent  of  wrong;  yet  so  tempered 
with  mercy  as  malefactors  have  been 
sometimes  pardoned  upon  hope  of  grace, 
and  the  injured  requited  to  ease  their 
grief,  insomuch  that  in  the  whole  [190 
course  of  her  glorious  reign,  it  could  never 
be  said  that  either  the  poor  were  oppressed 
without  remedy,  or  the  guilty  repressed 
without  cause,  bearing  this  engraven  in 
her  noble  heart,  that  justice  without 
mercy  were  extreme  injury,  and  pity 
without  equity  plain  partiality,  and  that 


LYLY 


99 


it  is  as  great  tyranny  not  to  mitigate 
laws,  as  iniquity  to  break  them. 

Her  care  for  the  flourishing  of  the  [200 
Gospel  hath  well  appeared,  whenas  neither 
the  curses  of  the  Pope  (which  are  bless- 
ings to  good  people)  nor  the  threatenings 
of  kings  (which  are  perilous  to  a  prince) 
nor  the  persuasions  of  papists  (which  are 
honey  to  the  mouth)  could  either  fear 
her  or  allure  her  to  violate  the  holy 
league  contracted  with  Christ,  or  to 
maculate  the  blood  of  the  ancient  Lamb, 
which  is  Christ.  But  always  constant  [210 
in  the  true  faith,  she  hath  to  the  exceeding 
joy  of  her  subjects,  to  the  unspeakable 
comfort  of  her  soul,  to  the  great  glory  of 
God,  established  that  religion  the  main- 
tenance whereof  she  rather  seeketh  to 
confirm  by  fortitude,  than  leave  off  for 
fear,  knowing  that  there  is  nothing  that 
smelleth  sweeter  to  the  Lord  than  a  sound 
spirit,  which  neither  the  hosts  of  the  un- 
godly nor  the  horror  of  death  can  [220 
either  remove  or  move. 

This  Gospel  with  invincible  courage, 
with  rare  constancy,  with  hot  zeal,  she 
hath  maintained  in  her  own  countries 
without  change,  and  defended  against  all 
kingdoms  that  sought  change,  insomuch 
that  all  nations  round  about  her,  threat- 
ening alteration,  shaking  swords,  throw- 
ing fire,  menacing  famine,  murder,  de- 
struction, desolation,  she  only  hath  [230 
stood  like  a  lamp  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  not 
fearing  the  blasts  of  the  sharp  winds,  but 
trusting  in  His  providence  that  rideth 
upon  the  wings  of  the  four  winds.  Next 
followeth  the  love  she  beareth  to  her  sub- 
jects, who  no  less  tendereth  them  than 
the  apple  of  her  own  eye,  showing  herself 
a  mother  to  the  afflicted,  a  physician  to 
the  sick,  a  sovereign  and  mild  governess 
to  all.  [240 

Touching  her  magnanimity,  her  maj- 
esty, her  estate  royal,  there  was  neither 
Alexander,  nor  Galba  the  Emperor,  nor 
any,  that  might  be  compared  with  her. 

This  is  she  that,  resembling  the  noble 
queen  of  Navarre,  useth  the  marigold  for 
her  flower,  which  at  the  rising  of  the  sun 
openeth  her  leaves,   and  at   the   setting 


shutteth  them,  referring  all  her  actions 
and  endeavors  to  him  that  ruleth  the  [250 
sun.  This  is  that  Caesar,  that  first  bound 
the  crocodile  to  the  palm  tree,  bridling 
those  that  sought  to  rein  her.  This  is  that 
good  pelican,  that  to  feed  her  people 
spare th  not  to  rend  her  own  person. 
This  is  that  mighty  eagle,  that  hath 
thrown  dust  into  the  eyes  of  the  hart 
that  went  about  to  work  destruction  to 
her  subjects,  into  whose  wings  although 
the  blind  beetle  would  have  crept,  and  [260 
so  being  carried  into  her  nest,  destroyed 
her  young  ones,  yet  hath  she  with  the 
virtue  of  her  feathers,  consumed  that  fly 
in  his  own  fraud.  She  hath  exiled  the 
swallow  that  sought  to  spoil  the  grass- 
hopper, and  given  bitter  almonds  to  the 
ravenous  wolves  that  endeavored  to  de- 
vour the  silly  lambs,  burning  even  with 
the  breath  of  her  mouth  like  the  princely 
stag,  the  serpents  that  were  engen-  [270 
dered  by  the  breath  of  the  huge  elephant, 
so  that  now  all  her  enemies  are  as  whist  as 
the  bird  Attagen,  who  never  singeth  any 
tune  after  she  is  taken, — nor  they,  being  so 
overtaken. 

But  whither  do  I  wade,  ladies,  as  one 
forgetting  himself;  thinking  to  sound  the 
depth  of  her  virtues  with  a  few  fathoms, 
when  there  is  no  bottom;  for  I  know 
not  how  it  cometh  to  pass  that,  being  [280 
in  this  labyrinth,  I  may  sooner  lose  my- 
self than  find  the  end. 

Behold,  ladies,  in  this  glass  a  queen, 
a  woman,  a  virgin,  in  all  gifts  of  the  body, 
in  all  graces  of  the  mind,  in  all  perfection 
of  either,  so  far  to  excel  all  men,  that  I 
know  not  whether  I  may  think  the  place 
too  bad  for  her  to  dwell  among  men. 

To  talk  of  other  things  in  that  court 
were  to  bring  eggs  after  apples,  or  [290 
after  the  setting  out  of  the  sun,  to  tell  a 
tale  of  a  shadow. 

But  this  I  say,  that  all  offices  are  looked 
to  with  great  care,  that  virtue  is  em- 
braced of  all,  vice  hated,  religion  daily 
increased,  manners  reformed,  that  whoso 
seeth  the  place  there,  will  think  it  rather 
a  church  for  divine  service  than  a  court 
for  princes'  delight. 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  (1564-1586) 
From  THE  DEFENCE  OF  POESY 

Chaucer,  undoubtedly,  did  excellently 
in  his  Troilus  and  Criseyde;  of  whom, 
truly,  I  know  not  whether  to  marvel 
more,  either  that  he  in  that  misty  time 
could  see  so  clearly,  or  that  we  in  this 
clear  age  walk  so  stumblingly  after  him. 
Yet  had  he  great  wants,  fit  to  be  forgiven 
in  so  reverend  antiquity.  I  account  the 
Mirror  of  Magistrates  meetly  furnished 
of  beautiful  parts;  and  in  the  Earl  of  [10 
Surrey's  lyrics  many  things  tasting  of 
a  noble  birth,  and  worthy  of  a  noble 
mind.  The  Shepherd's  Calendar  hath 
much  poetry  in  his  eclogues,  indeed  worthy 
the  reading,  if  I  be  not  deceived.  That 
same  framing  of  his  style  to  an  old  rustic 
language  I  dare  not  allow,  since  neither 
Theocritus  in  Greek,  Virgil  in  Latin,  nor 
Sannazzaro  in  Italian  did  affect  it.  Be- 
sides these,  I  do  not  remember  to  have  [20 
seen  but  few  (to  speak  boldly)  printed, 
that  have  poetical  sinews  in  them.  For 
proof  whereof,  let  but  most  of  the  verses 
be  put  in  prose,  and  then  ask  the  mean- 
ing, and  it  will  be  found  that  one  verse 
did  but  beget  another,  without  ordering 
at  the  first  what  should  be  at  the  last; 
which  becomes  a  confused  mass  of  words, 
with  a  tinkling  sound  of  rime,  barely  ac- 
companied with  reason.  [30 

Our  tragedies  and  comedies  not  with- 
out cause  cried  out  against,  observing 
rules  neither  of  honest  civility  nor  of 
skilful  poetry,  excepting  Gorboduc, — again 
I  say  of  those  that  I  have  seen.  Which 
notwithstanding  as  it  is  full  of  stately 
speeches  and  well-sounding  phrases,  climb- 
ing to  the  height  of  Seneca's  style,  and  as 
full  of  notable  morality,  which  it  doth 
most  delightfully  teach,  and  so  obtain  [40 
the  very  end  of  poesy;  yet  in  truth  it 
is  very  defectious  in  the  circumstances, 
which  grieveth  me,  because  it  might  not 
remain  as  an  exact  model  of  all  tragedies. 
For  it  is  faulty  both  in  place  and  time, 
the  two  necessary  companions  of  all  cor- 
poral actions.  For  where  the  stage  should 
always  represent  but  one  place,  and  the 
uttermost  time  presupposed  in  it  should 


be,  both  by  Aristotle's  precept  and  [50 
common  reason,  but  one  day;  there  is 
both  many  days  and  many  places  inarti- 
ficially  imagined. 

But  if  it  be  so  in  Gorboduc,  how  much 
more  in  all  the  rest?  where  you  shall 
have  Asia  of  the  one  side,  and  Afric  of 
the  other,  and  so  many  other  under- 
kingdoms,  that  the  player,  when  he 
cometh  in,  must  ever  begin  with  telling 
where  he  is,  or  else  the  tale  will  not  be  [60 
conceived.  Now  ye  shall  have  three  ladies 
walk  to  gather  flowers,  and  then  we  must 
believe  the  stage  to  be- a  garden.  By  and 
by  we  hear  news  of  shipwreck  in  the  same 
place,  and  then  we  are  to  blame  if  we 
accept  it  not  for  a  rock.  Upon  the  back 
of  that  comes  out  a  hideous  monster  with 
fire  and  smoke,  and  then  the  miserable 
beholders  are  bound  to  take  it  for  a  cave. 
While  in  the  meantime  two  armies  fly  [70 
in,  represented  with  four  swords  and 
bucklers,  and  then  what  hard  heart  will 
not  receive  it  for  a  pitched  field? 

Now  of  time  they  are  much  more  lib- 
eral. For  ordinary  it  is  that  two  young 
princes  fall  in  love;  after  many  traverses 
she  is  got  with  child,  delivered  of  a  fair 
boy,  he  is  lost,  groweth  a  man,  falleth  in 
love,  and  is  ready  to  get  another  child, — 
and  all  this  in  two  hours'  space;  which  [80 
how  absurd  it  is  in  sense  even  sense  may 
imagine,  and  art  hath  taught,  and  all 
ancient  examples  justified,  and  at  this 
day  the  ordinary  players  in  Italy  will  not 
err  in.  Yet  will  some  bring  in  an  example 
of  Eunuchus  in  Terence,  that  containeth 
matter  of  two  days,  yet  far  short  of 
twenty  years.  True  it  is,  and  so  was  it 
to  be  played  in  two  days,  and  so  fitted  to 
the  time  it  set  forth.  And  though  [90 
Plautus  have  in  one  place  done  amiss,  let 
us  hit  with  him,  and  not  miss  with  him. 
But  they  will  say,  How  then  shall  we  set 
forth  a  story  which  containeth  both 
many  places  and  many  times?  And  do 
they  not  know  that  a  tragedy  is  tied  to 
the  laws  of  poesy,  and  not  of  history; 
not  bound  to  follow  the  story,  but  hav- 
ing liberty  either  to  feign  a  quite  new 
matter,  or  to  frame  the  history  to  [100 
the  most  tragical  conveniency?  Again, 
many  things  may  be  told  which  cannot  be 
showed, — if  they  know  the  difference  be- 


SIDNEY 


twixt  reporting  and  representing.  As 
for  example  I  may  speak,  though  I  am 
here,  of  Peru,  and  in  speech  digress  from 
that  to  the  description  of  Calicut;  but  in 
action  I  cannot  represent  it  without 
Pacolet's  horse.  And  so  was  the  manner 
the  ancients  took,  by  some  Nuntius  [no 
to  recount  things  done  in  former  time  or 
other  place. 

Lastly,  if  they  will  represent  a  history, 
they  must  not,  as  Horace  saith,  begin 
ab  ovo,  but  they  must  come  to  the  prin- 
cipal point  of  that  one  action  which  they 
will  represent.  By  example  this  will  be 
best  expressed.  I  have  a  story  of  young 
Polydorus,  delivered  for  safety's  sake, 
with  great  riches,  by  his  father  [120 
Priamus  to  Polymnestor,  King  of  Thrace, 
in  the  Trojan  war  time.  He,  after  some 
years,  hearing  the  overthrow  of  Priamus, 
for  to  make  the  treasure  his  own,  mur- 
dereth  the  child;  the  body  of  the  child  is 
taken  up  by  Hecuba;  she,  the  same  day, 
findeth  a  sleight  to  be  revenged  most 
cruelly  of  the  tyrant.  Where  now  would 
one  of  our  tragedy- writers  begin,  but  with 
the  delivery  of  the  child?  Then  should  [130 
he  sail  over  into  Thrace,  and  so  spend  I 
know  not  how  many  years,  and  travel 
numbers  of  places.  But  where  doth 
Euripides?  Even  with  the  finding  of  the 
body,  leaving  the  rest  to  be  told  by  the 
spirit  of  Polydorus.  This  needs  no  further 
to  be  enlarged;  the  dullest  wit  may  con- 
ceive it. 

But,  besides  these  gross  absurdities, 
how  all  their  plays  be  neither  right  [140 
tragedies  nor  right  comedies,  mingling 
kings  and  clowns,  not  because  the  matter 
so  carrieth  it,  but  thrust  in  clowns  by 
head  and  shoulders  to  play  a  part  in 
majestical  matters,  with  neither  decency 
nor  discretion;  so  as  neither  the  admira- 
tion and  commiseration,  nor  the  right 
sportfulness,  is  by  their  mongrel  tragi- 
comedy obtained.  I  know  Apuleius  did 
somewhat  so,  but  that  is  a  thing  re-  [150 
counted  with  space  of  time,  not  repre- 
sented in  one  moment:  and  I  know  the 
ancients  have  one  or  two  examples  of 
tragi-comedies,  as  Plautus  hath  Amphi- 
trio.  But,  if  we  mark  them  well,  we  shall 
find  that  they  never,  or  very  daintily, 
match  hornpipes  and  funerals.    So  falleth 


it  out  that,  having  indeed  no  right  comedy 
in  that  comical  part  of  our  tragedy,  we 
have  nothing  but  scurrility,  unworthy  [160 
of  any  chaste  ears,  or  some  extreme  show 
of  doltishness,  indeed  fit  to  lift  up  a  loud 
laughter,  and  nothing  else;  where  the 
whole  tract  of  a  comedy  should  be  full 
of  delight,  as  the  tragedy  should  be  still 
maintained  in  a  well-raised  admiration. 


But  I  have  lavished  out  too  many 
words  of  this  play-matter.  I  do  it,  be- 
cause as  they  are  excelling  parts  of  poesy, 
so  is  there  none  so  much  used  in  Eng-  [170 
land,  and  none  can  be  more  pitifully 
abused;  which,  like  an  unmannerly 
daughter,  showing  a  bad  education,  caus- 
eth  her  mother  Poesy's  honesty  to  be 
called  in  question. 

Other  sorts  of  poetry  almost  have  we 
none,  but  that  lyrical  kind  of  songs  and 
sonnets,  which,  the  Lord  if  he  gave  us  so 
good  minds,  how  well  it  might  be  em- 
ployed, and  with  how  heavenly  fruits,  [180 
both  private  and  public,  in  singing  the 
praises  of  the  immortal  beauty,  the  im- 
mortal goodness  of  that  God  who  giveth 
us  hands  to  write,  and  wits  to  conceive; 
of  which  we  might  well  want  words,  but 
never  matter;  of  which  we  could  turn  our 
eyes  to  nothing,  but  we  should  ever  have 
new-budding  occasions. 

But  truly,  many  of  such  writings  as 
come  under  the  banner  of  unresistible  [190 
love,  if  I  were  a  mistress  would  never 
persuade  me  they  were  in  love;  so  coldly 
they  apply  fiery  speeches,  as  men  that 
had  rather  read  lovers'  writings,  and  so 
caught  up  certain  swelling  phrases — which 
hang  together  like  a  man  which  once  told 
me  the  wind  was  at  northwest  and  by 
south,  because  he  would  be  sure  to  name 
winds  enough — than  that  in  truth  they 
feel  those  passions,  which  easily,  as  I  [200 
think,  may  be  bewrayed  by  that  same 
forcibleness,  or  energia  (as  the  Greeks 
call  it),  of  the  writer.  But  let  this  be  a 
sufficient,  though  short  note,  that  we 
miss  the  right  use  of  the  material  point 
of  poesy. 

But  what!  methinks  I  deserve  to  be 
pounded  for  straying  from  poetry  to  ora- 


102 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


tory.  But  both  have  such  an  affinity  in 
this  wordish  consideration,  that  I  [210 
think  this  digression  will  make  my  mean- 
ing receive  the  fuller  understanding :  which 
is  not  to  take  upon  me  to  teach  poets  how 
they  should  do,  but  only,  finding  myself 
sick  among  the  rest,  to  show  some  one  or 
two  spots  of  the  common  infection  grown 
among  the  most  part  of  writers;  that,  ac- 
knowledging ourselves  somewhat  awry, 
we  may  bend  to  the  right  use  both  of 
matter  and  manner:  whereto  our  Ian-  [220 
guage  giveth  us  great  occasion,  being, 
indeed,  capable  of  any  excellent  exercising 
of  it. 

I  know  some  will  say  it  is  a  mingled 
language.  And  why  not  so  much  the 
better,  taking  the  best  of  both  the  other? 
Another  will  say  it  wanteth  grammar. 
Nay,  truly,  it  hath  that  praise  that  it 
wanteth  not  grammar.  For  grammar  it 
might  have,  but  it  needs  it  not;  being  [230 
so  easy  in  itself,  and  so  void  of  those 
cumbersome  differences  of  cases,  genders, 
moods,  and  tenses,  which,  I  think,  was  a 
piece  of  the  Tower  of  Babylon's  curse, 
that  a  man  should  be  put  to  school  to 
learn  his  mother-tongue.  But  for  the 
uttering  sweetly  and  properly  the  con- 
ceits of  the  mind,  which  is  the  end  of 
speech,  that  hath  it  equally  with  any 
other  tongue  in  the  world;  and  is  par-  [240 
ticularly  happy  in  compositions  of  two 
or  three  words  together,  near  the  Greek, 
far  beyond  the  Latin, — which  is  one  of 
the  greatest  beauties  can  be  in  a  language. 

Now  of  versifying  there  are  two  sorts, 
the  one  ancient,  the  other  modern.  The 
ancient  marked  the  quantity  of  each 
syllable,  and  according  to  that,  framed 
his  verse;  the  modern  observing  only 
number,  with  some  regard  of  the  ac-  [250 
cent,  the  chief  life  of  it  standeth  in  that 
like  sounding  of  the  words,  which  we  call 
rime.  Whether  of  these  be  the  more  ex- 
cellent, would  bear  many  speeches;  the 
ancient  no  doubt  more  fit  for  music,  both 
words  and  tune  observing  quantity;  and 
more  fit  lively  to  express  divers  passions, 
by  the  low  and  lofty  sound  of  the  well- 
weighed  syllable.  The  latter  likewise 
with  his  rime  striketh  a  certain  music  [260 
to  the  ear;  and,  in  fine,  since  it  doth  de- 
light, though  by  another  way,  it  obtaineth 


the  same  purpose;  there  being  in  either, 
sweetness,  and  wanting  in  neither,  maj- 
esty. Truly  the  English,  before  any 
other  vulgar  language  I  know,  is  fit  for 
both  sorts.  For,  for  the  ancient,  the 
Italian  is  so  full  of  vowels  that  it  must 
ever  be  cumbered  with  elisions;  the 
Dutch  so,  of  the  other  side,  with  con-  [270 
sonants,  that  they  cannot  yield  the  sweet 
sliding  fit  for  a  verse.  The  French,  in 
his  whole  language,  hath  not  one  word 
that  hath  his  accent  in  the  last  syllable 
saving  two,  called  antepenultima,  and 
little  more  hath  the  Spanish;  and  there- 
fore very  gracelessly  may  they  use  dactyls. 
The  English  is  subject  to  none  of  these 
defects. 

Now  for  rime,  though  we  do  not  [280 
observe  quantity,  yet  we  observe  the  ac- 
cent very  precisely,  which  other  languages 
either  cannot  do,  or  will  not  do  so  ab- 
solutely. That  caesura,  or  breathing- 
place  in  the  midst  of  the  verse,  neither 
Italian  nor  Spanish  have,  the  French  and 
we  never  almost  fail  of.  Lastly,  even  the 
very  rime  itself  the  Italian  cannot  put  in 
the  last  syllable,  by  the  French  named  the 
masculine  rime,  but  still  in  the  next  [290 
to  the  last,  which  the  French  call  the  fe- 
male, or  the  next  before  that,  which  the 
Italians  term  sdriicciola.  The  example  of 
the  former  is  bnono,  suono;  of  the  sdriicciola 
is  femina,  semina.  The  French,  of  the 
other  side,  hath  both  the  male,  as  bon, 
son,  and  the  female,  as  plaise,  taise;  but 
the  sdrucciola  he  hath  not.  Where  the 
English  hath  all  three,  as  due,  true; 
father,  rather;  motion,  potion;  with  [300 
much  more  which  might  be  said,  but  that 
I  find  already  the  trifiingness  of  this 
discourse   is    much    too    much   enlarged. 

So  that  since  the  ever  praiseworthy 
poesy  is  full  of  virtue-breeding  delight- 
fulness,  and  void  of  no  gift  that  ought  to 
be  in  the  noble  name  of  learning;  since 
the  blames  laid  against  it  are  either  false 
or  feeble;  since  the  cause  why  it  is  not 
esteemed  in  England  is  the  fault  of  [310 
poet-apes,  not  poets;  since,  lastly,  our 
tongue  is  most  fit  to  honor  poesy,  and  to 
be  honored  by  poesy;  I  conjure  you  all 
that  have  had  the  evil  luck  to  read  this 
ink-wasting  toy  of  mine,  even  in  the  name 
of  the  Nine  Muses,  no  more  to  scorn  the 


RALEIGH 


103 


sacred  mysteries  of  poesy;  no  more  to 
laugh  at  the  name  of  poets,  as  though  they 
were  next  inheritors  to  fools;  no  more  to 
jest  at  the  reverend  title  of  a  rimer;  but  [320 
to  believe,  .  .  .  with  me,  that  there  are 
many  mysteries  contained  in  poetry  which 
of  purpose  were  written  darkly,  lest  by 
profane  wits  it  should  be  abused;  to  be- 
lieve, with  Landin,  that  they  are  so  be- 
loved of  the  gods  that  whatsoever  they 
write  proceeds  of  a  divine  fury;  lastly,  to 
believe  themselves,  when  they  tell  you 
they  will  make  you  immortal  by  their 
verses.  [330 

Thus  doing,  your  name  shall  flourish  in 
the  printers'  shops.  Thus  doing,  you 
shall  be  of  kin  to  many  a  poetical  preface. 
Thus  doing,  you  shall  be  most  fair,  most 
rich,  most  wise,  most  all:  you  shall  dwell 
upon  superlatives.  Thus  doing,  though 
you  be  Libertino  patre  natus,  you  shall 
suddenly  grow  Herculea  proles, 

Si  quid  mea  carmina  possunt. 

Thus  doing,  your  soul  shall  be  placed  [340 
with  Dante's  Beatrice  or  Virgil's  Anchises. 
But  if  (fie  of  such  a  but!)  you  be  born 
so  near  the  dull-making  cataract  of  Nilus, 
that  you  cannot  hear  the  planet-like 
music  of  poetry;  if  you  have  so  earth- 
creeping  a  mind,  that  it  cannot  lift  itself 
up  to  look  to  the  sky  of  poetry,  or  rather, 
by  a  certain  rustical  disdain,  will  become 
such  a  mome  as  to  be  a  Momus  of  po- 
etry; then,  though  I  will  not  wish  unto  [350 
you  the  ass's  ears  of  Midas,  nor  to  be 
driven  by  a  poet's  verses,  as  Bubonax 
was,  to  hang  himself;  nor  to  be  rimed  to 
death,  as  is  said  to  be  done  in  Ireland ;  yet 
thus  much  curse  I  must  send  you  in  the 
behalf  of  all  poets:  that  while  you  live 
you  live  in  love,  and  never  get  favor 
for  lacking  skill  of  a  sonnet;  and  when 
you  die,  your  memory  die  from  the  earth 
for  want  of  an  epitaph.  [360 

SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH    (1552?-1618) 

THE  LAST  FIGHT  OF  THE  REVENGE 

Because  the  rumors  are  diversely  spread, 
as  well  in  England  as  in  the  low  countries 
and  elsewhere,  of  this  late  encounter  be- 
tween her  Majesty's  ships  and  the  Armada 


of  Spain;  and  that  the  Spaniards,  accord- 
ing to  their  usual  manner,  fill  the  world 
with  their  vain-glorious  vaunts,  making 
great  appearance  of  victories,  when  on 
the  contrary  themselves  are  most  com- 
monly and  shamefully  beaten  and  dis-  [10 
honored,  thereby  hoping  to  possess  the 
ignorant  multitude  by  anticipating  and 
forerunning  false  reports:  it  is  agreeable 
with  all  good  reason  (for  manifestation  of 
the  truth,  to  overcome  falsehood  and 
untruth),  that  the  beginning,  continu- 
ance, and  success  of  this  late  honorable 
encounter  of  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  and 
other  her  Majesty's  captains,  with  the 
Armada  of  Spain,  should  be  truly  set  [20 
down  and  published  without  partiality  or 
false  imaginations.  And  it  is  no  marvel 
that  the  Spaniards  should  seek  by  false 
and  slanderous  pamphlets,  advisos,  and 
letters,  to  cover  their  own  loss,  and  to 
derogate  from  others  their  due  honors 
(especially  in  this  fight,  being  performed 
far  off),  seeing  they  were  not  ashamed  in 
the  year  1588,  when  they  purposed  the 
invasion  of  this  land,  to  publish  in  [30 
sundry  languages,  in  print,  great  victories 
(in  words)  which  they  pleaded  to  have 
obtained  against  this  realm,  and  spread 
the  same  in  a  most  false  sort  over  all 
parts  of  France,  Italy,  and  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

The  Lord  Thomas  Howard,  with  six 
of  her  Majesty's  ships,  six  victuallers  of 
London,  the  bark  Raleigh,  and  two  or 
three  pinnaces,  riding  at  anchor  near  unto 
Flores,  one  of  the  westerly  islands  of  [40 
the  Azores,  the  last  of  August  in  the  after- 
noon, had  intelligence  by  one  Captain 
Middleton,  of  the  approach  of  the  Spanish 
Armada.  Which  Middleton,  being  in  a 
very  good  sailer,  had  kept  them  company 
three  days  before,  of  good  purpose  both 
to  discover  their  forces  the  more,  as  also 
to  give  advice  to  my  Lord  Thomas  of  their 
approach. 

He  had  no  sooner  delivered  the  news  [50 
but  the  fleet  was  in  sight.  Many  of  our 
ships'  companies  were  on  shore  in  the 
island,  some  providing  ballast  for  their 
ships,  others  filling  of  water  and  refresh- 
ing themselves  from  the  land  with  such 
things  as  they  could  either  for  money 
or  by  force  recover.  By  reason  whereof 
our  ships  being  all  pestered,  and  rummag- 


104 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


ing,  every  thing  out  of  order,  very  light 
for  want  of  ballast.  And  that  which  [60 
was  most  to  our  disadvantage,  the  one 
half  part  of  the  men  of  every  ship  sick  and 
utterly  unserviceable.  For  in  the  Revenge 
there  were  ninety  diseased;  in  the  Bona- 
venture,  not  so  many  in  health  as  could 
handle  her  mainsail.  For  had  not  twenty 
men  been  taken  out  of  a  bark  of  Sir 
George  Cary's,  his  being  commanded  to 
be  sunk,  and  those  appointed  to  her,  she 
had  hardly  ever  recovered  England.  [70 
The  rest,  for  the  most  part,  were  in  little 
better  state. 

The  names  of  her  Majesty's  ships  were 
these,  as  followeth:  the  Defiance,  which 
was  Admiral;  the  Revenge,  Vice  Admiral; 
the  Bonaventure,  commanded  by  Captain 
Crosse;  the  Lion,  by  George  Fenner;  the 
Foresight,  by  Thomas  Vavisour;  and  the 
Crane,  by  Duffield.  The  Foresight  and 
the  Crane  being  but  small  ships  only;  [80 
the  other  were  of  middle  size.  The  rest, 
besides  the  bark  Raleigh,  commanded  by 
Captain  Thin,  were  victuallers,  and  of 
small  force  or  none. 

The  Spanish  fleet,  having  shrouded 
their  approach  by  reason  of  the  island, 
were  now  so  soon  at  hand  as  our  ships  had 
scarce  time  to  weigh  their  anchors,  but 
some  of  them  were  driven  to  let  slip  their 
cables  and  set  sail.  Sir  Richard  Gren-  [90 
ville  was  the  last  weighed,  to  recover  the 
men  that  were  upon  the  island,  which  other- 
wise had  been  lost.  The  Lord  Thomas 
with  the  rest  very  hardly  recovered  the 
wind,  which  Sir  Richard  Grenville  not 
being  able  to  do,  was  persuaded  by  the 
master  and  others  to  cut  his  mainsail  and 
cast  about,  and  to  trust  to  the  sailing  of 
his  ship:  for  the  squadron  of  Seville  were 
on  his  weather  bow.  But  Sir  Richard  [100 
utterly  refused  to  turn  from  the  enemy, 
alleging  that  he  would  rather  choose  to 
die,  than  to  dishonor  himself,  his  country, 
and  her  Majesty's  ship;  persuading  his 
company  that  he  would  pass  through  the 
two  squadrons  in  despite  of  them,  and 
enforce  those  of  Seville  to  give  him  way. 
Which  he  performed  upon  divers  of  the 
foremost,  who,  as  the  mariners  term  it, 
sprang  their  luff,  and  fell  under  the  [no 
lee  of  the  Revenge.  But  the  other  course 
had  been  the  better,  and  might  right  well 


have  been  answered  in  so  great  an  im- 
possibility of  prevailing.  Notwithstand- 
ing out  of  the  greatness  of  his  mind  he 
could  not  be  persuaded. 

In  the  meanwhile,  as  he  attended  those 
which  were  nearest  him,  the  great  San 
Philip,  being  in  the  wind  of  him,  and 
coming  towards  him,  becalmed  his  [120 
sails  in  such  sort  as  the  ship  could  neither 
way  nor  feel  the  helm:  so  huge  and  high 
carged  was  the  Spanish  ship,  being  of  a 
thousand  and  five  hundred  tons;  who 
after  laid  the  Revenge  aboard.  When  he 
was  thus  bereft  of  his  sails,  the  ships  that 
were  under  his  lee,  luffing  up,  also  laid 
him  aboard;  of  which  the  next  was  the 
admiral  of  the  Biscayans,  a  very  mighty 
and  puissant  ship  commanded  by  [130 
Brittan  Dona.  The  said  Philip  carried 
three  tier  of  ordinance  on  a  side,  and 
eleven  pieces  in  every  tier.  She  shot  eight 
forthright  out  of  her  chase,  besides  those 
of  her  stern  ports. 

After  the  Revenge  was  entangled  with 
this  Philip,  four  other  boarded  her,  two 
on  her  larboard,  and  two  on  her  starboard. 
The  fight  thus  beginning  at  three  of  the 
clock  in  the  afternoon  continued  very  [140 
terrible  all  that  evening.  But  the  great 
San  Philip,  having  received  the  lower 
tier  of  the  Revenge,  discharged  with  cross- 
barshot,  shifted  herself  with  all  diligence 
from  her  sides,  utterly  misliking  her  first 
entertainment.  Some  say  that  the  ship 
foundered,  but  we  cannot  report  it  for 
truth,  unless  we  were  assured. 

The  Spanish  ships  were  filled  with  com- 
panies of  soldiers,  in  some  two  hun-  [150 
dred  besides  the  mariners,  in  some  five, 
in  others  eight  hundred.  In  ours  there 
were  none  at  all  besides  the  mariners,  but 
the  servants  of  the  commanders  and  some 
few  voluntary  gentlemen  only.  After 
many  interchanged  volleys  of  great  or- 
dinance and  small  shot,  the  Spaniards 
deliberated  to  enter  the  Revenge,  and  made 
divers  attempts,  hoping  to  force  her  by 
the  multitudes  of  their  armed  soldiers  [160 
and  musketeers,  but  were  still  repulsed 
again  and  again,  and  at  all  times  beaten 
back  into  their  own  ships  or  into  the  seas. 
In  the  beginning  of  the  fight,  the  George 
Noble  of  London,  having  received  some 
shot   through   her   by   the   armados,    fell 


RALEIGH 


105 


under  the  lee  of  the  Revenge,  and  asked 
Sir  Richard  what  he  would  command  him, 
being  but  one  of  the  victuallers  and  of 
small  force.  Sir  Richard  bade  him  [170 
save  himself,  and  leave  him  to  his  for- 
tune. 

After  the  fight  had  thus  without  inter- 
mission continued  while  the  day  lasted 
and  some  hours  of  the  night,  many  of  our 
men  were  slain  and  hurt,  and  one  of  the 
great  galleons  of  the  Armada  and  the  Ad- 
miral of  the  Hulks  both  sunk,  and  in 
many  other  of  the  Spanish  ships  great 
slaughter  was  made.  Some  write  that  [1S0 
Sir  Richard  was  very  dangerously  hurt 
almost  in  the  beginning  of  the  fight, 
and  lay  speechless  for  a  time  ere  he  re- 
covered. But  two  of  the  Revenge's  own 
company  brought  home  in  a  ship  of  Lime 
from  the  islands,  examined  by  some  of 
the  Lords  and  others,  affirmed  that  he 
was  never  so  wounded  as  that  he  forsook 
the  upper  deck,  till  an  hour  before  mid- 
night; and  then  being  shot  into  the  [190 
body  with  a  musket,  as  he  was  a-dressing 
was  again  shot  into  the  head,  and  withal 
his  surgeon  wounded  to  death.  This 
agreeth  also  with  an  examination,  taken 
by  Sir  Francis  Godolphin,  of  four  other 
mariners  of  the  same  ship  being  returned, 
which  examination  the  said  Sir  Francis 
sent  unto  master  William  Killigrew,  of 
her  Majesty's  Privy  Chamber. 

But  to  return  to  the  fight,  the  Span-  [200 
ish  ships  which  attempted  to  board  the 
Revenge,  as  they  were  wounded  and  beaten 
off,  so  always  others  came  in  their  places, 
she  having  never  less  than  two  mighty 
galleons  by  her  sides  and  aboard  her.  So 
that  ere  the  morning,  from  three  of  the 
clock  the  day  before  there  had  fifteen 
several  armados  assailed  her;  and  all  so 
ill  approved  their  entertainment,  as  they 
were  by  the  break  of  day  far  more  will-  [210 
ing  to  hearken  to  a  composition  than  has- 
tily to  make  any  more  assaults  or  entries. 
But  as  the  day  increased,  so  our  men  de- 
creased; and  as  the  light  grew  more  and 
more,  by  so  much  more  grew  our  discom- 
forts. For  none  appeared  in  sight  but 
enemies,  saving  one  small  ship  called  the 
Pilgrim,  commanded  by  Jacob  Whiddon, 
who  hovered  all  night  to  see  the  success; 
but  in  the  morning,  bearing  with  the  [220 


Revenge,  was  hunted  like  a  hare  among 
many  ravenous  hounds,  but  escaped. 

All  the  powder  of  the  Revenge  to  the 
last  barrel  was  now  spent,  all  her  pikes 
broken,  forty  of  her  best  men  slain,  and 
the  most  part  of  the  rest  hurt.  In  the 
beginning  of  the  fight  she  had  but  one 
hundred  free  from  sickness,  and  fourscore 
and  ten  sick,  laid  in  hold  upon  the  ballast. 
A  small  troop  to  man  such  a  ship,  [230 
and  a  weak  garrison  to  resist  so  mighty 
an  army!  By  those  hundred  all  was  sus- 
tained, the  volleys,  boardings,  and  enter- 
ings  of  fifteen  ships  of  war,  besides  those 
which  beat  her  at  large.  On  the  contrary 
the  Spanish  were  always  supplied  with 
soldiers  brought  from  every  squadron, 
all  manner  of  arms,  and  powder  at  will. 
Unto  ours  there  remained  no  comfort 
at  all,  no  hope,  no  supply  either  of  [240 
ships,  men,  or  weapons;  the  masts  all 
beaten  overboard,  all  her  tackle  cut  asun- 
der, her  upper  work  altogether  razed;  and, 
in  effect,  evened  she  was  with  the  water, 
but  the  very  foundation  or  bottom  of  a 
ship,  nothing  being  left  overhead  either 
for  flight  or  defence. 

Sir  Richard  finding  himself  in  this  dis- 
tress, and  unable  any  longer  to  make  re- 
sistance,— having  endured  in  this  fif-  [250 
teen  hours'  fight  the  assault  of  fifteen  sev- 
eral armados,  all  by  turns  aboard  him, 
and  by  estimation  eight  hundred  shot  of 
great  artillery,  besides  many  assaults  and 
entries,  and  that  himself  and  the  ship 
must  needs  be  possessed  by  the  enemy, 
who  were  now  cast  in  a  ring  round  about 
him,  the  Revenge  not  able  to  move  one  way 
or  other  but  as  she  was  moved  by  the 
waves  and  billow  of  the  sea, — com-  [260 
manded  the  master  gunner,  whom  he  knew 
to  be  a  most  resolute  man,  to  split  and  sink 
the  ship,  that  thereby  nothing  might  re- 
main of  glory  or  victory  to  the  Spaniards, 
seeing  in  so  many  hours'  fight,  and  with 
so  great  a  navy,  they  were  not  able  to 
take  her,  having  had  fifteen  hours'  time, 
fifteen  thousand  men,  and  fifty  and  three 
sail  of  men-of-war  to  perform  it  withal; 
and  persuaded  the  company,  or  as  [270 
many  as  he  could  induce,  to  yield  them- 
selves unto  God,  and  to  the  mercy  of  none 
else,  but,  as  they  had,  like  valiant  resolute 
men,    repulsed    so    many    enemies,    they 


io6 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


should  not  now  shorten  the  honor  of  their 
nation  by  prolonging  their  own  lives  for  a 
few  hours  or  a  few  days. 

The  master  gunner  readily  conde- 
scended, and  divers  others.  But  the  Cap- 
tain and  the  Master  were  of  another  [280 
opinion  and  besought  Sir  Richard  to 
have  care  of  them,  alleging  that  the 
Spaniard  would  be  as  ready  to  entertain 
a  composition  as  they  were  willing  to  offer 
the  same,  and  that  there  being  divers 
sufficient  and  valiant  men  yet  living,  and 
whose  wounds  were  not  mortal,  they 
might  do  their  country  and  prince  ac- 
ceptable service  hereafter.  And  (that 
where  Sir  Richard  had  alleged  that  [290 
the  Spaniards  should  never  glory  to  have 
taken  one  ship  of  her  Majesty's,  seeing 
that  they  had  so  long  and  so  nota- 
bly defended  themselves)  they  answered 
that  the  ship  had  six  foot  of  water  in 
hold,  three  shot  under  water  which  were 
so  weakly  stopped  as,  with  the  first  work- 
ing of  the  sea,  she  must  needs  sink,  and  was 
besides  so  crushed  and  bruised  as  she  could 
never  be  removed  out  of  the  place.       [300 

And  as  the  matter  was  thus  in  dispute, 
and  Sir  Richard  refusing  to  hearken  to 
any  of  those  reasons,  the  Master  of  the 
Revenge  (while  the  Captain  won  unto 
him  the  greater  party)  was  convoyed 
aboard  the  General  Don  Alfonso  Bassan. 
Who  finding  none  over  hasty  to  enter  the 
Revenge  again,  doubting  lest  Sir  Richard 
would  have  blown  them  up  and  himself, 
and  perceiving  by  the  report  of  the  [310 
Master  of  the  Revenge  his  dangerous  dis- 
position, yielded  that  all  their  lives  should 
be  saved,  the  company  sent  for  England, 
and  the  better  sort  to  pay  such  reasonable 
ransom  as  their  estate  would  bear,  and 
in  the  mean  season  to  be  free  from  galley 
or  imprisonment.  To  this  he  so  much 
the  rather  condescended,  as  well,  as  I  have 
said,  for  fear  of  further  loss  and  mischief 
to  themselves,  as  also  for  the  desire  he  [320 
had  to  recover  Sir  Richard  Grenville; 
whom  for  his  notable  valor  he  seemed 
greatly  to  honor  and  admire. 

When  this  answer  was  returned,  and 
that  safety  of  life  was  promised,  the  com- 
mon sort  being  now  at  the  end  of  their 
peril,  the  most  drew  back  from  Sir  Richard 
and  the  gunner,  being  no  hard  matter  to 


dissuade  men  from  death  to  life.  The 
master  gunner  finding  himself  and  Sir  [330 
Richard  thus  prevented  and  mastered  by 
the  greater  number,  would  have  slain 
himself  with  a  sword  had  he  not  been  by 
force  withheld  and  locked  into  his  cabin. 
Then  the  General  sent  many  boats  aboard 
the  Revenge,  and  divers  of  our  men,  fearing 
Sir  Richard's  disposition,  stole  away 
aboard  the  General  and  other  ships.  Sir 
Richard,  thus  overmatched,  was  sent 
unto  by  Alfonso  Bassan  to  remove  [340 
out  of  the  Revenge,  the  ship  being  mar- 
vellous unsavory,  filled  with  blood  and 
bodies  of  dead  and  wounded  men  like  a 
slaughter-house.  Sir  Richard  answered 
that  he  might  do  with  his  body  what  he 
list,  for  he  esteemed  it  not;  and  as  he  was 
carried  out  of  the  ship  he  swooned,  and 
reviving  again,  desired  the  company  to 
pray  for  him.  The  General  used  Sir 
Richard  with  all  humanity,  and  left  [350 
nothing  unattempted  that  tended  to  his 
recovery,  highly  commending  his  valor 
and  worthiness,  and  greatly  bewailed  the 
danger  wherein  he  was,  being  unto  them 
a  rare  spectacle,  and  a  resolution  seldom 
approved,  to  see  one  ship  turn  toward  so 
many  enemies,  to  endure  the  charge  and 
boarding  of  so  many  huge  armados,  and 
to  resist  and  repel  the  assaults  and  entries 
of  so  many  soldiers.  All  which,  and  [360 
more,  is  confirmed  by  a  Spanish  captain 
of  the  same  Armada,  and  a  present  actor 
in  the  fight,  who,  being  severed  from  the 
rest  in  a  storm,  was  by  the  Lion,  of  Lon- 
don, a  small  ship,  taken,  and  is  now  pris- 
oner in  London. 

The  General  Commander  of  the  Armada 
was  Don  Alfonso  Bassan,  brother  to  the 
Marquis  of  Santa  Cruce.  The  Admiral 
of  the  Biscayan  squadron  was  Britan  [370 
Dona;  of  the  squadron  of  Seville,  Marquis 
of  Arumburch.  The  Hulks  and  Fly-boats 
were  commanded  by  Luis  Cutino.  There 
were  slain  and  drowned  in  this  fight  well 
near  two  thousand  of  the  enemies,  and 
two  especial  Commanders,  Don  Luis  de 
Sant  John,  and  Don  George  de  Prunaria  de 
Malaga,  as  the  Spanish  Captain  confesseth, 
besides  divers  others  of  special  account, 
whereof  as  yet  report  is  not  made.        [380 

The  Admiral  of  the  Hulks  and  the 
Ascension  of  Seville  were  both  sunk  by 


BACON 


107 


the  side  of  the  Revenge;  one  other  re- 
covered the  road  of  Saint  Michaels,  and 
sunk  also  there;  a  fourth  ran  herself  with 
the  shore  to  save  her  men.  Sir  Richard 
died,  as  it  is  said,  the  second  or  third  day 
aboard  the  General,  and  was  by  them 
greatly  bewailed.  What  became  of  his 
body,  whether  it  was  buried  in  the  sea  [390 
or  on  the  land,  we  know  not:  the  com- 
fort that  remaineth  to  his  friends  is,  that 
he  hath  ended  his  life  honorably  in  respect 
of  the  reputation  won  to  his  nation  and 
country,  and  of  the  same  to  his  posterity, 
and  that,  being  dead,  he  hath  not  out- 
lived his  own  honor.  .  .  . 

A  few  days  after  the  fight  was  ended, 
and  the  English  prisoners  dispersed  into 
the  Spanish  and  Indian  ships,  there  [400 
arose  so  great  a  storm  from  the  west  and 
northwest  that  all  the  fleet  was  dispersed, 
as  well  the  Indian  fleet  which  were  then 
come  unto  them,  as  the  rest  of  the  Armada 
which  attended  their  arrival.  Of  which, 
fourteen  sail,  together  with  the  Revenge 
(and  in  her  two  hundred  Spaniards),  were 
cast  away  upon  the  isle  of  St.  Michaels. 
So  it  pleased  them  to  honor  the  burial  of 
that  renowned  ship  the  Revenge,  not  [410 
suffering  her  to  perish  alone,  for  the  great 
honor  she  achieved  in  her  lifetime.  .  .  . 

To  conclude,  it  hath  ever  to  this  day 
pleased  God  to  prosper  and  defend  her 
Majesty,  to  break  the  purposes  of  ma- 
licious enemies,  of  forsworn  traitors,  and 
of  unjust  practises  and  invasions.  She 
hath  ever  been  honored  of  the  worthiest 
kings,  served  by  faithful  subjects,  and  shall 
by  the  favor  of  God  resist,  repel,  and  [420 
confound  all  whatsoever  attempts  against 
her  sacred  person  or  kingdom.  In  the  mean- 
time, let  the  Spaniard  and  traitor  vaunt  of 
their  success;  and  we, her  true  and  obedient 
vassals,  guided  by  the  shining  light  of  her 
virtues,  shall  always  love  her,  serve  her, 
and  obey  her  to  the  end  of  our  lives. 

FRANCIS   BACON    (1561-1626) 

From  THE  ESSAYS 

Essay  I.— OF  TRUTH 

What  is  truth?  said  jesting  Pilate,  and 
would  not  stay  for  an  answer.  Certainly 
there  be  that  delight  in  giddiness,   and 


count  it  a  bondage  to  fix  a  belief;  affect- 
ing free-will  in  thinking,  as  well  as  in 
acting.  And  though  the  sects  of  philos- 
ophers of  that  kind  be  gone,  yet  there 
remain  certain  discoursing  wits  which 
are  of  the  same  veins,  though  there  be 
not  so  much  blood  in  them  as  was  in  [10 
those  of  the  ancients.  But  it  is  not  only 
the  difficulty  and  labor  which  men  take 
in  finding  out  of  truth,  nor  again  that 
when  it  is  found  it  imposeth  upon  men's 
thoughts,  that  doth  bring  lies  in  favor; 
but  a  natural  though  corrupt  love  of  the 
lie  itself.  One  of  the  later  school  of  the 
Grecians  examineth  the  matter,  and  is  at 
a  stand  to  think  what  should  be  in  it, 
that  men  should  love  lies,  where  [20 
neither  they  make  for  pleasure,  as  with 
poets,  nor  for  advantage,  as  with  the 
merchant,  but  for  the  lie's  sake.  But  I 
cannot  tell :  this  same  truth  is  a  naked  and 
open  day-light,  that  doth  not  show  the 
masks  and  mummeries  and  triumphs  of 
the  world,  half  so  stately  and  daintily  as 
candle-lights.  Truth  may  perhaps  come 
to  the  price  of  a  pearl,  that  showeth  best 
by  day;  but  it  will  not  rise  to  the  price  [30 
of  a  diamond  or  carbuncle,  that  showeth 
best  in  varied  lights.  A  mixture  of  a  lie 
doth  ever  add  pleasure.  Doth  any  man 
doubt,  that  if  there  were  taken  out  of 
men's  minds  vain  opinions,  flattering 
hopes,  false  valuations,  imaginations  as 
one  would,  and  the  like,  but  it  would 
leave  the  minds  of  a  number  of  men  poor 
shrunken  things,  full  of  melancholy  and 
indisposition,  and  unpleasing  to  them-  [40 
selves?  One  of  the  Fathers,  in  great 
severity,  called  poesy  vinum  dcemonum, 
because  it  filleth  the  imagination,  and  yet 
it  is  but  with  the  shadow  of  a  lie.  But  it 
is  not  the  lie  that  passeth  through  the 
mind,  but  the  lie  that  sinketh  in  and 
settleth  in  it,  that  doth  the  hurt,  such  as 
we  spake  of  before.  But  howsoever  these 
things  are  thus  in  men's  depraved  judg- 
ments and  affections,  yet  truth,  which  [50 
only  doth  judge  itself,  teacheth  that  the 
inquiry  of  truth,  which  is  the  love-making 
or  wooing  of  it,  the  knowledge  of  truth, 
which  is  the  presence  of  it,  and  the  belief 
of  truth,  which  is  the  enjoying  of  it,  is 
the  sovereign  good  of  human  nature.  The 
first  creature  of  God,  in  the  works  of  the 


io8 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


days,  was  the  light  of  the  sense;  the  last 
was  the  light  of  reason;  and  his  sabbath 
work,  ever  since,  is  the  illumination  of  [60 
his  Spirit.  First  he  breathed  light  upon 
the  face  of  the  matter  or  chaos;  then  he 
breathed  light  into  the  face  of  man;  and 
still  he  breatheth  and  inspireth  light  into 
the  face  of  his  chosen.  The  poet  that 
beautified  the  sect  that  was  otherwise 
inferior  to  the  rest,  saith  yet  excellently 
well:  //  is  a  pleasure  to  stand  upon  the 
shore,  and  to  see  ships  tossed  upon  the  sea:  a 
pleasure  to  stand  in  the  window  of  a  [70 
castle,  and  to  see  a  battle  and  the  adventures 
thereof  below:  but  no  pleasure  is  comparable 
to  the  standing  upon  the  vantage  ground 
of  Truth  (a  hill  not  to  be  commanded,  and 
where  the  air  is  always  clear  and  serene), 
and  to  see  the  errors,  and  wanderings,  and 
mists,  and  tempests,  in  the  vale  below:  so 
always  that  this  prospect  be  with  pity, 
and  not  with  swelling  or  pride.  Certainly, 
it  is  heaven  upon  earth,  to  have  a  man's  [80 
mind  move  in  charity,  rest  in  providence, 
and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  truth. 

To  pass  from  theological  and  philosoph- 
ical truth,  to  the  truth  of  civil  business: 
it  will  be  acknowledged,  even  by  those 
that  practise  it  not,  that  clear  and  round 
dealing  is  the  honor  of  man's  nature;  and 
that  mixture  of  falsehood  is  like  alloy  in 
coin  of  gold  and  silver;  which  may  make 
the  metal  work  the  better,  but  it  em-  [90 
baseth  it.  For  these  winding  and  crooked 
courses  are  the  goings  of  the  serpent; 
which  goeth  basely  upon  the  belly,  and 
not  upon  the  feet.  There  is  no  vice  that 
doth  so  cover  a  man  with  shame  as  to  be 
found  false  and  perfidious.  And  therefore 
Montaigne  saith  prettily,  when  he  in- 
quired the  reason,  why  the  word  of  the 
lie  should  be  such  a  disgrace  and  such 
an  odious  charge?  Saith  he,  If  it  be  [100 
well  weighed,  to  say  that  a  man  lieth,  is  as 
much  to  say  as  that  he  is  brave  towards  God 
and  a  coward  towards  men.  For  a  lie  faces 
God,  and  shrinks  from  man.  Surely  the 
wickedness  of  falsehood  and  breach  of 
faith  cannot  possibly  be  so  highly  ex- 
pressed, as  in  that  it  shall  be  the  last  peal 
to  call  the  judgments  of  God  upon  the 
generations  of  men;  it  being  foretold, 
that  when  Christ  cometh,  he  shall  not  [no 
find  faith  upon  the  earth. 


Essay  V.— OF  ADVERSITY 

It  was  an  high  speech  of  Seneca  (after 
the  manner  of  the  Stoics):  That  the  good 
things  which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to  be 
wished;  but  the  good  things  that  belong  to 
adversity  are  to  be  admired.  Bona  rerum 
secundarum  optabilia,  adversarum  mira- 
bilia.  Certainly  if  miracles  be  the  com- 
mand over  nature,  they  appear  most  in 
adversity.  It  is  yet  a  higher  speech  of 
his  than  the  other  (much  too  high  for  [10 
a  heathen) :  It  is  true  greatness  to  have  in 
one  the  frailty  of  a  man,  and  the  security 
of  a  God.  Vere  magnum,  habere  fragilita- 
tem  hominis,  securitatem  Dei.  This  would 
have  done  better  in  poesy,  where  tran- 
scendences are  more  allowed.  And  the 
poets  indeed  have  been  busy  with  it;  for 
it  is  in  effect  the  thing  which  is  figured  in 
that  strange  fiction  of  the  ancient  poets, 
which  seemeth  not  to  be  without  mys-  [20 
tery;  nay,  and  to  have  some  approach  to 
the  state  of  a  Christian:  that  Hercules, 
when  he  went  to  unbind  Prometheus  (by 
whom  human  nature  is  represented), 
sailed  the  length  of  the  great  ocean  in  an 
earthen  pot  or  pitcher:  lively  describing 
Christian  resolution,  that  saileth  in  the 
frail  bark  of  the  flesh  through  the  waves 
of  the  world.  But  to  speak  in  a  mean. 
The  virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance;  [30 
the  virtue  of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which 
in  morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue. 
Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Tes- 
tament; adversity  is  the  blessing  of  the 
New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  benedic- 
tion, and  the  clearer  revelation  of  God's 
favor.  Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testament, 
if  you  listen  to  David's  harp,  you  shall 
hear  as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols; 
and  the  pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  [40 
labored  more  in  describing  the  afflictions 
of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Salomon. 
Prosperity  is  not  without  many  fears  and 
distastes;  and  adversity  is  not  without 
comforts  and  hopes.  We  see  in  needle- 
works and  embroideries,  it  is  more  pleas- 
ing to  have  a  lively  work  upon  a  sad  and 
solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and 
melancholy  work  upon  a  lightsome  ground: 
judge  therefore  of  the  pleasure  of  the  [50 
heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Cer- 
tainly virtue  is  like  precious  odors,  most 


BACON 


log 


fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or  crushed : 
for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice ;  but 
adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 


Essay    VII.— OF    MARRIAGE    AND 
SINGLE  LIFE 

He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath 
given  hostages  to  fortune;  for  they  are 
impediments  to  great  enterprises,  either 
of  virtue  or  mischief.  Certainly  the  best 
works,  and  of  greatest  merit  for  the  pub- 
lic, have  proceeded  from  the  unmarried 
or  childless  men,  which  both  in  affection 
and  means  have  married  and  endowed 
the  public.  Yet  it  were  great  reason  that 
those  that  have  children  should  have  [10 
greatest  care  of  future  times;  unto  which 
they  know  they  must  transmit  their  dear- 
est pledges.  Some  there  are,  who  though 
they  lead  a  single  life,  yet  their  thoughts 
do  end  with  themselves,  and  account 
future  times  impertinences.  Nay,  there 
are  some  other  that  account  wife  and 
children  but  as  bills  of  charges.  Nay 
more,  there  are  some  foolish  rich  covetous 
men  that  take  a  pride  in  having  no  [20 
children,  because  they  may  be  thought  so 
much  the  richer.  For  perhaps  they  have 
heard  some  talk,  Stick  an  one  is  a  great 
rich  man,  and  another  except  to  it.  Yea, 
but  he  hath  a  great  charge  of  children;  as 
if  it  were  an  abatement  to  his  riches.  But 
the  most  ordinary  cause  of  a  single  life 
is  liberty;  especially  in  certain  self-pleasing 
and  humorous  minds,  which  are  so  sensi- 
ble of  every  restraint,  as  they  will  go  [30 
near  to  think  their  girdles  and  garters  to 
be  bonds  and  shackles.  Unmarried  men 
are  best  friends,  best  masters,  best  serv- 
ants; but  not  always  best  subjects;  for 
they  are  light  to  run  away;  and  almost  all 
fugitives  are  of  that  condition.  A  single 
life  doth  well  with  churchmen,  for  charity 
will  hardly  water  the  ground  where  it 
must  first  fill  a  pool.  It  is  indifferent  for 
judges  and  magistrates,  for  if  they  be  [40 
facile  and  corrupt,  you  shall  have  a  serv- 
ant five  times  worse  than  a  wife.  For 
soldiers,  I  find  the  generals  commonly  in 
their  hortatives  put  men  in  mind  of  their 
wives  and  children;  and  I  think  the  de- 
spising of  marriage  amongst    the  Turks 


maketh  the  vulgar  soldier  more  base. 
Certainly  wife  and  children  are  a  kind  of 
discipline  of  humanity;  and  single  men, 
though  they  be  many  times  more  [50 
charitable,  because  their  means  are  less 
exhaust,  yet,  on  the  other  side,  they  are 
more  cruel  and  hard-hearted  (good  to 
make  severe  inquisitors),  because  their 
tenderness  is  not  so  oft  called  upon.  Grave 
natures,  led  by  custom,  and  therefore 
constant,  are  commonly  loving  husbands; 
as  was  said  of  Ulysses,  Vetulam  suam 
pratulit  immortalitati .  Chaste  women 
are  often  proud  and  froward,  as  pre-  [60 
suming  upon  the  merit  of  their  chastity. 
It  is  one  of  the  best  bonds  both  of  chastity 
and  obedience  in  the  wife,  if  she  think 
her  husband  wise;  which  she  will  never 
do  if  she  find  him  jealous.  Wives  are 
young  men's  mistresses;  companions  for 
middle  age;  and  old  men's  nurses.  So 
as  a  man  may  have  a  quarrel  to  marry 
when  he  will.  But  yet  he  was  reputed  one 
of  the  wise  men,  that  made  answer  to  [70 
the  question,  when  a  man  should  marry? — 
A  young  man  not  yet,  an  elder  man  not  at 
all.  It  is  often  seen  that  bad  husbands 
have  very  good  wives;  whether  it  be  that 
it  raiseth  the  price  of  their  husband's 
kindness  when  it  comes;  or  that  the 
wives  take  a  pride  in  their  patience.  But 
this  never  fails,  if  the  bad  husbands  were 
of  their  own  choosing,  against  their 
friends'  consent;  for  then  they  will  be  [80 
sure  to  make  good  their  own  folly. 


Essay  XL— OF  GREAT  PLACE 

Men  in  great  places  are  thrice  servants: 
servants  of  the  sovereign  or  state;  serv- 
ants of  fame;  and  servants  of  business. 
So  as  they  have  no  freedom,  neither  in 
their  persons,  nor  in  their  actions,  nor  in 
their  times.  It  is  a  strange  desire,  to  seek 
power  and  to  lose  liberty;  or  to  seek  power 
over  others  and  to  lose  power  over  a  man's 
self.  The  rising  unto  place  is  laborious, 
and  by  pains  men  come  to  greater  [10 
pains;  and  it  is  sometimes  base,  and  by 
indignities  men  come  to  dignities.  The 
standing  is  slippery;  and  the  regress  is 
either  a  downfall,  or  at  least  an  eclipse, 
which  is  a  melancholy  thing.     Cum  non 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


sis  quifueris,  non  esse  cur  veils  vivere.  Nay, 
retire  men  cannot  when  they  would; 
neither  will  they  when  it  were  reason; 
but  are  impatient  of  privateness,  even  in 
age  and  sickness,  which  require  the  [20 
shadow:  like  old  townsmen,  that  will  be 
still  sitting  at  their  street  door,  though 
thereby  they  offer  age  to  scorn.  Cer- 
tainly, great  persons  had  need  to  borrow 
other  men's  opinions,  to  think  themselves 
happy;  for  if  they  judge  by  their  own 
feeling,  they  cannot  find  it:  but  if  they 
think  with  themselves  what  other  men 
think  of  them,  and  that  other  men  would 
fain  be  as  they  are,  then  they  are  [30 
happy  as  it  were  by  report,  when  perhaps 
they  find  the  contrary  within.  For  they 
are  the  first  that  find  their  own  griefs, 
though  they  be  the  last  that  find  their 
own  faults.  Certainly,  men  in  great  for- 
tunes are  strangers  to  themselves,  and 
while  they  are  in  the  puzzle  of  business 
they  have  no  time  to  tend  their  health, 
either  of  body  or  mind.  Illl  mors  gravis 
incubat,  qui  notus  nlmls  omnibus,  Ignotus  [40 
moritur  sibi.  In  place  there  is  licence  to 
do  good  and  evil;  whereof  the  latter  is  a 
curse:  for  in  evil  the  best  condition  is  not 
to  will,  the  second  not  to  can.  But  power 
to  do  good  is  the  true  and  lawful  end  of 
aspiring.  For  good  thoughts  (though 
God  accept  them)  yet  towards  men  are 
little  better  than  good  dreams,  except 
they  be  put  in  act ;  and  that  cannot  be  with- 
out power  and  place,  as  the  vantage  [50 
and  commanding  ground.  Merit  and 
good  works  is  the  end  of  man's  motion; 
and  conscience  of  the  same  is  the  accom- 
plishment of  man's  rest.  For  if  a  man 
can  be  partaker  of  God's  theatre,  he  shall 
likewise  be  partaker  of  God's  rest.  Et 
conversus  Deus,  ui  aspiceret  opera  quae 
fecerunt  manus  suae,  vldit  quod  omnia  essent 
bona  nimis;  and  then  the  Sabbath.  In  the 
discharge  of  thy  place,  set  before  thee  [60 
the  best  examples;  for  imitation  is  a  globe 
of  precepts.  And  after  a  time  set  before 
thee  thine  own  example;  and  examine 
thyself  strictly,  whether  thou  didst  not 
best  at  first.  Neglect  not  also  the  ex- 
amples of  those  that  have  carried  them- 
selves ill  in  the  same  place;  not  to  set 
off  thyself  by  taxing  their  memory,  but 
to  direct  thyself  what  to  avoid.    Reform, 


therefore,  without  bravery  or  scandal  of  [70 
former  times  and  persons;  but  yet  set  it 
down  to  thyself  as  well  to  create  good 
precedents  as  to  follow  them.  Reduce 
things  to  the  first  institution,  and  observe 
wherein  and  how  they  have  degenerate; 
but  yet  ask  counsel  of  both  times;  of  the 
ancient  time,  what  is  best;  and  of  the 
latter  time,  what  is  fittest.  Seek  to  make 
thy  course  regular,  that  men  may  know 
beforehand  what  they  may  expect;  but  [80 
be  not  too  positive  and  peremptory;  and 
express  thyself  well  when  thou  digressest 
from  thy  rule.  Preserve  the  right  of  thy 
place,  but  stir  not  questions  of  jurisdic- 
tion: and  rather  assume  thy  right  in 
silence  and  de  facto,  than  voice  it  with 
claims  and  challenges.  Preserve  like- 
wise the  rights  of  inferior  places;  and 
think  it  more  honor  to  direct  in  chief  than 
to  be  busy  in  all.  Embrace  and  invite  [90 
helps  and  advices  touching  the  execution 
of  thy  place;  and  do  not  drive  away 
such  as  bring  thee  information  as  meddlers, 
but  accept  of  them  in  good  part.  The 
vices  of  authority  are  chiefly  four:  delays, 
corruption,  roughness,  and  facility.  For 
delays:  give  easy  access;  keep  times  ap- 
pointed; go  through  with  that  which  is 
in  hand;  and  interlace  not  business  but  of 
necessity.  For  corruption :  do  not  only  [100 
bind  thine  own  hands  or  thy  servants' 
hands  from  taking,  but  bind  the  hands  of 
suitors  also  from  offering.  For  integrity 
used  doth  the  one;  but  integrity  professed, 
and  with  a  manifest  detestation  of  bribery, 
doth  the  other.  And  avoid  not  only  the 
fault,  but  the  suspicion.  Whosoever  is 
found  variable,  and  changeth  manifestly 
without  manifest  cause,  giveth  suspicion 
of  corruption .  Therefore  al  ways  when  [no 
thou  changest  thine  opinion  or  course, 
profess  it  plainly  and  declare  it,  together 
with  the  reasons  that  move  thee  to  change ; 
and  do  not  think  to  steal  it.  A  servant 
or  a  favorite,  if  he  be  inward,  and  no 
other  apparent  cause  of  esteem,  is  com- 
monly thought  but  a  by-way  to  close 
corruption.  For  roughness,  it  is  a  need- 
less cause  of  discontent:  severity  breedeth 
fear,  but  roughness  breedeth  hate.  [120 
Even  reproofs  from  authority  ought  to  be 
grave,  and  not  taunting.  As  for  facility, 
it  is  worse  than  bribery.    For  bribes  come 


BACOX 


but   now  and    then;   but   if  importunity 
or  idle  respects  lead  a  man,  he  shall  never 
be  without.    As  Salomon  saith:  To  respect 
persons  is  not  good;  for  such  a  man  will 
transgress  for  a  piece  of  bread.     It  is  most 
true  that  was  anciently  spoken,  A  place 
showeth  the  man:  and  it  showeth  some  to  [130 
the  better,  and  some  to  the  worse.     Om- 
nium   consensu   capax    imperii,    nisi   im- 
per asset,  saith  Tacitus  of  Galba;  but  of 
Vespasian    he    saith,    Solus    imperantium 
Vespasianus   mntatus   in   melius:   though 
the   one   was   meant   of   sufficiency,    the 
other  of  manners  and  affection.     It  is  an 
assured  sign  of  a  worthy  and  generous 
spirit,  whom  honor  amends.    For  honor  is, 
or  should  be,  the  place  of  virtue;  and  [140 
as  in  nature  things  move  violently  to  their 
place,  and  calmly  in  their  place;  so  virtue 
in  ambition  is  violent,  in  authority  settled 
and  calm.    All  rising  to  great  place  is  by 
J  a  winding  stair;  and  if  there  be  factions, 
:  it  is  good  to  side  a  man's  self  whilst  he  is 
:  in    the    rising,    and    to    balance    himself 
'  when  he  is  placed.     Use  the  memory  of 
thy  predecessor  fairly  and  tenderly;  for 
if  thou  dost  not,  it  is  a  debt  will  sure  [150 
be  paid  when  thou  art  gone.     If  thou  have 
colleagues,  respect  them,  and  rather  call 
,them  when  they  look  not  for  it,  than  ex- 
'  elude   them   when   they  have   reason   to 
jlook  to  be  called.    Be  not  too  sensible  or 
too   remembering   of   thy   place   in   con- 
versation and  private  answers  to  suitors; 
I  but  let  it  rather  be  said,  When  he  sits  in 
place  he  is  another  man. 

Essay  XXIII.— OF  WISDOM  FOR  A 

MAN'S   SELF 

An  ant  is  a  wise  creature  for  itself,  but 
lit  is  a  shrewd  thing  in  an  orchard  or  gar- 
iden.  And  certainly  men  that  are  great 
lovers  of  themselves  waste  the  public. 
'Divide  with  reason  between  self-love  and 
: society;  and  be  so  true  to  thyself  as  thou 
be  not  false  to  others,  specially  to  thy 
king  and  country.  It  is  a  poor  centre  of 
a  man's  actions,  himself.  It  is  right 
earth.  For  that  only  stands  fast  upon  [10 
|his  own  centre;  whereas  all  things  that 
jhave  affinity  with  the  heavens  move  upon 
'the  centre  of  another,  which  they  benefit. 
!The  referring  of  all  to  a  man's  self  is  more 


tolerable  in  a  sovereign  prince;  because 
themselves  are  not  only  themselves,  but 
their  good  and  evil  is  at  the  peril  of  the 
public  fortune.  But  it  is  a  desperate  evil 
in  a  servant  to  a  prince,  or  a  citizen  in  a 
republic.  For  whatsoever  affairs  pass  [20 
such  a  man's  hands,  he  crooketh  them  to 
his  own  ends;  which  must  needs  be  often 
eccentric  to  the  ends  of  his  master  or  state. 
Therefore  let  princes,  or  states,  choose 
such  servants  as  have  not  this  mark; 
except  they  mean  their  service  should  be 
made  but  the  accessory.  That  which 
maketh  the  effect  more  pernicious  is  that 
all  proportion  is  lost.  It  were  dispro- 
portion enough  for  the  servant's  good  [30 
to  be  preferred  before  the  master's;  but 
yet  it  is  a  greater  extreme,  when  a  little 
good  of  the  servant  shall  carry  things 
against  a  great  good  of  the  master's.  And 
yet  that  is  the  case  of  bad  officers,  treas- 
urers, ambassadors,  generals,  and  other 
false  and  corrupt  servants;  which  set  a 
bias  upon  their  bowl,  of  their  own  petty 
ends  and  envies,  to  the  overthrow  of  their 
master's  great  and  important  affairs.  [40 
And  for  the  most  part,  the  good  such  serv- 
ants receive  is  after  the  model  of  their 
own  fortune;  but  the  hurt  they  sell  for 
that  good  is  after  the  model  of  their 
master's  fortune.  And  certainly  it  is  the 
nature  of  extreme  self-lovers,  as  they  will 
set  an  house  on  fire,  and  it  were  but  to 
roast  their  eggs;  and  yet  these  men  many 
times  hold  credit  with  their  masters,  be- 
cause their  study  is  but  to  please  them  [50 
and  profit  themselves;  and  for  either  re- 
spect they  will  abandon  the  good  of  their 
affairs. 

Wisdom  for  a  man's  self  is,  in  many 
branches  thereof,  a  depraved  thing.  It 
is  the  wisdom  of  rats,  that  will  be  sure  to 
leave  a  house  somewhat  before  it  fall.  It 
is  the  wisdom  of  the  fox,  that  thrusts  out 
the  badger,  who  digged  and  made  room 
for  him.  It  is  the  wisdom  of  croco-  [60 
diles,  that  shed  tears  when  they  would 
devour.  But  that  which  is  specially  to 
be  noted  is,  that  those  which  (as  Cicero 
says  of  Pompey)  are  sui  amantes  sine 
rivali,  are  many  times  unfortunate.  And 
whereas  they  have  all  their  time  sacrificed 
to  themselves,  they  become  in  the  end 
themselves  sacrifices  to  the  inconstancy 


112 


THE  ELIZABETH  AX  AGE 


of  fortune,  whose  wings  they  thought  by 
their  self-wisdom  to  have  pinioned.         [70 

Essay  XLIL— OF  YOUTH  AND  AGE 

A  man  that  is  young  in  years  may  be 
old  in  hours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time.  But 
that  happeneth  rarely.  Generally,  youth 
is  like  the  first  cogitations,  not  so  wise 
as  the  second.  For  there  is  a  youth  in 
thoughts  as  well  as  in  ages.  And  yet  the 
invention  of  young  men  is  more  lively 
than  that  of  the  old;  and  imaginations 
stream  into  their  minds  better,  and,  as  it 
were,  more  divinely.  Natures  that  [10 
have  much  heat,  and  great  and  violent 
desires  and  perturbations,  are  not  ripe 
for  action  till  they  have  passed  the  merid- 
ian of  their  years:  as  it  was  with  Julius 
Caesar,  and  Septimius  Severus.  Of  the 
latter  of  whom  it  is-  said,  Juventutem  egit 
erroribus,  imo  furoribus,  plenam.  And 
yet  he  was  the  ablest  emperor,  almost, 
of  all  the  list.  But  reposed  natures  may 
do  well  in  youth.  As  it  is  seen  in  Au-  [20 
gustus  Caesar,  Cosmus,  Duke  of  Florence, 
Gaston  de  Foix,  and  others.  On  the  other 
side,  heat  and  vivacity  in  age  is  an  excel- 
lent composition  for  business.  Young 
men  are  fitter  to  invent  than  to  judge; 
fitter  for  execution  than  for  counsel;  and 
fitter  for  new  projects  than  for  settled 
business.  For  the  experience  of  age,  in 
things  that  fall  within  the  compass  of  it, 
directeth  them;  but  in  new  things,  [30 
abuseth  them.  The  errors  of  young  men 
are  the  ruin  of  business;  but  the  errors  of 
aged  men  amount  but  to  this,  that  more 
might  have  been  done,  or  sooner.  Young 
men,  in  the  conduct  and  manage  of  ac- 
tions, embrace  more  than  they  can  hold; 
stir  more  than  they  can  quiet;  fly  to  the 
end,  without  consideration  of  the  means 
and  degrees;  pursue  some  few  principles 
which  they  have  chanced  upon  ab-  [40 
surdly;  care  not  to  innovate,  which  draws 
unknown  inconveniences;  use  extreme 
remedies  at  first;  and,  that  which  doubleth 
all  errors,  will  not  acknowledge  or  retract 
them;  like  an  unready  horse,  that  will 
neither  stop  nor  turn.  Men  of  age  object 
too  much,  consult  too  long,  adventure 
too  little,  repent  too  soon,  and  seldom 
drive  business  home  to  the  full  period, 


but  content  themselves  with  a  medioc-  [5c 
rity  of  success.  Certainly,  it  is  good  to 
compound  employments  of  both;  for  that 
will  be  good  for  the  present,  because  the 
virtues  of  either  age  may  correct  the  de- 
fects of  both;  and  good  for  succession, 
that  young  men  may  be  learners,  while 
men  in  age  are  actors;  and,  lastly,  good 
for  extern  accidents,  because  authority 
followeth  old  men,  and  favor  and  popu- 
larity youth.  But  for  the  moral  part,  [60 
perhaps  youth  will  have  the  pre-eminence, 
as  age  hath  for  the  politic.  A  certain 
rabbin,  upon  the  text,  Your  young  men 
shall  see  visions,  and  your  old  men  shall 
dream  dreams,  inferreth  that  young  men 
are  admitted  nearer  to  God  than  old, 
because  vision  is  a  clearer  revelation  than 
a  dream.  And  certainly,  the  more  a  man 
drinketh  of  the  world,  the  more  it  in- 
toxicateth;  and  age  doth  profit  rather  [70 
in  the  powers  of  understanding,  than  in 
the  virtues  of  the  will  and  affections. 
There  be  some  have  an  over-early  ripeness 
in  their  years,  which  fadeth  betimes. 
These  are,  first,  such  as  have  brittle  wits, 
the  edge  whereof  is  soon  turned;  such  as 
was  Hermogenes  the  rhetorician,  whose 
books  are  exceeding  subtile,  who  after- 
wards waxed  stupid.  A  second  sort  is  of 
those  that  have  some  natural  disposi-  [80 
tions  which  have  better  grace  in  youth 
than  in  age;  such  as  is  a  fluent  and  luxuri- 
ant speech,  which  becomes  youth  well, 
but  not  age:  so  Tully  saith  of  Hortensius, 
Idem  manebat,  neque  idem  docebat.  The 
third  is  of  such  as  take  too  high  a  strain 
at  the  first,  and  are  magnanimous  more 
than  tract  of  years  can  uphold.  As  was 
Scipio  Africanus,  of  whom  Livy  saith  in 
effect,  Ultima  primis  cedebant.  [go 

Essay  XLVI.— OF  GARDENS 

God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden. 
And  indeed  it  is  the  purest  of  human 
pleasures.  It  is  the  greatest  refreshment 
to  the  spirits  of  man;  without  which, 
buildings  and  palaces  are  but  gross  handi- 
works: and  a  man  shall  ever  see  that  when 
ages  grow  to  civility  and  elegancy,  men 
come  to  build  stately  sooner  than  to 
garden  finely;  as  if  gardening  were  the 
greater  perfection.    I  do  hold  it,  in  the  [10 


BACON 


113 


royal  ordering  of  gardens,  there  ought  to 
be  gardens  for  all  the  months  in  the  year; 
in  which,  severally,  things  of  beauty  may 
be  then  in  season.  For  December  and 
January  and  the  latter  part  of  November, 
you  must  take  such  things  as  are  green 
all  winter:  holly,  ivy,  bays,  juniper, 
cypress-trees,  yew,  pine-apple-trees,  fir- 
trees,  rosemary,  lavender,  periwinkle, — 
the  white,  the  purple,  and  the  blue, —  [20 
germander,  flags,  orange-trees,  lemon- 
trees,  and  myrtles,  if  they  be  stoved,  and 
sweet  marjoram,  warm  set.  There  fol- 
loweth,  for  the  latter  part  of  January  and 
February,  the  mezereon-tree,  which  then 
blossoms,  crocus  vernus,  both  the  yellow 
and  the  gray,  primroses,  anemones,  the 
early  tulippa,  hyacinthus  orientalis,  cha- 
ma'iris,  fritillaria.  For  March,  there  come 
violets,  specially  the  single  blue,  which  [30 
are  the  earliest,  the  yellow  daffodil,  the 
daisy,  the  almond-tree  in  blossom,  the 
peach-tree  in  blossom,  the  cornelian-tree 
in  blossom,  sweet  briar.  In  April  follow 
the  double  white  violet,  the  wall-flower, 
the  stock-gillyflower,  the  cowslip,  flower- 
delices  and  lilies  of  all  natures,  rosemary 
flowers,  the  tulippa,  the  double  peony, 
the  pale  daffodil,  the  French  honeysuckle, 
the  cherry-tree  in  blossom,  the  dam-  [40 
masin  and  plum-trees  in  blossom,  the 
white-thorn  in  leaf,  the  lilac-tree.  In 
May  and  June  come  pinks  of  all  sorts, 
specially  the  blush  pink,  roses  of  all  kinds, 
except  the  musk,  which  comes  later, 
honeysuckles,  strawberries,  bugloss,  col- 
umbine, the  French  marygold,  flos  Afri- 
canus,  cherry-tree  in  fruit,  ribes,  figs  in 
fruit,  rasps,  vine  flowers,  lavender  in 
flowers,  the  sweet  satyrian,  with  the  [50 
white  flower,  herba  muscaria,  1  ilium  con- 
vallium,  the  apple-tree  in  blossom.  In 
July  come  gillyflowers  of  all  varieties, 
musk-roses,  the  lime-tree  in  blossom,  early 
pears  and  plums  in  fruit,  ginnitings, 
quadlins.  In  August  come  plums  of  all 
sorts  in  fruit,  pears,  apricocks,  barberries, 
filberts,  musk-melons,  monks-hoods  of 
all  colors.  In  September  come  grapes, 
apples,  poppies  of  all  colors,  peaches,  [60 
melocotones,  nectarines,  cornelians,  war- 
dens, quinces.  In  October  and  the  be- 
ginning of  November  come  services, 
medlars,  bullises,  roses  cut  or  removed  to 


come  late,  hollyhocks,  and  such  like. 
These  particulars  are  for  the  climate  of 
London;  but  my  meaning  is  perceived, 
that  you  may  have  ver  perpetiium,  as  the 
place  affords. 

And  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  [70 
far  sweeter  in  the  air  (where  it  comes  and 
goes,  like  the  warbling  of  music)  than  in 
the  hand,  therefore  nothing  is  more  fit 
for  that  delight,  than  to  know  what  be  the 
flowers  and  plants  that  do  best  perfume 
the  air.  Roses,  damask  and  red,  are  fast 
flowers  of  their  smells,  so  that  you  may 
walk  by  a  whole  row  of  them,  and  find 
nothing  of  their  sweetness;  yea,  though 
it  be  in  a  morning's  dew.  Bays  like-  [80 
wise  yield  no  smell  as  they  grow.  Rose- 
mary little;  nor  sweet  marjoram.  That 
which  above  all  others  yields  the  sweetest 
smell  in  the  air,  is  the  violet;  specially 
the  white  double  violet,  which  comes  twice 
a  year,  about  the  middle  of  April,  and 
about  Bartholomewtide.  Next  to  that 
is  the  musk-rose.  Then  the  strawberry- 
leaves  dying,  which  [yield]  a  most  ex- 
cellent cordial  smell.  Then  the  flower  [90 
of  the  vines;  it  is  a  little  dust,  like  the 
dust  of  a  bent,  which  grows  upon  the 
cluster  in  the  first  coming  forth.  Then 
sweet  briar.  Then  wall-flowers,  which 
are  very  delightful  to  be  set  under  a  parlor 
or  lower  chamber  window.  Then  pinks 
and  gillyflowers,  specially  the  matted 
pink  and  clove  gillyflower.  Then  the 
flowers  of  the  lime-tree.  Then  the  honey- 
suckles, so  they  be  somewhat  afar  [100 
off.  Of  bean  flowers  I  speak  not,  because 
they  are  field  flowers.  But  those  which 
perfume  the  air  most  delightfully,  not 
passed  by  as  the  rest,  but  being  trodden 
upon  and  crushed,  are  three:  that  is, 
burnet,  wild  thyme,  and  water-mints. 
Therefore  you  are  to  set  whole  alleys  of 
them,  to  have  the  pleasure  when  you 
walk  or  tread. 


For  fountains,  they  are  a  great  [no 
beauty  and  refreshment;  but  pools  mar 
all,  and  make  the  garden  unwholesome 
and  full  of  flies  and  frogs.  Fountains  I 
intend  to  be  of  two  natures:  the  one, 
that  sprinkleth  or  spouteth  water;  the 
other,  a  fair  receipt  of  water,   of   some 


114 


THE  ELIZABETHAN  AGE 


thirty  or  forty  foot  square,  but  without 
fish,  or  slime,  or  mud.  For  the  first,  the 
ornaments  of  images  gilt,  or  of  marble, 
which  are  in  use,  do  well:  but  the  main  [120 
matter  is,  so  to  convey  the  water,  as  it 
never  stay,  either  in  the  bowls  or  in  the 
cistern;  that  the  water  be  never  by  rest 
discolored,  green  or  red  or  the  like,  or 
gather  any  mossiness  or  putrefaction. 
Besides  that,  it  is  to  be  cleansed  every 
day  by  the  hand.  Also  some  steps  up  to 
it,  and  some  fine  pavement  about  it,  doth 
well.  As  for  the  other  kind  of  fountain, 
which  we  may  call  a  bathing  pool,  it  [130 
may  admit  much  curiosity  and  beauty, 
wherewith  we  will  not  trouble  ourselves: 
as,  that  the  bottom  be  finely  paved,  and 
with  images;  the  sides  likewise;  and  withal 
embellished  with  colored  glass,  and  such 
things  of  lustre;  encompassed  also  with 
fine  rails  of  low  statues.  But  the  main 
point  is  the  same  which  we  mentioned  in 
the  former  kind  of  fountain;  which  is, 
that  the  water  be  in  perpetual  motion,  [140 
fed  by  a  water  higher  than  the  pool,  and 
delivered  into  it  by  fair  spouts,  and  then 
discharged  away  under  ground,  by  some 
equality  of  bores,  that  it  stay  little.  And 
for  fine  devices,  of  arching  water  without 
spilling,  and  making  it  rise  in  several 
forms  (of  feathers,  drinking  glasses, 
canopies,  and  the  like),  they  be  pretty 
things  to  look  on,  but  nothing  to  health 
and  sweetness.  [150 


Essay  L—  OF  STUDIES 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament, 
and  for  ability.  Their  chief  use  for  de- 
light is  in  privateness  and  retiring;  for 
ornament,  is  in  discourse;  and  for  ability, 
is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of 
business.  For  expert  men  can  execute, 
and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars,  one  by 
one;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the 
plots  and  marshalling  of  affairs,  come 
best  from  those  that  are  learned.  To  [10 
spend  too  much  time  in  studies  is  sloth; 
to  use  them  too  much  for  ornament  is 
affectation;  to  make  judgment  wholly  by 
their  rules  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar.  They 
perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected  by  ex- 
perience;   for    natural    abilities    are    like 


natural  plants,  that  need  pruning  by 
study;  and  studies  themselves  do  give 
forth  directions  too  much  at  large,  except 
they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  [20 
Crafty  men  contemn  studies;  simple  men 
admire  them;  and  wise  men  use  them: 
for  they  teach  not  their  own  use;  but 
that  is  a  wisdom  without  them  and  above 
them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to 
contradict  and  confute;  nor  to  believe 
and  take  for  granted;  nor  to  find  talk  and 
discourse;  but  to  weigh  and  consider. 
Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to 
be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  [30 
chewed  and  digested:  that  is,  some  books 
are  to  be  read  only  in  parts;  others  to  be 
read,  but  not  curiously;  and  some  few 
to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and 
attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read 
by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them 
by  others;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the 
less  important  arguments,  and  the  meaner 
sort  of  books;  else  distilled  books  are  like 
common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things.  [40 
Reading  maketh  a  full  man;  conference 
a  ready  man;  and  writing  an  exact  man. 
And  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he 
had  need  have  a  great  memory;  if  he  con- 
fer little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit; 
and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have 
much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he 
doth  not.  Histories  make  men  wise; 
poets  witty;  the  mathematics  subtile; 
natural  philosophy  deep;  moral,  grave;  [50 
logic  and  rhetoric  able  to  contend.  Abeunt 
studia  in  mores.  Nay,  there  is  no  stondj 
or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but  may  be) 
wrought  out  by  fit  studies:  like  as  diseases! 
of  the  body  may  have  appropriate  exer- 
cises. Bowling  is  good  for  the  stone  and 
reins;  shooting  for  the  lungs  and  breast; 
gentle  walking  for  the  stomach;  riding 
for  the  head;  and  the  like.  So  if  a  man's 
wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the  [60 
mathematics;  for  in  demonstrations,  if 
his  wit  be  called  away  never  so  little,  he 
must  begin  again :  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to 
distinguish  or  find  differences,  let  him 
study  the  schoolmen;  for  they  are  cymini 
sectores:  if  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  mat- 
ters, and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove 
and  illustrate  another,  let  him  study  the 
lawyers'  cases:  so  every  defect  of  the  mind 
may  have  a  special  receipt.  [70 


PURITANS  AND   CAVALIERS 


CAROLINE  SONG  WRITERS 

GEORGE  WITHER  (1588-1667) 

SHALL  I,  WASTING  IN  DESPAIR 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die,  because  a  woman's  fair? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 

'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day,  5 

Or  the  flow'ry  meads  in  May, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

Should  my  heart  be  grieved  or  pined, 

'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind?  10 

Or  a  well  disposed  nature 

Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 

Turtle  dove,  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me,  15 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

,  Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
1  Me  to  perish  for  her  love? 
!  Or  her  well  deserving  known, 
!  Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own?  20 

'  Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
I  Which  may  gain  her  name  of  best, 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 

; 'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high,  25 

Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 
|Think,  "What,  with    them,   they   would 

do 
'That,  without  them,  dare  to  woo!"         30 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  though  great  she  be? 

I 

jGreat,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair! 


If  she  love  me  (this  believe!) 
I  will  die,  ere  she  shall  grieve; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn,  and  let  her  go; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be? 


35 


40 


THOMAS   CAREW   (1598?-1639?) 

ASK  ME  NO  MORE  WHERE  JOVE 
BESTOWS 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray  5 

The  golden  atoms  of  the  day, 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past;         10 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night, 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there        15 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 

The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest;  ) 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies.  20 


HE  THAT  LOVES  A  ROSY  CHEEK 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay,        5 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 


"5 


n6                                     PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 

Quit,  quit  for  shame!    This  will  not  move, 

Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 

This  cannot  take  her. 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 

If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Kindle  never-dying  fires;                       10 

Nothing  can  make  her: 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

The  devil  take  her!                               15 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win 
My  resolved  heart  to  return; 

RICHARD  LOVELACE  (1618-1658) 

I  have  searched  thy  soul  within               15 
And  find  naught  but  pride  and  scorn; 

TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING  TO  THE 
WARS 

I  have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 

Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING  (1609-1642) 

Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

CONSTANCY 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase,         5 

Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 

Three  whole  days  together! 
And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 
A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

If  it  prove  fair  weather. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings       5 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

As  you  too  shall  adore;                      10 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

TO  ALTHEA,  FROM  PRISON 

Is  due  at  all  to  me:                        10 

Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 

And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 

And  that  very  face, 

When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair               5 

There  had  been  at  least  ere  this       15 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 

The  gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

WHY   SO   PALE   AND   WAN,    FOND 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

LOVER? 

With  no  allaying  Thames,                 10 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover? 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames; 

Prithee,  why  so  pale? 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 

Looking  ill  prevail? 

Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep               15 

Prithee,  why  so  pale?                              5 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner? 

When,  like  committed1  linnets,  I 

Prithee,  why  so  mute? 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 

Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

Saying  nothing  do  't? 

And  glories  of  my  king;                     20 

Prithee,  why  so  mute?                           10 

1  caged. 

IIERRICK 


When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be, 

Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make,    25 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free,  30 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY  (1596-1666) 

A  DIRGE 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate; 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings: 

Sceptre  and  crown  5 

Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ;  10 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death.  16 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor- victim  bleeds:     20 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

ROBERT  HERRICK  (1691-1674) 

THE  ARGUMENT  OF  HIS  BOOK 

I  sing  of  brooks,  of  blossoms,  birds  and 

bowers, 
Of  April,  May,  of  June  and  July-flowers; 


I  sing  of  May-poles,  hock-carts,  wassails, 

wakes, 
Of  bridegrooms,  brides,  and  of  their  bridal 

cakes ; 
I  write  of  youth,  of  love,  and  have  access  5 
By  these  to  sing  of  cleanly  wantonness; 
I  sing  of  dews,  of  rains,  and.  piece  by  piece, 
Of  balm,  of  oil,  of  spice  and  ambergris; 
I  sing  of  times  trans-shifting,  and  I  write 
How  roses  first  came  red  and  lilies  white; 
I  write  of  groves,  of  twilights,  and  I  sing  u 
The  court  of  Mab,  and  of  the  Fairy  King; 
I  write  of  hell;  I  sing  (and  ever  shall) 
Of  heaven,  and  hope  to  have  it  after  all. 


UPON  THE   LOSS   OF  HIS 
MISTRESSES 

I  have  lost,  and  lately,  these 
Many  dainty  mistresses: 
Stately  Julia,  prime  of  all; 
Sapho  next,  a  principal; 
Smooth  Anthea,  for  a  skin 
White  and  heaven-like  crystalline; 
Sweet  Electra,  and  the  choice 
Myrha,  for  the  lute  and  voice. 
Next,  Corinna,  for  her  wit, 
And  the  graceful  use  of  it; 
With  Perilla:  all  are  gone, 
Only  Herrick's  left  alone, 
For  to  number  sorrow  by 
Their  departures  hence,  and  die. 


CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming 
morn 

Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air: 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see  5 

The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 

Each  flower  has  wept  and  bowed  toward 
the  east 

Above  an  hour  since :  yet  you  not  dressed ; 
Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said   10 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 

Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 

Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in 
May. 


n8 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Rise  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen  15 
To  come  forth,  like  the  spring-time,  fresh 
and  green, 
And  sweet  as  Flora.    Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 
Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you:  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  un- 
wept; 
Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 
And  Titan1  on  the  eastern  hill  25 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.    Wash,  dress,  be  brief 

in  praying: 
Few  beads2  are  best  when  once  we  go  a- 
Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;  and,  coming, 

mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street 
a  park  30 

Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees; 

see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch:  each  porch,  each  door  ere 

this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made   up   of   white-thorn,    neatly   inter- 
wove; 35 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we'll  abroad;  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May:        40 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by 

staying; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 

But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come        45 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatched  their  cakes  and 

cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 
And  some  have  wept,   and  wooed,  and 

plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off 
sloth:  50 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even : 


1  the  sun. 


2  prayers. 


Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament; 
Many 'a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying  55 
This  night,  and  locks  picked,  yet  we're 
not  a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our  prime; 

And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun; 

And,  as  a  vapor  or  a  drop  of  rain, 

Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made  65 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 

Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but 
decaying, 

Come,    my    Corinna,    come,    let's   go   a- 
Maying.  70 


TO  THE  VIRGINS,  TO  MAKE  MUCH 
OF  TIME 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun,      5 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer;    10 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry; 

For,  having  lost  but  once  your  prime,     15 
You  may  forever  tarry. 


HOW  ROSES  CAME  RED 

Roses  at  first  were  white, 
Till  they  could  not  agree, 

Whether  my  Sapho's  breast 
Or  they  more  white  should  be. 


HERRICK 


no 


But  being  vanquished  quite,  5 

A  blush  their  cheeks  bespread ; 

Sirlce  which,  believe  the  rest, 
The  roses  first  came  red. 

TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay,  5 

Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along.  10 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  anything. 

We  die  15 

As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again.  20 

NIGHT-PIECE,  TO  JULIA 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee; 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee.       5 

No  Will-o'-th'-Wisp  mis-light  thee, 
Nor  snake  nor  slow- worm  bite  thee; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  thee. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber;  n 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber? 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number.  15 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus,  to  come  unto  me; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee.  20 


UPON  JULIA'S  CLOTHES 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 

The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration,  each  way  free,        5 
Oh,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me! 


AN  ODE  FOR  BEN  JONSON 

Ah,  Ben! 

Say  how  or  when 

Shall  we,  thy  guests, 

Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun,  5 

The  Dog,  the  Triple  Tun ; 

Where  we  such  clusters  had, 

As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad? 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 

Out-did  the  meat   out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben!  n 

Or  come  again, 
Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wit's  great  overplus; 
But  teach  us  yet  15 

Wisely  to  husband  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend; 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 
That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  such  a  wit  the  world  should  have  no 
more.  20 


GRACE   FOR  A   CHILD 

Here,  a  little  child,  I  stand, 

Heaving  up  my  either  hand: 

Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be, 

Here  I  lift  them  up  to  thee, 

For  a  benison  to  fall  5 

On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all.    Amen. 


TO  KEEP  A  TRUE  LENT 

Is  this  a  fast,  to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep? 


120 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Is  it  to  quit  the  dish  5 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 
The  platter  high  with  fish? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour, 

Or  ragg'd  to  go,  10 

Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour? 

No;  'tis  a  fast,  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat 

And  meat  15 

Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate, 
And  hate; 
To  circumcise  thy  life.  20 

To  show  a  heart  grief -rent; 
To  starve  thy  sin, 
Not  bin; 
And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent. 

GEORGE  HERBERT   (1593-1633) 
VIRTUE 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 

The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave,    5 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 

Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie,        10 

My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives; 

But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal,  15 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

THE  COLLAR 

I  struck  the  board,  and  cried,  "No  more; 

I  will  abroad ! 
What!  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine? 


My  lines  and  life  are  free;  free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store.1       5 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  blood,  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial2  fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wine  10 

Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it;  there  was 
corn 
Before  my  tears  did  drown  it; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me? 
Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it, 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay?  all  blasted,  15 
All  wasted? 
Not  so,  my  heart;  but  there  is  fruit, 
And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-blown  age 
On  double  pleasures;  leave  thy  cold  dis- 
pute 20 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not;  forsake  thy  cage, 

Thy  rope  of  sands 
Which  petty  thoughts  have  made,  and 
made  to  thee 
Good  cable,  to  enforce  and  draw, 

And  be  thy  law,  25 

While  thou  didst  wink3  and  wouldst  not 
see. 
Away!  take  heed! 
I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's-head  there,  tie  up  thy 
fears : 
He  that  forbears  30 

To  suit  and  serve  his  need 
Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved,  and  grew  more  fierce  and 
wild 
At  every  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling, ' '  Child ! ' ' 
And  I  replied,  "My  Lord!"  36 


THE  QUIP 

The  merry  World  did  on  a  day 

With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 

To  meet  together  where  I  lay, 
And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 

First  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose,  5 

Which  when  I  plucked  not,  "Sir,"  said 
she, 

"Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those?  " 
But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

1  plenty.  2  revivifying.  3  shut  the  eyes. 


CR.4SHAW 


121 


Then  Money  came,  and  chinking  still, 
"What  tune  is  this,  poor  man?"  said  he; 

"  I  heard  in  music  you  had  skill ; "  n 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  brave  Glory  puffing  by 
In  silks  that  whistled,  who  but  he! 

He  scarce  allowed  me  half  an  eye;  15 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  quick  Wit  and  Conversation, 
And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be, 

And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration: 

But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me.    20 

Yet  when  the  hour  of  Thy  design 

To  answer  these  fine  things  shall  come, 

Speak  not  at  large;  say,  I  am  Thine, 
And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 


THE  PULLEY 

When  God  at  first  made  man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by; 
"Let  us,"  said  He,  "pour  on  him  all  we 
can: 
Let  the  world's   riches,  which  dispersed 
lie, 
Contract  into  a  span."  5 

So  Strength  first  made  a  way; 
Then  Beauty  flowed;  then  Wisdom,  Honor, 
Pleasure. 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a 
stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  His  treasure, 
Rest  in  the  bottom  lay.  10 

"For  if  I  should,"  said  He, 
"  Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of 
Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Na- 
ture; 
So  both  should  losers  be.  15 

"Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But   keep    them   with    repining   restless- 
ness; 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at 
least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 
May  toss  him  to  My  breast."  20 


RICHARD  CRASHAW  (1613?-1649) 

IN  THE  HOLY  NATIVITY  OF  OUR 
LORD  GOD 

a  hymn  sung  as  by  the  shepherds 

Chorus 

Come,  we  shepherds,  whose  blest  sight 
Hath  met  Love's  noon  in  Nature's  night; 
Come,  lift  we  up  our  loftier  song 
And  wake  the  sun  that  lies  too  long. 

To  all  our  world  of  well-stolen  joy        5 
He  slept,  and  dreamt  of  no  such  thing, 

While  we  found  out  heaven's  fairer  eye 
And  kissed  the  cradle  of  our  King. 

Tell  him  he  rises  now  too  late 
To  show  us  aught  worth  looking  at.        10 

Tell  him  we  now  can  show  him  more 
Than  he  e'er  showed  to  mortal  sight, 

Than  he  himself  e'er  saw  before, 
Which  to  be  seen  needs  not  his  light. 

Tell  him,  Tityrus,  where  th'  hast  been 
Tell  him,  Thyrsis,  what  th'  hast  seen.     16 

Tityrus.  Gloomy    night    embraced    the 

place 
Where  the  noble  Infant  lay. 

The  Babe  looked  up  and  showed  His 
face; 
In  spite  of  darkness,  it  was  day.  20 

It  was  Thy  day,  Sweet!  and  did  rise 
Not  from  the  east,  but  from  Thine  eyes. 

Chorus.  It  was  Thy  day,  Sweet,  etc. 

Thyrsis.  Winter  chid  aloud,  and  sent 
The  angry  North  to  wage  his  wars;         25 

The  North  forgot  his  fierce  intent, 
And  left  perfumes  instead  of  scars. 

By  those  sweet  eyes'  persuasive  powers, 
Where  he  meant  frost  he  scattered  flowers. 


Cho.  By  those  sweet  eyes,  etc. 


30 


Both.  We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Young  dawn  of  our  eternal  Day; 

We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  their  east 
And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away. 

We  saw  Thee,  and  we  blest  the  sight,  35 
We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  own  sweet  light. 


122 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Tit.  Poor  world,  said  I,  what  wilt  thou 

do 
To  entertain  this  starry  Stranger? 

Is  this  the  best  thou  canst  bestow — 
A  cold,  and  not  too  cleanly,  manger?      40 
Contend,    the   powers   of    heaven   and 
earth, 
To  fit  a  bed  for  this  huge  birth! 

Cho.  Contend,  the  powers,  etc. 

Thyr.  Proud  world,   said   I,   cease  your 

contest, 
And  let  the  mighty  Babe  alone;  45 

The  phcenix  builds  the  phoenix'  nest, 
Love's  architecture  is  his  own; 

The  Babe  whose  birth   embraves  this 
morn, 
Made  His  own  bed  e'er  He  was  born. 


Cho.  The  Babe  whose,  etc. 


5° 


Tit.  I  saw  the  curled  drops,  soft  and  slow, 
Come  hovering  o'er  the  place's  head, 

Offering  their  whitest  sheets  of  snow 
To  furnish  the  fair  Infant's  bed. 

Forbear,  said  I;  be  not  too  bold;  55 

Your  fleece  is  white,  but  'tis  too  cold. 

Cho.  Forbear,  said  I,  etc. 

Thyr.  I  saw  the  obsequious  seraphim 
Their  rosy  fleece  of  fire  bestow, 

For  well  they  now  can  spare  their  wing 
Since  Heaven  itself  lies  here  below.         61 

Well  done,  said  I;  but  are  you  sure 
Your  down  so  warm,  will  pass  for  pure? 

Cho.  Well  done,  said  I,  etc. 

Tit.  No,  no,  your  King's  not  yet  to  seek  65 
Where  to  repose  His  royal  head; 

See,    see   how   soon   His   new-bloomed 
cheek 
'Twixt  mother's  breasts  is  gone  to  bed! 

Sweet  choice,  said  we;  no  way  but  so 
Not  to  lie  cold,  yet  sleep  in  snow.  70 

Cho.  Sweet  choice,  said  we,  etc. 

Both.  We  saw  Thee  in  Thy  balmy  nest, 
Bright  dawn  of  our  eternal  Day; 

We  saw  Thine  eyes  break  from  their 
east 


And  chase  the  trembling  shades  away.    75 

We  saw  Thee,  and  we  blest  the  sight, 
We  saw  Thee  by  Thine  own  sweet  Light. 

Cho.  We  saw  Thee,  etc. 

Full  Chorus 

Welcome,  all  wonders  in  one  sight! 
Eternity  shut  in  a  span !  80 

Summer  in  winter!  day  in  night! 
Heaven  in  earth !  and  God  in  man ! 

Great  little  one,   whose  all-embracing  j 
birth 
Lifts  earth  to  heaven,  stoops  heaven  to 
earth! 

Welcome,  though  nor  to  gold  nor  silk,  85  I 
To  more  than  Caesar's  birthright  is; 

Two  sister-seas  of  virgin-milk 
With  many  a  rarely-tempered  kiss, 

That  breathes  at  once  both  maid  and 
mother, 
Warms  in  the  one,  cools  in  the  other.       90  ] 

She  sings  Thy  tears  asleep,  and  dips 
Her  kisses  in  Thy  weeping  eye; 

She  spreads  the  red  leaves  of  Thy  lips 
That  in  their  buds  yet  blushing  lie; 

She  'gainst  those  mother-diamonds  tries 
The  points  of  her  young  eagle's  eyes.      96 

Welcome,  though  not  to  those  gay  flies 
Gilded  i'  th'  beams  of  earthly  kings, 

Slippery  souls  in  smiling  eyes — 
But  to  poor  shepherds,  homespun  things, 

Whose  wealth's  their  flock,  whose  wit, 
to  be  1 01 

Well  read  in  their  simplicity. 

Yet,     when    young    April's     husband 
showers 
Shall  bless  the  fruitful  Maia's  bed, 

We'll  bring  the  first-born  of  her  flowers 

To  kiss  Thy  feet  and  crown  Thy  head.  106 

To    Thee,    dread    Lamb!    whose    love 

must  keep 

The  shepherds,  more  than  they  the  sheep. 

To  Thee,  meek  Majesty,  soft  King 
Of  simple  graces  and  sweet  loves,  no 

Each  of  us  his  lamb  will  bring, 
Each  his  pair  of  silver  doves; 

Till  burnt  at  last  in  fire  of  Thy  fair  eyes, 
Ourselves  become  our  own  best  sacrifice! 


V A  UGH  AN 


123 


HENRY   VAUGHAN    (1622-1695) 

THE  RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 

Shined  in  my  angel-infancy; 

Before  I  understood  this  place 

Appointed  for  my  second  race, 

Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought  5 

But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 

When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 

A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 

And  looking  back — -at  that  short  space — 

Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face;  10 

When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 

My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 

And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 

Some  shadows  of  eternity; 

Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound      15 

My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 

Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense, 

A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 

But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 

Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness.  20 

0  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain, 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train; 
From  whence  the  enlightened  spirit  sees  25 
That  shady  city  of  palm  trees. 
But  ah!  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way ! 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move ;   30 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 


PEACE 

My  soul,  there  is  a  country 

Afar  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentry 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 
There,  above  noise  and  danger,  5 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 
And  one  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  friend, 

And— -O  my  soul,  awake! —  10 

Did  in  pure  love  descend 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 


15 


If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace, 
The  rose  that  can  not  wither, 

Thy  fortress  and  thy  ease. 
Leave  then  thy  foolish  ranges, 

For  none  can  thee  secure 
But  one  who  never  changes, 

Thy  God,  thy  life,  thy  cure. 


THE  WORLD 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright; 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours, 
days,  years, 
Driv'n  by  the  spheres  5 

Like  a  vast  shadow  moved;  in  which  the 
world 
And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 
The  doting  lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain; 
Near  him,   his  lute,   his  fancy,   and  his 
flights,  10 

Wit's  four  delights, 
With  gloves  and  knots,  the  silly  snares  of 
pleasure ; 
Yet  his  dear  treasure, 
All  scattered  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did 
pour 
Upon  a  flower.  15 

The    darksome    statesman,    hung    with 

weights  and  woe, 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog,  moved  there  so 
slow, 
He  did  not  stay  nor  go; 
Condemning  thoughts,  like  sad  eclipses, 
scowl 
Upon  his  soul,  20 

And  clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout; 
Yet  digged  the  mole,  and  lest  his  ways  be 
found, 
Worked  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey.     But  one 
did  see 
That  policy: 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies; 
It  rained  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 
Drank  them  as  free.  30 


25 


124 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


The  fearful  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 
Sat  pining  all  his  life  there,  did  scarce 
trust 
His  own  hands  with  the  dust, 
Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but 
lives 
In  fear  of  thieves.  35 

Thousands  there  were  as  frantic  as  him- 
self, 
And  hugged  each  one  his  pelf; 
The  downright  epicure  placed  heaven  in 
sense, 
And  scorned  pretence; 
While   others,    slipped   into   a    wide    ex- 
cess, 40 
Said  little  less; 
The  weaker  sort,  slight,  trivial  wares  en- 
slave, 
Who  think  them  brave; 
And  poor,  despised  Truth  sat  counting  by 
Their  victory.  45 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and 

sing, 
And  sing  and  weep,  soared  up  into  the 
ring; 
But  most  would  use  no  wing. 
O  fools,  said  I,  thus  to  prefer  dark  night 
Before  true  light!  50 

To  live  in  grots  and  caves,  and  hate  the 
day 
Because  it  shows  the  way, 
The  way,  which  from  this  dead  and  dark 
abode 
Leads  up  to  God; 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  sun,  and 
be  55 

More  bright  than  he! 
But,  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whispered  thus: 
"This  ring  the  Bridegroom  did  for  none 
provide 
But  for  his  bride."  60 


EDMUND   WALLER    (1606-1687) 

ON  A  GIRDLE 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 


It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere,  5 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer; 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass,  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good  and  all  that's  fair;  10 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round ! 


GO,  LOVELY  ROSE! 

Go,  lovely  rose! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be.         5 

Tell  her  that's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died.      10 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired.  15 

Then  die!  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee; 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 

That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair!     20 


ANDREW  MARVELL  (1621-1678) 

AN  HORATIAN  ODE  UPON  CROM 
WELL'S    RETURN    FROM    IRE- 
LAND 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear 
Must  now  forsake  his  muses  dear, 

Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 

His  numbers  languishing: 

'Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust,     j 
And  oil  the  unused  armor's  rust, 

Removing  from  the  wall 

The  corselet  of  the  hall. 


MARVELL 


125 


So  restless  Cromwell  would  not  cease 

In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace,  10 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star; 

And,  like  the  three-forked  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nursed, 

Did  thorough  his  own  side  15 

His  fiery  way  divide; 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous,  or  enemy, 

And  with  such  to  inclose, 

Is  more  than  to  oppose.  20 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went, 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent; 

And  Caesar's  head  at  last 

Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame  25 

The  face  of  angry  heaven's  flame; 

And  if  we  would  speak  true, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who  from  his  private  gardens,  where 

He  lived  reserved  and  austere,  30 

As  if  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  the  bergamot,1 

Could  by  industrious  valor  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  Time, 

And  cast  the  kingdoms  old,  35 

Into  another  mould, 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain; 

But  those  do  hold  or  break, 

As  men  are  strong  or  weak.  40 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 
Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 

Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war,  45 

Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 
i     He  had  of  wiser  art; 

.  Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
i  He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope  50 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Caresbrooke's  narrow  case, 

1  a  kind  of  pear. 


55 


60 


65 


70 


That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn, 
While  round  the  armed  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 

He  nothing  common  did,  or  mean, 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try; 

Nor  called  the  gods  with  vulgar  spite 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right, 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

This  was  that  memorable  hour, 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power; 

So,  when  they  did  design 

The  capitol's  first  line, 

A  bleeding  head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run; 

And  yet  in  that  the  state 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate. 


And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed; 
So  much  one  man  can  do,  75 

That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 

And  have,  though  overcome,  confessed 

How  good  he  is,  how  just, 

And  fit  for  highest  trust;  So 

Nor  yet  grown  stiff er  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  republic's  hand, 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway, 

That  can  so  well  obey! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents  85 

A  kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents; 

And,  what  he  may,  forbears 

His  fame,  to  make  it  theirs; 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt, 

To  lay  them  at  the  public's  skirt:  90 

So  when  the  falcon  high 

Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 

She,  having  killed,  no  more  doth  search, 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch; 

Where,  when  he  first  does  lure,  95 

The  falconer  has  her  sure. 


IOO 


105 


126 

What  may  not  then  our  isle  presume, 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume? 
What  may  not  others  fear, 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year? 

As  Caesar,  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  a  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  states  not  free 

Shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Pict1  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-colored  mind, 
But,  from  this  valor  sad,2 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid; 

Happy  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 


But  thou,  the  war's  and  Fortune's  son, 
March  undefatigably  on; 

And  for  the  least  effect,  115 

Still  keep  the  sword  erect; 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 

The  same  arts  that  did  gain 

A  power,  must  it  maintain.  120 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY  (1618-1667) 

THE   CHANGE 

Love  in  her  sunny  eyes  does  basking  play ; 
Love  walks  the  pleasant  mazes  of  her 
hair; 
Love  does  on  both  her  lips  forever  stray, 
And  sows  and  reaps  a  thousand  kisses 
there. 
In  all  her  outward  parts  Love's  always 
seen ;  5 

But  oh!  he  never  went  within! 

Within,   Love's    foes,   his   greatest    foes, 
abide: 
Malice,  Inconstancy,  and  Pride. 
So    the    earth's    face    trees,    herbs, 
flowers  do  dress, 
But  with  other  beauties  numberless;     10 
But  at  the  center  darkness  is,  and  hell, 
There    wicked    spirits,    and    there    the 
damned,  dwell. 

1  Scot.  2  resolute. 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


and 


With  me,  alas,  quite  contrary  it  fares: 
Darkness  and  Death  lies  in  my  waking 
eyes; 
Despair   and    Paleness    in    my   face   ap- 
pears, 15 
And   Grief  and   Fear,   Love's  greatest 
enemies. 
But,  like  the  Persian  tyrant,  Love  within 
Keeps  his  proud  court,  and  ne'er  is  seen. 

Oh  take  my  heart,  and  by  that  means 
you'll  prove 
Within,  too,  stored  enough  of  Love;      20 
Give  me  but  yours,  I'll  by  that  change  so 
thrive 
That  Love  in  all  my  parts  shall  live. 
So  powerful  is  this  change  it  render  can 
My  outside  woman,  and  your  inside, 
man. 


THE  WISH 

Well  then !  I  now  do  plainly  see 
This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree. 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 
Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy; 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity     5 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd  and  buzz  and  murmurings, 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city. 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  the  grave 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden 
have,  10 

And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,  both 

true, 
Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too! 

And  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian  angels  are,  15 

Only  beloved,  and  loving  me. 

O  fountains!  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself,    eased    of    unpeaceful    thoughts, 

•  espy? 
0  fields!  O  woods!  when,  when  shall  I  be 

made 
The  happy  tenant  of  your  shade?  20 

Here's    the    spring-head    of    pleasure's 
flood: 
Here's  wealthy  Nature's  treasury, 
Where  all  the  riches  lie  that  she 
Has  coined  and  stamped  for  good. 


COWLEY 


127 


Pride  and  ambition  here  25 

Only  in  far-fetched  metaphors  appear; 
Here  naught  but  winds  can  hurtful  mur- 
murs scatter, 
And  naught  but  Echo  flatter. 

The  gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way: 
And  therefore  we  may  boldly  say  31 

That  'tis  the  way,  too,  thither. 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  She  live,  and  embracing  die! 
She  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 
In  deserts  solitude.  36 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear: 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me, 

And  so  make  a  city  here.  40 


THE  SWALLOW 

Foolish  Prater,  what  do'st  thou 
So  early  at  my  window  do 
With  thy  tuneless  serenade? 
Well  't  had  been  had  Tereus  made 
Thee  as  dumb  as  Philomel:  5 

There  his  knife  had  done  but  well. 
In  thy  undiscovered  nest 
Thou  dost  all  the  winter  rest, 
And  dreamest  o'er  thy  summer  joys, 
Free  from  the  stormy  season's  noise :         10 
Free  from  th'  ill  thou'st  done  to  me; 
Who  disturbs,  or  seeks  out  thee? 
Had'st  thou  all  the  charming  notes 
Of  the  wood's  poetic  throats, 
All  thy  art  could  never  pay  15 

What  thou'st  ta'en  from  me  away; 
Cruel  bird,  thou'st  ta'en  away 
A  dream  out  of  my  arms  to-day, 
A  dream  that  ne'er  must  equalled  be 
By  all  that  waking  eyes  may  see.  20 

Thou  this  damage  to  repair, 
Nothing  half  so  sweet  or  fair, 
Nothing  half  so  good  can'st  bring, 
Though    men    say,    "Thou    bring'st    the 
spring?  " 

THE  THIEF 

Thou  robbest  my  days  of  business  and 
delights, 
Of  sleep  thou  robbest  my  nights; 


Ah,  lovely  thief,  what  wilt  thou  do? 
What,  rob  me  of  Heaven  too? 
Thou  even  my  prayers  dost  steal  from 
me,  5 

And  I,  with  wild  idolatry, 
Begin  to  God,  and  end  them  all  to  thee. 

Is  it  a  sin  to  love,  that  it  should  thus 
Like  an  ill  conscience,  torture  us? 
Whate'er  I  do,  where  e'er  I  go,         10 
(None  guiltless  e'er  was  haunted  so) 
Still,  still,  methinks  thy  face  I  view, 
And  still  thy  shape  does  me  pursue, 

As  if  not  you  me,  but  I  had  murdered  you. 

From  books  I  strive  some  remedy  to  take, 
But  thy  name  all  the  letters  make;  16 
Whate'er  'tis  writ,  I  find  that  there, 
Like  points  and  commas  everywhere. 
Me  blest  for  this  let  no  man  hold; 
For  I,  as  Midas  did  of  old,  20 

Perish  by  turning  everything  to  gold. 

What  do  I  seek,  alas,  or  why  do  I 

Attempt  in  vain  from  thee  to  fly? 
For  making  thee  my  deity 
I  give  thee  then  ubiquity.  25 

My  pains  resemble  hell  in  this: 
The  divine  presence  there  too  is, 

But  to  torment  men,  not  to  give  them 
bliss. 


CHARLES    SACKVILLE,    EARL    OF 
DORSET    (1638-1706) 

SONG 

To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land 

We  men  at  sea  indite; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write: 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too,  j 

We  must  implore  to  write  to  you — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 

For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain, 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind      10 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we, 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 


128 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Then  if  we  write  not  by  each  post,  15 

Think  not  we  are  unkind; 
Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost 

By  Dutchmen  or  by  wind: 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way, 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a  day —  20 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 

The  King  with  wonder  and  surprise 
Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold, 

Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise 
Than  e'er  they  did  of  old;  25 

But  let  him  know  it  is  our  tears 

Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story,  30 

The  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree; 
For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  be- 
hind?— 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la!  35 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst, 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapor,1   Spaniards  curse, 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find; 
'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go,         40 
Or  who's  our  friend,  or  who's  our  foe — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la ! 


To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away 
We  throw  a  merry  main, 

Or  else  at  serious  ombre2  play; 
But  why  should  we  in  vain 

Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue? 

We  were  undone  when  we  left  you- 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 


45 


50 


But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow 

And  cast  our  hopes  away, 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe, 

Sit  careless  at  a  play, 
Perhaps  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan —     55 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 


When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear 

That  dies  in  every  note, 
As  if  it  sighed  with  each  man's  care 

For  being  so  remote, 


60 


!  boast. 


2  a  game  of  cards. 


Think  then  how  often  love  we've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  played — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 

In  justice  you  cannot  refuse 

To  think  of  our  distress,  65 

When  we  for  hopes  of  honor  lose 

Our  certain  happiness: 
All  those  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la!  70 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 

And  likewise  all  our  fears, 
In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 

Some  pity  for  our  tears: 
Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy —  75 

We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea — 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la! 

CAROLINE  PROSE 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  (1605-1682) 

From  HYDRIOTAPHIA  or 
URN  BURIAL 

Now  since  these  dead  bones  have 
already  outlasted  the  living  ones  of  Me- 
thusaleh,  and,  in  a  yard  under  ground 
and  their  walls  of  clay,  outworn  all  the 
strong  and  specious  buildings  above  it; 
and  quietly  rested  under  the  drums  and 
tramplings  of  three  conquests:  what 
prince  can  promise  such  diuturnity  unto 
his  relics,  or  might  not  gladly  say, 

Sic  ego  componi  versus  in  ossa  velim?  [10 

Time,  which  antiquates  antiquities,  and 
hath  an  art  to  make  dust  of  all  things, 
hath  yet  spared  these  minor  monuments. 

In  vain  we  hope  to  be  known  by  open 
and  visible  conservatories,  when  to  be 
unknown  was  the  means  of  their  continua- 
tion, and  obscurity  their  protection.  If 
they  died  by  violent  hands,  and  were 
thrust  into  their  urns,  these  bones  be- 
come considerable,  and  some  old  [20 
philosophers  would  honor  them,  whose 
souls  they  conceived  most  pure,  which 
were  thus  snatched  from  their  bodies, 
and  to  retain  a  stronger  propension  unto 
them;  whereas  they  weariedly  left  a  lan- 
guishing corpse,  and  with  faint  desires  of 


BROWNE 


129 


reunion.  If  they  fell  by  long  and  aged  de- 
cay, yet  wrapped  up  in  the  bundle  of  time, 
they  fall  into  indistinction,  and  make  but 
one  blot  with  infants.  If  we  begin  to  [30 
die  when  we  live,  and  long  life  be  but  a 
prolongation  of  death,  our  life  is  a  sad 
composition;  we  live  with  death,  and 
die  not  in  a  moment.  How  many  pulses 
made  up  the  life  of  Methuselah,  were 
work  for  Archimedes:  common  counters 
sum  up  the  life  of  Moses  his  man.  Our 
days  become  considerable,  like  petty 
sums,  by  minute  accumulations;  where 
numerous  fractions  make  up  but  small  [40 
round  numbers;  and  our  days  of  a  span 
long,  make  not  one  little  finger. 

If  the  nearness  of  our  last  necessity 
brought  a  nearer  conformity  into  it,  there 
were  a  happiness  in  hoary  hairs,  and  no 
calamity  in  half-senses.  But  the  long 
habit  of  living  indisposeth  us  for  dying; 
when  avarice  makes  us  the  sport  of  death, 
when  even  David  grew  politicly  cruel, 
and  Solomon  could  hardly  be  said  to  [50 
be  the  wisest  of  men.  But  many  are  too 
early  old,  and  before  the  date  of  age. 
Adversity  stretcheth  our  days,  misery 
makes  Alcmena's  nights,  and  time  hath  no 
wings  unto  it.  But  the  most  tedious 
being  is  that  which  can  unwish  itself, 
content  to  be  nothing,  or  never  to  have 
been,  which  was  beyond  the  malcontent 
of  Job,  who  cursed  not  the  day  of  his  life, 
but  his  nativity;  content  to  have  so  [60 
far  been,  as  to  have  title  to  future  being, 
although  he  had  lived  here  but  in  an 
hidden  state  of  life,  and  as  it  were  an 
abortion. 

What  song  the  Sirens  sang,  or  what 
name  Achilles  assumed  when  he  hid 
himself  among  women,  though  puzzling 
questions,  are  not  beyond  all  conjecture. 
What  time  the  persons  of  these  ossuaries 
entered  the  famous  nations  of  the  [70 
dead,  and  slept  with  princes  and  coun- 
sellors, might  admit  a  wide  solution.  But 
who  were  the  proprietaries  of  these  bones, 
or  what  bodies  these  ashes  made  up,  were 
a  question  above  antiquarism;  not  to  be 
resolved  by  man,  nor  easily  perhaps  by 
spirits,  except  we  consult  the  provincial 
guardians,  or  tutelary  observators.  Had 
they  made  as  good  provision  for  their 
names  as  they  have  done  for  their  [80 


relics,  they  had  not  so  grossly  erred  in  the 
art  of  perpetuation.  But  to  subsist  in 
bones,  and  be  but  pyramidally  extant,  is  a 
fallacy  in  duration.  Vain  ashes,  which, 
in  the  oblivion  of  names,  persons,  times 
and  sexes,  have  found  unto  themselves 
a  fruitless  continuation,  and  only  arise 
unto  late  posterity  as  emblems  of  mortal 
vanities,  antidotes  against  pride,  vain- 
glory, and  madding  vices!  Pagan  vain-  [90 
glories,  which  thought  the  world  might 
last  forever,  had  encouragement  for  am- 
bition; and  finding  no  Atropos  unto  the 
immortality  of  their  names,  were  never 
damped  with  the  necessity  of  oblivion. 
Even  old  ambitions  had  the  advantage  of 
ours  in  the  attempts  of  their  vain-glories, 
who  acting  early,  and  before  the  probable 
meridian  of  time,  have  by  this  time  found 
great  accomplishment  of  their  de-  [100 
signs,  whereby  the  ancient  heroes  have 
already  out-lasted  their  monuments  and 
mechanical  preservations.  But  in  this 
latter  scene  of  time  we  cannot  expect  such 
mummies  unto  our  memories,  when  ambi- 
tion may  fear  the  prophecy  of  Elias;  and 
Charles  the  Fifth  can  never  hope  to  live 
within  two  Methuselahs  of  Hector. 

And  therefore  restless  inquietude  for 
the  diuturnity  of  our  memories  unto  [no 
present  considerations  seems  a  vanity  al- 
most out  of  date,  and  superannuated 
piece  of  folly.  We  cannot  hope  to  live 
so  long  in  our  names  as  some  have  done 
in  their  persons.  One  face  of  Janus  holds 
no  proportion  to  the  other.  'Tis  too  late 
to  be  ambitious.  The  great  mutations  of 
the  world  are  acted,  or  time  may  be  too 
short  for  our  designs.  To  extend  our  mem- 
ories by  monuments,  whose  death  we  [120 
daily  pray  for,  and  whose  duration  we 
cannot  hope  without  injury  to  our  ex- 
pectations in  the  advent  of  the  last  day, 
were  a  contradiction  to  our  beliefs.  We, 
whose  generations  are  ordained  in  this 
setting  part  of  time,  are  providentially 
taken  off  from  such  imaginations;  and, 
being  necessitated  to  eye  the  remaining 
particle  of  futurity,  are  naturally  con- 
stituted unto  thoughts  of  the  next  [130 
world,  and  cannot  excusably  decline  the 
consideration  of  that  duration  which 
maketh  pyramids  pillars  of  snow,  and  all 
that's  past  a  moment. 


130 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Circles  and  right  lines  limit  and  close 
all  bodies,  and  the  mortal  right-lined 
circle  must  conclude  and  shut  up  all. 
There  is  no  antidote  against  the  opium 
of  time,  which  temporally  considereth  all 
things:  our  fathers  find  their  graves  [140 
in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly  tell  us 
how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors. 
Grave-stones  tell  truth  scarce  forty  years. 
Generations  pass  while  some  trees  stand, 
and  old  families  last  not  three  oaks.  To 
be  read  by  bare  inscriptions,  like  many 
in  Gruter,  to  hope  for  eternity  by  enig- 
matical epithets  or  first  letters  of  our 
names,  to  be  studied  by  antiquaries  who 
we  were,  and  have  new  names  given  [150 
us  like  many  of  the  mummies,  are  cold 
consolations  unto  the  students  of  per- 
petuity, even  by  everlasting  languages. 

To  be  content  that  times  to  come 
should  only  know  there  was  such  a  man, 
not  caring  whether  they  knew  more  of 
him,  was  a  frigid  ambition  in  Cardan, 
disparaging  his  horoscopal  inclination 
and  judgment  of  himself.  Who  cares 
to  subsist  like  Hippocrates'  patients,  [160 
or  Achilles'  horses  in  Homer,  under  naked 
nominations,  without  deserts  and  noble 
acts,  which  are  the  balsam  of  our  mem- 
ories, the  entelechia  and  soul  of  our  sub- 
sistences? To  be  nameless  in  worthy 
deeds  exceeds  an  infamous  history.  The 
Canaanitish  woman  lives  more  happily 
without  a  name,  than  Herodias  with  one. 
And  who  had  not  rather  have  been  the 
good  thief,  than  Pilate?  [170 

But  the  iniquity  of  oblivion  blindly 
scattereth  her  poppy,  and  deals  with  the 
memory  of  men  without  distinction  to 
merit  of  perpetuity.  Who  can  but  pity 
the  founder  of  the  pyramids?  Herostra- 
tus  lives  that  burnt  the  temple  of  Diana; 
he  is  almost  lost  that  built  it.  Time  hath 
spared  the  epitaph  of  Adrian's  horse, 
confounded  that  of  himself.  In  vain  we 
compute  our  felicities  by  the  advan-  [180 
tage  of  our  good  names,  since  bad  have 
equal  durations;  and  Thersites  is  like  to 
live  as  long  as  Agamemnon.  Who  knows 
whether  the  best  of  men  be  known,  or 
whether  there  be  not  more  remarkable 
persons  forgot,  than  any  that  stand  re- 
membered in  the  known  account  of  time? 
Without    the    favor    of    the    everlasting 


register  the  first  man  had  been  as  un- 
known as  the  last,  and  Methuselah's  [190 
long  life  had  been  his  only  chronicle. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater 
part  must  be  content  to  be  as  though  they 
had  not  been,  to  be  found  in  the  register 
of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man.  Twenty- 
seven  names  make  up  the  first  story  be- 
fore the  flood,  and  the  recorded  names 
ever  since  contain  not  one  living  century. 
The  number  of  the  dead  long  exceedeth 
all  that  shall  live.  The  night  of  time  [200 
far  surpasseth  the  day,  and  who  knows 
when  was  the  equinox?  Every  hour 
adds  unto  that  current  arithmetic,  which 
scarce  stands  one  moment.  And  since 
death  must  be  the  Lucina  of  life,  and 
even  pagans  could  doubt  whether  thus 
to  live  were  to  die;  since  our  longest  sun 
sets  at  right  descensions,  and  makes  but 
winter  arches,  and  therefore  it  cannot  be 
long  before  we  lie  down  in  darkness,  [210 
and  have  our  light  in  ashes;  since  the 
brother  of  death  daily  haunts  us  with 
dying  mementos,  and  time,  that  grows 
old  in  itself,  bids  us  hope  no  long  duration: 
diuturnity  is  a  dream  and  folly  of  ex- 
pectation. 

Darkness  and  light  divide  the  course 
of  time,  and  oblivion  shares  with  memory 
a  great  part  even  of  our  living  beings;  we 
slightly  remember  our  felicities,  and  [220 
the  smartest  strokes  of  affliction  leave 
but  short  smart  upon  us.  Sense  endureth 
no  extremities,  and  sorrows  destroy  us 
or  themselves.  To  weep  into  stones  are 
fables.  Afflictions  induce  callosities;  mis- 
eries are  slippery,  or  fall  like  snow  upon 
us,  which  notwithstanding  is  no  unhappy 
stupidity.  To  be  ignorant  of  evils  to 
come,  and  forgetful  of  evils  past,  is  a 
merciful  provision  in  nature,  whereby  [230 
we  digest  the  mixture  of  our  few  and  evil 
days,  and  our  delivered  senses  not  relaps- 
ing into  cutting  remembrances,  our  sor- 
rows are  not  kept  raw  by  the  edge  of 
repetitions.  A  great  part  of  antiquity 
contented  their  hopes  of  subsistency  with 
a  transmigration  of  their  souls, — a  good 
way  to  continue  their  memories;  while 
having  the  advantage  of  plural  succes- 
sions, they  could  not  but  act  some-  [240 
thing  remarkable  in  such  variety  of  beings, 
and  enjoying  the  fame  of  their  passed 


BROWNE 


131 


selves,  make  accumulation  of  glory  unto 
their  last  durations.  Others,  rather  than 
be  lost  in  the  uncomfortable  night  of 
nothing,  were  content  to  recede  into  the 
common  being,  and  make  one  particle  of 
the  public  soul  of  all  things,  which  was 
no  more  than  to  return  into  their  unknown 
and  divine  original  again.  Egyp-  [250 
tian  ingenuity  was  more  unsatisfied,  con- 
triving their  bodies  in  sweet  consistencies 
to  attend  the  return  of  their  souls.  But 
all  was  vanity,  feeding  the  wind,  and 
folly.  The  Egyptian  mummies,  which 
Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared,  avarice 
now  consumeth.  Mummy  is  become  mer- 
chandise, Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and 
Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams. 

In  vain  do  individuals  hope  for  im-  [260 
mortality,  or  any  patent  from  oblivion, 
in  preservations  below  the  moon;  men 
have  been  deceived  even  in  their  flat- 
teries above  the  sun,  and  studied  conceits 
to  perpetuate  their  names  in  heaven. 
The  various  cosmography  of  that  part 
hath  already  varied  the  names  of  con- 
trived constellations;  Nimrod  is  lost  in 
Orion,  and  Osiris  in  the  dog-star.  While 
we  look  for  incorruption  in  the  heav-  [270 
ens,  we  find  they  are  but  like  the  earth; 
durable  in  their  main  bodies,  alterable  in 
their  parts:  whereof,  beside  comets  and 
new  stars,  perspectives  begin  to  tell  tales; 
and  the  spots  that  wander  about  the  sun, 
with  Phaethon's  favor,  would  make  clear 
conviction. 

There  is  nothing  strictly  immortal 
but  immortality.  Whatever  hath  no  be- 
ginning may  be  confident  of  no  end —  [280 
which  is  the  peculiar  of  that  necessary 
essence  that  cannot  destroy  itself — and 
the  highest  strain  of  omnipotency,  to  be 
so  powerfully  constituted,  as  not  to  suffer 
even  from  the  power  of  itself.  All  others 
have  a  dependent  being  and  within  the 
reach  of  destruction.  But  the  sufficiency 
of  Christian  immortality  frustrates  all 
earthly  glory,  and  the  quality  of  either 
state  after  death  makes  a  folly  of  post-  [290 
humous  memory.  God,  who  can  only 
destroy  our  souls,  and  hath  assured  our 
resurrection,  either  of  our  bodies  or  names 
hath  directly  promised  no  duration. 
Wherein  there  is  so  much  of  chance,  that 
the  boldest  expectants  have  found  un- 


happy frustration;  and  to  hold  long  sub- 
sistence, seems  but  a  scape  in  oblivion. 
But  man  is  a  noble  animal,  splendid 
in  ashes,  and  pompous  in  the  grave,  [300 
solemnizing  nativities  and  deaths  with 
equal  lustre,  nor  omitting  ceremonies  of 
bravery  in  the  infamy  of  his  nature. 

Life  is  a  pure  flame,  and  we  live  by  an 
invisible  sun  within  us.  A  small  fire 
sufficeth  for  life;  great  flames  seemed 
too  little  after  death,  while  men  vainly 
affected  precious  pyres,  and  to  burn 
like  Sardanapalus.  But  the  wisdom  of 
funeral  laws  found  the  folly  of  prodigal  [310 
blazes,  and  reduced  undoing  fires  unto 
the  rule  of  sober  obsequies,  wherein  few 
could  be  so  mean  as  not  to  provide  wood, 
pitch,  a  mourner,  and  an  urn. 

Five  languages  secured  not  the  epitaph 
of  Gordianus.  The  man  of  God  lives 
longer  without  a  tomb  than  any  by  one, 
invisibly  interred  by  angels,  and  adjudged 
to  obscurity,  though  not  without  some 
marks  directing  human  discovery.  [320 
Enoch  and  Elias,  without  either  tomb  or 
burial,  in  an  anomalous  state  of  being,  are 
the  great  examples  of  perpetuity  in  their 
long  and  living  memory,  in  strict  account 
being  still  on  this  side  death,  and  having 
a  late  part  yet  to  act  upon  this  stage  of 
earth.  If  in  the  decretory  term  of  the 
world  we  shall  not  all  die,  but  be  changed, 
according  to  received  translation,  the 
last  day  will  make  but  few  graves;  [330 
at  least  quick  resurrections  will  antic- 
ipate lasting  sepultures.  Some  graves 
will  be  opened  before  they  be  quite  closed, 
and  Lazarus  be  no  wonder,  when  many 
that  feared  to  die  shall  groan  that  they 
can  die  but  once.  The  dismal  state  is 
the  second  and  living  death,  when  life 
puts  despair  on  the  damned;  when  men 
shall  wish  the  coverings  of  movmtains, 
not  of  monuments,  and  annihilations  [340 
shall  be  courted. 

While  some  have  studied  monuments, 
others  have  studiously  declined  them,  and 
some  have  been  so  vainly  boisterous  that 
they  durst  not  acknowledge  their  graves; 
wherein  Alaricus  seems  most  subtle,  who 
had  a  river  turned  to  hide  his  bones  at 
the  bottom.  Even  Sylla,  that  thought 
himself  safe  in  his  urn,  could  not  prevent 
revenging  tongues,  and  stones  thrown  [350 


i32 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


at  his  monument.  Happy  are  they  whom 
privacy  makes  innocent,  who  deal  so 
with  men  in  this  world,  that  they  are  not 
afraid  to  meet  them  in  the  next;  who, 
when  they  die,  make  no  commotion  among 
the  dead,  and  are  not  touched  with  that 
poetical  taunt  of  Isaiah. 


To  subsist  in  lasting  monuments,  to 
live  in  their  productions,  to  exist  in  their 
names  and  predicament  of  chimeras,  [360 
was  large  satisfaction  unto  old  expecta- 
tions, and  made  one  part  of  their  Elysiums. 
But  all  this  is  nothing  in  the  metaphysics 
of  true  belief.  To  live  indeed,  is  to  be 
again  ourselves,  which  being  not  only 
an  hope,  but  an  evidence  in  noble  be- 
lievers, 'tis  all  one  to  lie  in  St.  Innocent's 
churchyard,  as  in  the  sands  of  Egypt. 
Ready  to  be  anything,  in  the  ecstasy 
of  being  ever,  and  as  content  with  [370 
six  foot  as  the  moles  of  Adrianus. 


THOMAS  FULLER  (1608-1661) 

THE  GOOD  SCHOOLMASTER 

From  The  Holy  State 

There  is  scarce  any  profession  in  the 
commonwealth  more  necessary,  which  is 
so  slightly  performed.  The  reasons 
whereof  I  conceive  to  be  these:  First, 
young  scholars  make  this  calling  their 
refuge;  yea,  perchance  before  they  have 
taken  any  degree  in  the  university,  com- 
mence schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if 
nothing  else  were  required  to  set  up  this 
profession,  but  only  a  rod  and  a  [10 
ferula.  Secondly,  others,  who  are  able, 
use  it  only  as  a  passage  to  better  prefer- 
ment, to  patch  the  rents  in  their  present 
fortune  till  they  can  provide  a  new  one, 
and  betake  themselves  to  some  more 
gainful  calling.  Thirdly,  they  are  dis- 
heartened from  doing  their  best  with  the 
miserable  reward  which  in  some  places 
they  receive,  being  masters  to  their  chil- 
dren and  slaves  to  their  parents.  [20 
Fourthly,  being  grown  rich,  they  grow 
negligent,  and  scorn  to  touch  the  school 
but  by  the  proxy  of  an  usher.     But  see 


how  well  our  schoolmaster  behaves  him- 
self. 

His  genius  inclines  him  with  delight 
to  his  profession.  Some  men'  had  as  lief 
be  schoolboys  as  schoolmasters,  to  be 
tied  to  the  school,  as  Cooper's  "Dic- 
tionary" and  Scapula's  "Lexicon"  [30 
are  chained  to  the  desk  therein;  and 
though  great  scholars,  and  skilful  in  other 
arts,  are  bunglers  in  this:  but  God  of  His 
goodness  hath  fitted  several  men  for 
several  callings,  that  the  necessity  of 
Church  and  State  in  all  conditions  may 
be  provided  for.  So  that  he  who  beholds 
the  fabric  thereof  may  say,  "Ged  hewed 
out  this  stone,  and  appointed  it  to  lie  in. 
this  very  place,  for  it  would  fit  none  [40 
other  so  well,  and  here  it  doth  most  ex- 
cellent." And  thus  God  mouldeth  some 
for  a  schoolmaster's  life,  undertaking  it 
with  desire  and  delight,  and  discharging 
it  with  dexterity  and  happy  success. 

He  studieth  his  scholars'  natures  as 
carefully  as  they  their  books,  and  ranks 
their  dispositions  into  several  forms.  And 
though  it  may  seem  difficult  for  him  in  a 
great  school  to  descend  to  all  par-  [50 
ticulars,  yet  experienced  schoolmasters 
may  quickly  make  a  grammar  of  boys' 
natures,  and  reduce  them  all,  saving  some 
few  exceptions,  to  these  general  rules: 

1.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  indus- 
trious. The  conjunction  of  two  such 
planets  in  a  youth  presages  much  good 
unto  him.  To  such  a  lad  a  frown  may  be 
a  whipping,  and  a  whipping  a  death;  yea, 
where  their  master  whips  them  once,  [60 
shame  whips  them  all  the  week  after. 
Such  natures  he  useth  with  all  gentleness. 

2.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  idle. 
These  think,  with  the  hare  in  the  fable, 
that  running  with  snails  (so  they  count 
the  rest  of  their  schoolfellows)  they  shall 
come  soon  enough  to  the  post,  though 
sleeping  a  good  while  before  their  starting. 
Oh,  a  good  rod  would  finely  take  them 
napping!  [70 

3.  Those  that  are  dull  and  diligent. 
Wines,  the  stronger  they  be,  the  more 
lees  they  have  when  they  are  new.  Many 
boys  are  muddy-headed  till  they  be  clari- 
fied with  age,  and  such  afterwards  prove 
the  best.  Bristol  diamonds  are  both 
bright  and  squared  and  pointed  by  nature, 


FULLER 


133 


and  yet  are  soft  and  worthless;  whereas, 
orient  ones  in  India  are  rough  and  rugged 
naturally.  Hard,  rugged,  and  dull  [80 
natures  of  youth  acquit  themselves  after- 
wards the  jewels  of  the  country,  and 
therefore  their  dullness  at  first  is  to  be 
borne  with,  if  they  be  diligent.  That 
schoolmaster  deserves  to  be  beaten  him- 
self who  beats  nature  in  a  boy  for  a  fault. 
And  I  question  whether  all  the  whipping 
in  the  world  can  make  their  parts,  which 
are  naturally  sluggish,  rise  one  minute 
before  the  hour  nature  hath  appointed.  [90 

4.  Those  that  are  invincibly  dull,  and 
negligent  also.  Correction  may  reform 
the  latter,  not  amend  the  former.  All 
the  whetting  in  the  world  can  never  set  a 
razor's  edge  on  that  which  hath  no  steel 
in  it.  Such  boys  he  consigneth  over  to 
other  professions.  Shipwrights  and  boat- 
makers  will  choose  those  crooked  pieces 
of  timber  which  other  carpenters  refuse. 
Those  may  make  excellent  merchants  [100 
and  mechanics  who  will  not  serve  for 
scholars. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodical  in 
his  teaching;  not  leading  them  rather  in 
a  circle  than  forwards.  He  minces  his 
precepts  for  children  to  swallow,  hanging 
clogs  on  the  nimbleness  of  his  own  soul, 
that  his  scholars  may  go  along  with  him. 

He  is,  and  will  be  known  to  be,  an  ab- 
solute monarch  in  his  school.  If  [no 
cockering  mothers  proffer  him  money  to 
purchase  their  sons  an  exemption  from  his 
rod  (to  live  as  it  were  in  a  peculiar,  out 
of  their  master's  jurisdiction),  with  dis- 
dain he  refuseth  it,  and  scorns  the  late 
custom  in  some  places  of  commuting 
whipping  into  money,  and  ransoming  boys 
from  the  rod  at  a  set  price.  If  he  hath  a 
stubborn  youth,  correction-proof,  he  de- 
baseth  not  his  authority  by  contesting  [120 
with  him,  but  fairly,  if  he  can,  puts  him 
away  before  his  obstinacy  hath  infected 
others. 

He  is  moderate  in  inflicting  deserved 
correction.  Many  a  schoolmaster  better 
answereth  the  name  TraJioTpifiiqs  than 
7raiSaywyos,  rather  tearing  his  scholars' 
flesh  with  whipping  than  giving  them 
good  education.  No  wonder  if  his  scholars 
hate  the  Muses,  being  presented  unto  [130 
them  in  the  shapes  of  fiends  and  furies. 


Junius  complains  de  insolenti  carnificina 
of  his  schoolmaster,  by  whom  conscinde- 
batur  flagris  septies  aut  octies  in  dies  sin- 
gulos.  Yea,  hear  the  lamentable  verses  of 
poor  Tusser  in  his  own  life: 

"From  Paul's  I  went,  to  Eton  sent. 
To  learn  straightways  the  Latin  phrase, 
Where  fifty-three  stripes  given  to  me 

At  once  I  had.  [140 

'Tor  fault  but  small,  or  none  at  all, 
It  came  to  pass  thus  beat  I  was; 
See  Udall,  see  the  mercy  of  thee 

To  me,  poor  lad." 

Such  an  Orbilius  mars  more  scholars 
than  he  makes:  their  tyranny  hath  caused 
many  tongues  to  stammer,  which  spake 
plain  by  nature,  and  whose  stuttering  at 
first  was  nothing  else  but  fears  quavering 
on  their  speech  at  their  master's  [150 
presence;  and  whose  mauling  them  about 
their  heads  hath  dulled  those  who,  in 
quickness,  exceeded  their  master. 

He  makes  his  school  free  to  him  who 
sues  to  him  in  forma  pauperis.  And  surely 
learning  is  the  greatest  alms  that  can  be 
given.  But  he  is  a  beast  who,  because  the 
poor  scholar  cannot  pay  him  his  wages, 
pays  the  scholar  in  his  whipping.  Rather 
are  diligent  lads  to  be  encouraged  [160 
with  all  excitements  to  learning.  This 
minds  me  of  what  I  have  heard  concerning 
Mr.  Bust,  that  worthy  late  schoolmaster 
of  Eton,  who  would  never  suffer  any 
wandering  begging  scholar  (such  as  justly 
the  statute  hath  ranked  in  the  forefront 
of  rogues)  to  come  into  his  school,  but 
would  thrust  him  out  with  earnestness 
(however  privately  charitable  unto  him), 
lest  his  schoolboys  should  be  dis-  [170 
heartened  from  their  books  by  seeing  some 
scholars,  after  their  studying  in  the  uni- 
versity, preferred  to  beggary. 

He  spoils  not  a  good  school  to  make 
thereof  a  bad  college,  therein  to  teach  his 
scholars  logic.  For,  besides  that  logic 
may  have  an  action  of  trespass  against 
grammar  for  encroaching  on  her  liberties, 
syllogisms  are  solecisms  taught  in  the 
school,  and  oftentimes  they  are  forced  [180 
afterwards  in  the  university  to  unlearn 
the  fumbling  skill  they  had  before. 


134 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Out  of  his  school  he  is  no  whit  pedan- 
tical  in  carriage  or  discourse;  contenting 
himself  to  be  rich  in  Latin,  though  he 
doth  not  jingle  with  it  in  every  company 
wherein  he  comes. 

To  conclude,  let  this  amongst  other 
motives  make  schoolmasters  careful  in 
their  place,  that  the  eminencies  of  [190 
their  scholars  have  commended  the  mem- 
ories of  their  schoolmasters  to  posterity, 
who  otherwise  in  obscurity  had  altogether 
been  forgotten.  Who  had  ever  heard  of 
R.  Bond,  in  Lancashire,  but  for  the  breed- 
ing of  learned  Ascham,  his  scholar,  or  of 
Hartgrave,  in  Burnley  school,  in  the  same 
county,  but  because  he  was  the  first  did 
teach  worthy  Dr.  Whitaker?  Nor  do  I 
honor  the  memory  of  Mulcaster  for  [200 
anything  so  much  as  for  his  scholar,  that 
gulf  of  learning,  Bishop  Andrews.  This 
made  the  Athenians,  the  day  before  the 
great  feast  of  Theseus,  their  founder,  to 
sacrifice  a  ram  to  the  memory  of  Conidas, 
his  schoolmaster,  that  first  instructed  him. 


THE  LIFE  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 
From  The  Holy  State 

We  intermeddle  not  with  her  descrip- 
tion, as  she  was  a  sovereign  prince,  too 
high  for  our  pen,  and  performed  by  others 
already,  though  not  by  any  done  so  fully 
but  that  still  room  is  left  for  the  en- 
deavors of  posterity  to  add  thereunto. 
We  consider  her  only  as  she  was  a  worthy 
lady,  her  private  virtues  rendering  her  to 
the  imitation,  and  her  public  to  the  ad- 
miration, of  all.  [10 

Her  royal  birth  by  her  father's  side 
doth  comparatively  make  her  mother- 
descent  seem  low,  which  otherwise,  con- 
sidered in  itself,  was  very  noble  and 
honorable.  As  for  the  bundle  of  scan- 
dalous aspersions  by  some  cast  on  her 
birth,  they  are  best  to  be  buried  without 
once  opening  of  them.  For  as  the  rascal 
will  presume  to  miscall  the  best  lord,  when 
far  enough  out  of  his  hearing,  so  slan-  [20 
derous  tongues  think  they  may  run  riot 
in  railing  on  any,  when  once  got  out  of 
the  distance  of  time  and  reach  of  con- 


futation. But  majesty,  which  dieth  not, 
will  not  suffer  itself  to  be  so  abused,  seeing 
the  best  assurance  which  living  princes 
have  that  their  memories  shall  be  honor- 
ably continued  is  founded  (next  to  their 
own  deserts)  in  the  maintaining  of  the 
unstained  reputation  of  their  pred-  [30 
ecessors.  Yea,  Divine  Justice  seems  herein 
to  be  a  compurgator  of  the  parents 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  that  Nicholas 
Sanders,  a  Popish  priest,  the  first  raiser  of 
these  wicked  reports,  was  accidentally 
famished  as  he  roved  up  and  down  in 
Ireland;  either  because  it  was  just  he 
should  be  starved  that  formerly  surfeited 
with  lying,  or  because  that  island,  out  of  a 
natural  antipathy  against  poisonous  [40 
creatures,  would  not  lend  life  to  so  venom- 
ous a  slanderer. 

Under  the  reign  of  her  father,  and 
brother  King  Edward  VI  (who  commonly 
called  her  his  "sister  Temperance"),  she 
lived  in  a  princely  fashion.  But  the  case 
was  altered  with  her  when  her  sister  Mary 
came  to  the  crown,  who  ever  looked  upon 
her  with  a  jealous  and  frowning  face, 
chiefly  because  of  the  difference  be-  [50 
tween  them  in  religion.  For  though 
Queen  Mary  is  said  of  herself  not  so  much 
as  to  have  barked,  yet  she  had  under  her 
those  who  did  more  than  bite;  and  rather 
her  religion  than  disposition  was  guilty  in 
countenancing  their  cruelty  by  her  au- 
thority. 

This  antipathy  against  her  sister  Eliza- 
beth was  increased  with  the  remembrance 
how  Catherine  dowager,  Queen  Mary's  [60 
mother,  was  justled  out  of  the  bed  of 
Henry  VIII  by  Anna  Boleyn,  mother  to 
Queen  Elizabeth;  so  that  these  two  sisters 
were  born,  as  I  may  say,  not  only  in 
several,  but  opposite,  horizons,  so  that  the 
elevation  and  bright  appearing  of  the  one 
inferred  the  necessary  obscurity  and  de- 
pression of  the  other;  and  still  Queen 
Mary  was  troubled  with  this  fit  of  the 
mother,  which  incensed  her  against  [70 
this  her  half-sister.  To  which  two  grand 
causes  of  opposition  this  third  may  also 
be  added,  because  not  so  generally  known, 
though  in  itself  of  lesser  consequence: 
Queen  Mary  had  released  Edward  Cour- 
tenay,  Earl  of  Devonshire,  out  of  the 
Tower,  where  long  he  had  been  detained 


FULLER 


135 


prisoner,  a  gentleman  of  a  beautiful 
body,  sweet  nature,  and  royal  descent; 
intending  him,  as  it  was  generally  [80 
conceived,  to  be  a  husband  for  herself. 
For  when  the  said  earl  petitioned  the 
queen  for  leave  to  travel,  she  advised  him 
rather  to  marry,  insuring  him  that  no 
lady  in  the  land,  how  high  soever,  would 
refuse  him  for  a  husband;  and  urging  him 
to  make  his  choice  where  he  pleased,  she 
pointed  herself  out  unto  him  as  plainly 
as  might  stand  with  the  modesty  of  a 
maid  and  majesty  of  a  queen.  Here-  [90 
upon  the  young  earl — whether  because 
that  his  long  durance  had  some  influence 
on  his  brain,  or  that  naturally  his  face  was 
better  than  his  head,  or  out  of  some 
private  fancy  and  affection  to  the  Lady 
Elizabeth,  or  out  of  loyal  bashfulness, 
not  presuming  to  climb  higher,  but  ex- 
pecting to  be  called  up — is  said  to  have 
requested  the  queen  for  leave  to  marry 
her  sister  Elizabeth,  unhappy  that  [100 
his  choice  either  went  so  high  or  no  higher. 
For  who  could  have  spoken  worse  treason 
against  Mary,  (though  not  against  the 
queen),  than  to  prefer  her  sister  before 
her?  And  she,  innocent  lady,  did  after- 
wards dearly  pay  the  score  of  this  earl's 
indiscretion. 

For  these  reasons  Lady  Elizabeth  was 
closely  kept  and  narrowly  sifted  all  her 
sister's  reign,  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield,  [no 
her  keeper,  using  more  severity  towards 
her  than  his  place  required,  yea,  more 
than  a  good  man  should — or  a  wise  man 
would— have  done.  No  doubt  the  least 
tripping  of  her  foot  should  have  cost  her 
the  losing  of  her  head,  if  they  could  have 
caught  her  to  be  privy  to  any  conspiracies. 

This  lady  as  well  deserved  the  title  of 
"Elizabeth  the  Confessor"  as  ever  Ed- 
ward, her  ancient  predecessor,  did.  [120 
Mr.  Ascham  was  a  good  schoolmaster  to 
her,  but  affliction  was  a  better;  so  that  it 
is  hard  to  say  whether  she  was  more 
happy  in  having  a  crown  so  soon,  or  in 
having  it  no  sooner,  till  affliction  had  first 
laid  in  her  a  low — and  therefore  sure — 
foundation  of  humility  for  highness  to  be 
afterwards  built  thereupon. 

We  bring  her  now  from  the  cross  to  the 
crown,  and  come  we  now  to  describe  [130 
the  rare  endowments  of  her  mind;  when, 


behold,  her  virtues  almost  stifle  my  pen, 
they  crowd  in  so  fast  upon  it. 

She  was  an  excellent  scholar,  under- 
standing the  Greek,  and  perfectly  speak- 
ing the  Latin:  witness  her  extempore 
speech  in  answer  to  the  Polish  ambassador, 
and  another  at  Cambridge,  Et  si  fcemin- 
alis  iste  mens  pudor  (for  so  it  began), 
elegantly  making  the  word  fceminalis;  [140 
and  well  might  she  mint  one  new  word 
who  did  refine  so  much  new  gold  and 
silver.  Good  skill  she  had  in  the  French 
and  Italian,  using  interpreters  not  for 
need,  but  state.  She  was  a  good  poet  in 
English,  and  fluently  made  verses.  In 
her  time  of  persecution,  when  a  Popish 
priest  pressed  her  very  hardly  to  declare 
her  opinion  concerning  the  presence  of 
Christ  in  the  sacrament,  she  truly  and  [150 
warily  presented  her  judgment  in  these 
verses: 

"  'Twas  God  the  Word  that  spake  it, 
He  took  the  bread  and  brake  it; 
And  what  the  Word  did  make  it, 
That  I  believe,  and  take  it." 

And  though  perchance  some  may  say, 
"This  was  but  the  best  of  shifts  and  the 
wrorst  of  answers,  because  the  distinct 
manner  of  the  presence  must  be  be-  [160 
lieved,"  yet  none  can  deny  it  to  have  been 
a  wise  return  to  an  adversary  who  lay  at 
wait  for  all  advantages.  Nor  was  her 
poetic  vein  less  happy  in  Latin.  When, 
a  little  before  the  Spanish  invasion  in 
eighty-eight,  the  Spanish  ambassador, 
after  a  larger  representation  of  his  mas- 
ter's demands,  had  summed  up  the  effect 
thereof  in  a  tetrastich,  she  instantly  in 
one  verse  rejoined  her  answer.  We  [170 
will  presume  to  English  both,  though  con- 
fessing the  Latin  loseth  lustre  by  the 
translation. 

Te  veto  ne  pergas  hello  dejendere  Belgas; 
Qimb  Dracus  eripuit  nunc  restituantnr  opor- 

tet; 
Quas  pater  evertit  jubeo  te  condere  cellas; 
Religio  Papce  fac  restituatur  ad  unguent. 

"These  to  you  are  our  commands: 
Send  no  help  to  the  Netherlands; 
Of  the  treasure  took  by  Drake,     [180 
Restitution  you  must  make; 


136 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


And  those  abbeys  build  anew, 
Which  your  father  overthrew; 
If  for  any  peace  you  hope, 
In  all  points  restore  the  Pope." 

THE  QUEEN'S  EXTEMPORE  RETURN 

Ad    Grcecas,     bone    rex,    fient     mandata, 
Calendas. 

"  Worthy  King,  know  this  your  will 
At  latter  Lammas  we'll  fulfil." 

Her  piety  to  God  was  exemplary:  none 
more  constant  or  devout  in  private  [190 
prayers;  very  attentive  also  at  sermons, 
wherein  she  was  better  affected  with 
soundness  of  matter  than  quaintness  of 
expression.  She  could  not  well  digest 
the  affected  over-elegancy  of  such  as 
prayed  for  her  by  the  title  of  "Defendress 
of  the  Faith,"  and  not  the  "Defender," 
it  being  no  false  construction  to  apply  a 
masculine  word  to  so  heroic  a  spirit.  She 
was  very  devout  in  returning  thanks  [200 
to  God  for  her  constant  and,  continual 
preservations:  for  one  traitor's  stab  was 
scarce  put  by  before  another  took  aim  at 
her.  But  as  if  the  poisons  of  treason  by 
custom  were  turned  natural  to  her,  by 
God's  protection  they  did  her  no  harm. 
In  any  design  of  consequence  she  loved  to 
be  long  and  well  advised;  but  where 
her  resolutions  once  seized,  she  would 
never  let  go  her  hold,  according  to  her  [210 
motto,  Semper  eadem. 

By  her  temperance  she  improved  that 
stock  of  health  which  nature  bestowed  on 
her,  using  little  wine  and  less  physic.  Her 
continence  from  pleasures  was  admirable, 
and  she  the  paragon  of  spotless  chastity, 
whatever  some  Popish  priests  (who  count 
all  virginity  hid  under  a  nun's  veil)  have 
feigned  to  the  contrary.  The  best  is,  their 
words  are  no  slander  whose  words  [220 
are  all  slander,  so  given  to  railing  that 
they  must  be  dumb  if  they  do  not  blas- 
pheme magistrates.  One  Jesuit  made 
this  false  anagram  on  her  name  Elizabeth, 
Jesabel:  false  both  in  matter  and  manner. 
For  allow  it  the  abatement  of  H,  (as  all 
anagrams  must  sue  in  chancery  for  moder- 
ate favor),  yet  was  it  both  unequal 
and  ominous  that  T,  a  solid  letter,  should 
be  omitted — the  presage  of  the  gallows  [230 


whereon  this  anagrammatist  was  after- 
wards justly  executed.  Yea,  let  the  testi- 
mony of  Pope  Sixtus  V  himseif  be  believed, 
who  professed  that  amongst  all  the  princes 
in  Christendom  he  found  but  two  who  were 
worthy  to  bear  command,  had  they  not 
been  stained  with  heresy:  namely,  Henry 
IV,  King  of  France,  and  Elizabeth,  Queen 
of  England.  And  we  may  presume  that 
the  Pope,  if  commending  his  enemy,  is  [240 
therein  infallible. 

We  come  to  her  death,  the  discourse 
whereof  was  more  welcome  to  her  from 
the  mouth  of  her  private  confessor  than 
from  a  public  preacher;  and  she  loved 
rather  to  tell  herself  than  to  be  told  of 
her  mortality,  because  the  open  mention 
thereof  made,  as  she  conceived,  her  sub- 
jects divide  their  loyalty  betwixt  the  pres- 
ent and  the  future  prince.  We  need  [250 
look  into  no  other  cause  of  her  sickness 
than  old  age,  being  seventy  years  old 
(David's  age) ,  to  which  no  king  of  England 
since  the  Conquest  did  attain.  Her 
weakness  was  increased  by  her  removal 
from  London  to  Richmond  in  a  cold 
winter  day,  sharp  enough  to  pierce 
through  those  who  were  armed  with 
health  and  youth.  Also  melancholy  (the 
worst  natural  parasite — whosoever  [260 
feeds  him  shall  never  be  rid  of  his  company) 
much  afflicted  her,  being  given  over  to 
sadness  and  silence. 

Then  prepared  she  herself  for  another 
world,  being  more  constant  in  prayer  and 
pious  exercises  than  ever  before.  Yet 
spake  she  very  little  to  any,  sighing  out 
more  than  she  said,  and  making  still 
music  to  God  in  her  heart.  And  as  the 
red  rose,  though  outwardly  not  so  fra-  [270 
grant,  is  inwardly  far  more  cordial  than  the 
damask,  being  more  thrifty  of  its  sweet- 
ness and  reserving  it  in  itself,  so  the  reli- 
gion of  this  dying  queen  was  most  turned 
inward,  in  soliloquies  betwixt  God  and 
her  own  soul,  though  she  wanted  not 
outward  expressions  thereof.  When  her 
speech  failed  her,  she  spake  with  her 
heart,  tears,  eyes,  hands,  and  other  signs, 
so  commending  herself  to  God,  the  [280 
best  Interpreter,  who  understands  what  his 
saints  desire  to  say.  Thus  died  Queen 
Elizabeth:  whilst  living,  the  first  maid  on 
earth,    and    when    dead,    the    second    in 


WALTON 


137 


heaven.  Surely  the  kingdom  had  died 
with  their  queen  had  not  the  fainting 
spirits  thereof  been  refreshed  by  the 
coming-in  of  gracious  King  James. 

She  was  of  person,  tall;  of  hair  and 
complexion,  fair,  well-favored,  but  [290 
high-nosed;  of  limbs  and  feature,  neat;  of 
a  stately  and  majestic  deportment.  She 
had  a  piercing  eye,  wherewith  she  used  to 
touch  what  mettle  strangers  were  made 
of  who  came  into  her  presence.  But  as 
she  counted  it  a  pleasant  conquest  with 
her  majestic  look  to  dash  strangers  out 
of  countenance,  so  she  was  merciful  in 
pursuing  those  whom  she  overcame;  and 
afterwards  would  cherish  and  comfort  [300 
them  with  her  smiles,  if  perceiving  to- 
wardliness  and  an  ingenuous  modesty  in 
them.  She  much  affected  rich  and  costly 
apparel;  and  if  ever  jewels  had  just  cause 
to  be  proud,  it  was  with  her  wearing  them. 


IZAAK  WALTON  (1593-1683) 

From  THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER 

Chapter  IV 

OBSERVATIONS  OF  THE  NATURE  AND  BREED- 
ING OF  THE  TROUT,  AND  HOW  TO  FISH 
FOR  HIM. 

Piscator.  The  trout  is  a  fish  highly 
valued,  both  in  this  and  foreign  nations. 
He  may  be  justly  said,  as  the  old  poet 
said  of  wine,  and  we  English  say  of  veni- 
son, to  be  a  generous  fish:  a  fish  that  is  so 
like  the  buck  that  he  also  has  his  seasons; 
for  it  is  observed  that  he  comes  in  and 
goes  out  of  season  with  the  stag  and  buck. 
Gesner  says  his  name  is  of  a  German  off- 
spring, and  says  he  is  a  fish  that  [10 
feeds  clean  and  purely,  in  the  swiftest 
streams,  and  on  the  hardest  gravel;  and 
that  he  may  justly  contend  with  all  fresh- 
water fish,  as  the  mullet  may  with  all  sea- 
fish,  for  precedency  and  daintiness  of 
taste;  and  that  being  in  right  season,  the 
most  dainty  palates  have  allowed  prec- 
edency to  him. 

And  before  I  go  farther  in  my  dis- 
course, let  me  tell  you,  that  you  are  to  [20 
observe,   that  as   there   be   some  barren 


does  that  are  good  in  summer,  so  there 
be  some  barren  trouts  that  are  good  in 
winter;  but  there  are  not  many  that  are 
so,  for  usually  they  be  in  their  perfection 
in  the  month  of  May,  and  decline  with 
the  buck.  Now  you  are  to  take  notice 
that  in  several  countries,  as  in  Germany 
and  in  other  parts,  compared  to  ours, 
fish  do  differ  much  in  their  bigness  [30 
and  shape,  and  other  ways,  and  so  do 
trouts:  it  is  well  known  that  in  the  Lake 
Leman,  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  there  are 
trouts  taken  of  three  cubits  long,  as  is 
affirmed  by  Gesner,  a  writer  of  good 
credit;  and  Mercator  says  the  trouts  that 
are  taken  in  the  Lake  of  Geneva  are  a 
great  part  of  the  merchandise  of  that 
famous  city.  And  you  are  further  to 
know  that  there  be  certain  waters  that  [40 
breed  trouts  remarkable  both  for  their 
number  and  smallness.  I  know  a  little 
brook  in  Kent  that  breeds  them  to  a 
number  incredible,  and  you  may  take 
them  twenty  or  forty  in  an  hour,  but 
none  greater  than  about  the  size  of  a 
gudgeon.  There  are  also  in  divers  rivers, 
especially  that  relate  to  or  be  near  to 
the  sea,  as  Winchester,  or  the  Thames 
about  Windsor,  a  little  trout  called  a  [50 
samlet  or  skegger  trout,  in  both  which 
places  I  have  caught  twenty  or  forty  at 
a  standing,  that  will  bite  as  fast  and  as 
freely  as  minnows:  these  be  by  some 
taken  to  be  young  salmons;  but  in  those 
waters  they  never  grow  to  be  bigger  than 
a  herring. 

There  is  also  in  Kent,  near  to  Canter- 
bury, a  trout  called  there  a  Fordidge  trout, 
a  trout  that  bears  the  name  of  the  [60 
town  where  it  is  usually  caught,  that 
is  accounted  the  rarest  of  fish:  many  of 
them  near  the  bigness  of  salmon,  but 
known  by  their  different  color;  and  in 
their  best  season  they  cut  very  white; 
and  none  of  these  have  been  known  to 
be  caught  with  an  angle,  unless  it  were 
one  that  was  caught  by  Sir  George  Hast- 
ings, an  excellent  angler,  and  now  with 
God:  and  he  hath  told  me,  he  thought  [70 
that  trout  bit  not  for  hunger  but  wanton- 
ness; and  it  is  rather  to  be  believed,  be- 
cause both  he  then,  and  many  others 
before  him,  have  been  curious  to  search 
into  their  bellies,  what  the  food  was  by 


138 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


which  they  lived,  and  have  found  out 
nothing  by  which  they  might  satisfy 
their  curiosity. 

Concerning  which  you  are  to  take 
notice  that  it  is  reported  by  good  au-  [80 
thors  that  grasshoppers  and  some  fish 
have  no  mouths,  but  are  nourished  and 
take  breath  by  the  porousness  of  their 
gills,  man  knows  not  how:  and  this  may 
be  believed,  if  we  consider  that  when  the 
raven  hath  hatched  her  eggs,  she  takes 
no  further  care,  but  leaves  her  young 
ones  to  the  care  of  the  God  of  nature, 
who  is  said,  in  the  Psalms,  "to  feed  the 
young  ravens  that  call  upon  him."  [90 
And  they  be  kept  alive  and  fed  by  a 
dew,  or  worms  that  breed  in  their  nests, 
or  some  other  ways  that  we  mortals  know 
not.  And  this  may  be  believed  of  the 
Fordidge  trout,  which,  as  it  is  said  of  the 
stork  that  "he  knows  his  season,"  so  he 
knows  his  times,  I  think  almost  his  day 
of  coming  into  that  river  out  of  the  sea, 
where  he  lives,  and,  it  is  like,  feeds,  nine 
months  of  the  year,  and  fasts  three  [100 
in  the  river  of  Fordidge.  And  you  are  to 
note,  that  those  townsmen  are  very  punc- 
tual in  observing  the  time  of  beginning 
to  fish  for  them,  and  boast  much  that 
their  river  affords  a  trout  that  exceeds 
all  others.  And  just  so  does  Sussex  boast 
of  several  fish:  as  namely,  a  Shelsey 
cockle,  a  Chichester  lobster,  an  Arundel 
mullet,  and  an  Amerly  trout. 

And  now  for  some  confirmation  of  [no 
the  Fordidge  trout:  you  are  to  know  that 
this  trout  is  thought  to  eat  nothing  in 
the  fresh  water;  and  it  may  be  the  better 
believed,  because  it  is  well  known  that 
swallows,  and  bats,  and  wagtails,  which 
are  called  half-year  birds,  and  not  seen 
to  fly  in  England  for  six  months  in  the 
year,  but  about  Michaelmas  leave  us  for 
a  hotter  climate,  yet  some  of  them  that 
have  been  left  behind  their  fellows,  [120 
have  been  found,  many  thousands  at  a 
time,  in  hollow  trees,  or  clay  caves,  where 
they  have  been  observed  to  live  and  sleep 
out  the  whole  winter  without  meat.  And 
so  Albertus  observes,  that  there  is  one 
kind  of  frog  that  hath  her  mouth  naturally 
shut  up  about  the  end  of  August,  and 
that  she  lives  so  all  the  winter;  and 
though  it  be  strange  to  some,  yet  it  is 


known  to  too  many  among  us  to  be  [130 
doubted. 

And  so  much  for  these  Fordidge  trouts, 
which  never  afford  an  angler  sport,  but 
either  live  their  time  of  being  in  the  fresh 
water,  by  their  meat  formerly  got  in  the 
sea,  not  unlike  the  swallow  or  frog,  or 
by  the  virtue  of  the  fresh  water  only;  or, 
as  the  birds  of  Paradise  and  the  chameleon 
are  said  to  live  by  the  sun  and  the  air. 

There  is  also  in  Northumberland  a  [140 
trout  called  a  bull  trout,  of  a  much  greater 
length  and  bigness  than  any  in  the  south- 
ern parts.  And  there  are,  in  many  rivers 
that  relate  to  the  sea,  salmon  trouts,  as 
much  different  from  others,  both  in  shape 
and  in  their  spots,  as  we  see  sheep  in  some 
countries  differ  one  from  another  in 
their  shape  and  bigness,  and  in  the  fine- 
ness of  their  wool.  And  certainly,  as 
some  pastures  breed  larger  sheep,  so  do  [150 
some  rivers,  by  reason  of  the  ground  over 
which  they  run,  breed  larger  trouts. 

Now  the  next  thing  that  I  will  commend 
to  your  consideration  is  that  the  trout 
is  of  a  more  sudden  growth  than  other 
fish.  Concerning  which,  you  are  also  to 
take  notice  that  he  lives  not  so  long  as 
the  perch  and  divers  other  fishes  do,  as 
Sir  Francis  Bacon  hath  observed  in  his 
History  of  Life  and  Death.  [160 

And  next  you  are  to  take  notice  that 
he  is  not  like  the  crocodile,  which  if  he 
lives  never  so  long,  yet  always  thrives 
till  his  death:  but  'tis  not  so  with  the 
trout;  for  after  he  is  come  to  his  full 
growth,  he  declines  in  his  body,  and 
keeps  his  bigness  or  thrives  only  in  his 
head  till  his  death.  And  you  are  to 
know  that  he  will  about,  especially  before, 
the  time  of  his  spawning,  get  almost  [170 
miraculously  through  weirs  and  flood- 
gates against  the  stream;  even  through 
such  high  and  swift  places  as  is  almost 
incredible.  Next,  that  the  trout  usually 
spawns  about  October  or  November,  but 
in  some  rivers  a  little  sooner  or  later; 
which  is  the  more  observable,  because 
most  other  fish  spawn  in  the  spring  or 
summer,  when  the  sun  hath  warmed  both 
the  earth  and  the  water,  and  made  [180 
it  fit  for  generation.  And  you  are  to  note, 
that  he  continues  many  months  out  of 
season;  for  it  may  be  observed  of  the 


WALTON 


i39 


trout,  that  he  is  like  the  buck  or  the  ox, 
that  will  not  be  fat  in  many  months, 
though  he  go  in  the  very  same  pastures 
that  horses  do,  which  will  be  fat  in  one 
month;  and  so  you  may  observe  that 
most  other  fishes  recover  strength,  and 
grow  sooner  fat  and  in  season,  than  [190 
the  trout  doth. 


Now  you  are  to  know  that  it  is  ob- 
served that  usually  the  best  trouts  are 
either  red  or  yellow;  though  some,  as 
the  Fordidge  trout,  be  white  and  yet 
good;  but  that  is  not  usual:  and  -it  is  a 
note  observable,  that  the  female  trout 
hath  usually  a  less  head  and  a  deeper 
body  than  the  male  trout,  and  is  usually 
the  better  meat.  And  note  that  a  hog-  [200 
back  and  a  little  head,  to  either  trout, 
salmon,  or  any  other  fish,  is  a  sign  that 
that  fish  is  in  season. 

But  yet  you  are  to  note  that  as  you  see 
some  willows  or  palm-trees  bud  and 
blossom  sooner  than  others  do,  so  some 
trouts  be,  in  rivers,  sooner  in  season;  and 
as  some  hollies  or  oaks  are  longer  be- 
fore they  cast  their  leaves,  so  are  some 
trouts,  in  rivers,  longer  before  they  go  [210 
out  of  season. 

And  you  are  to  note  that  there  are 
several  kinds  of  trouts;  but  these  several 
kinds  are  not  considered  but  by  very  few 
men;  for  they  go  under  the  general  name 
of  trouts,  just  as  pigeons  do  in  most 
places;  though  it  is  certain  there  are 
tame  and  wild  pigeons;  and  of  the 
tame,  there  be  helmets,  and  runts,  and 
carriers,  and  cropers,  and  indeed  too  [220 
many  to  name.  Nay,  the  Royal  Society 
have  found  and  published  lately  that 
there  be  thirty  and  three  kinds  of  spiders; 
and  yet  all,  for  aught  I  know,  go  under 
that  one  general  name  of  spider.  And 
it  is  so  with  many  kinds  of  fish,  and  of 
trouts  especially,  which  differ  in  their 
bigness,  and  shape,  and  spots,  and  color. 
The  great  Kentish  hens  may  be  an  in- 
stance, compared  to  other  hens.  And,  [230 
doubtless,  there  is  a  kind  of  small  trout, 
which  will  never  thrive  to  be  big,  that 
breeds  very  many  more  than  others  do, 
that  be  of  a  larger  size;  which  you  may 
rather  believe  if  vou  consider  that  the 


little  wren  and  titmouse  will  have  twenty 
young  ones  at  a  time,  when  usually  the 
noble  hawk  or  the  musical  thrassel  or 
blackbird  exceed  not  four  or  five. 

And  now  you  shall  see  me  try  my  [240 
skill  to  catch  a  trout;  and  at  my  next 
walking,  either  this  evening  or  to-morrow 
morning,  I  will  give  you  direction  how  you 
yourself  shall  fish  for  him. 

Venator.  Trust  me,  master,  I  see 
now  it  is  a  harder  matter  to  catch  a  trout 
than  a  chub;  for  I  have  put  on  patience 
and  followed  you  these  two  hours,  and 
not  seen  a  fish  stir,  neither  at  your  minnow 
nor  your  worm.  [250 

Piscator.  Well,  scholar,  you  must  en- 
dure worse  luck  some  time,  or  you  will 
never  make  a  good  angler.  But  what 
say  you  now?  There  is  a  trout  now,  and 
a  good  one  too,  if  I  can  but  hold  him;  and 
two  or  three  turns  more  will  tire  him. 
Now  you  see  he  lies  still,  and  the  sleight 
is  to  land  him:  reach  me  that  landing-net. 
So,  sir,  now  he  is  mine  own.  What  say 
you  now?  is  not  this  worth  all  my  [260 
labor  and  your  patience? 

Venator.  On  my  word,  master,  this 
is  a  gallant  trout:  what  shall  we  do  with 
him? 

Piscator.  Marry,  e'en  eat  him  to 
supper:  we'll  go  to  my  hostess,  from 
whence  we  came;  she  told  me,  as  I  was 
going  out  of  door,  that  my  brother  Peter,  a 
good  angler  and  a  cheerful  companion,  had 
sent  word  that  he  would  lodge  there  [270 
to-night,  and  bring  a  friend  with  him.  My 
hostess  has  two  beds,  and  I  know  you  and 
I  may  have  the  best;  we'll  rejoice  with 
my  brother  Peter  and  his  friend,  tell 
tales,  or  sing  ballads,  or  make  a  catch, 
or  find  some  harmless  sport  to  con- 
tent us,  and  pass  away  a  little  time  with- 
out offense  to  God  or  man. 

Venator.  A  match,  good  master;  let's 
go  to  that  house,  for  the  linen  looks  [280 
white  and  smells  of  lavender,  and  I  long  to 
lie  in  a  pair  of  sheets  that  smell  so.  Let's 
be  going,  good  master,  for  I  am  hungry 
again  with  fishing. 

Piscator.  Nay,  stay  a  little,  good 
scholar.  I  caught  my  last  trout  with  a 
worm;  now  I  will  put  on  a  minnow,  and 
try  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  about  yonder 
trees  for  another;  and  so  walk  towards 


140 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


our  lodging.  Look  you,  scholar,  there-  [290 
about  we  shall  have  a  bite  presently  or 
not  at  all.  Have  with  you,  sir!  o'  my 
word  I  have  hold  of  him.  Oh!  it  is  a 
great  logger-headed  chub;  come,  hang 
him  upon  that  willow  twig,  and  let's  be 
going.  But  turn  out  of  the  way  a 
little,  good  scholar,  towards  yonder  high 
honeysuckle  hedge;  there  we'll  sit  and 
sing,  whilst  this  shower  falls  so  gently 
upon  the  teeming  earth,  and  gives  yet  [300 
a  sweeter  smell  to  the  lovely  flowers  that 
adorn  these  verdant  meadows. 

Look!  under  that  broad  beech-tree  I 
sat  down,  when  I  was  last  this  way  a- 
fishing.  And  the  birds  in  the  adjoin- 
ing grove  seemed  to  have  a  friendly  con- 
tention with  an  echo,  whose  dead  voice 
seemed  to  live  in  a  hollow  tree,  near  to 
the  brow  of  that  primrose  hill.  There 
I  sat  viewing  the  silver  streams  glide  [310 
silently  towards  their  center,  the  tem- 
pestuous sea;  yet  sometimes  opposed  by 
rugged  roots  and  pebble-stones,  which 
broke  their  waves,  and  turned  them 
into  foam.  And  sometimes  I  beguiled 
time  by  viewing  the  harmless  lambs; 
some  leaping  securely  in  the  cool  shade, 
whilst  others  sported  themselves  in  the 
cheerful  sun;  and  saw  others  craving  com- 
fort from  the  swollen  udders  of  their  [320 
bleating  dams.  As  I  thus  sat,  these  and 
other  sights  had  so  fully  possessed  my 
soul  with  content,  that  I  thought,  as  the 
poet  hath  happily  expressed  it, 

"  I  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth, 
And  possessed  joys  not  promised  in  my 
birth." 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  into 
the  next  field,  a  second  pleasure  enter- 
tained me;  'twas  a  handsome  milkmaid, 
that  had  not  yet  attained  so  much  age  [330 
and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with  any 
fears  of  many  things  that  will  never  be, 
as  too  many  men  too  often  do;  but  she 
cast  away  all  care,  and  sung  like  a 
nightingale.  Her  voice  was  good,  and  the 
ditty  fitted  for  it:  it  was  that  smooth  song 
which  was  made  by  Kit  Marlow,  now  at 
least  fifty  years  ago;  and  the  milkmaid's 
mother  sung  an  answer  to  it,  which  was 
made  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  in  his  [340 


younger  days.  They  were  old-fashioned 
poetry,  but  choicely  good;  I  think  much 
better  than  the  strong  lines  that  are  now 
in  fashion  in  this  critical  age.  Look 
yonder!  on  my  word,  yonder  they  both 
be  a-milking  again.  I  will  give  her  the 
chub,  and  persuade  them  to  sing  those 
two  songs  to  us. 

God  speed  you,  good  woman!  I  have 
been  a-fishing,  and  am  going  to  Bleak  [350 
Hall  to  my  bed;  and  having  caught  more 
fish  than  will  sup  myself  and  my  friend,  I 
will  bestow  this  upon  you  and  your 
daughter,  for  I  use  to  sell  none. 

Milk-Woman.  Marry,  God  requite  you, 
sir,  and  we'll  eat  it  cheerfully;  and  if  you 
come  this  way  a-fishing  two  months 
hence,  a  grace  of  God!  I'll  give  you  a 
syllabub  of  new  verjuice  in  a  new-made 
hay-cock  for  it.  And  my  Maudlin  shall  [360 
sing  you  one  of  her  best  ballads;  for  she 
and  I  both  love  all  anglers,  they  be  such 
honest,  civil,  quiet  men.  In  the  mean- 
time will  you  drink  a  draft  of  red  cow's 
milk?    You  shall  have  it  freely. 

Piscator.  No,  I  thank  you;  but,  I 
pray,  do  us  a  courtesy  that  shall  stand 
you  and  your  daughter  in  nothing,  and 
yet  we  will  think  ourselves  still  something 
in  your  debt;  it  is  but  to  sing  us  a  song  [370 
that  was  sung  by  your  daughter  when  I 
last  passed  over  this  meadow,  about  eight 
or  nine  days  since. 

Milk- Woman.  What  song  was  it,  I 
pray?  Was  it  "Come,  shepherds,  deck 
your  heads"?  or,  "As  at  noon  Dulcina 
rested"?  or,  "Phillida  flouts  me"?  or, 
"Chevy  Chase"?  or,  "Johnny  Arm- 
strong" ?  or,  "Troy  Town"? 

Piscator.  No,  it  is  none  of  those;  it  [380 
is  a  song  that  your  daughter  sung  the  first 
part,  and  you  sung  the  answer  to  it. 

Milk-Woman.  Oh,  I  know  it  now. 
I  learned  it  the  first  part  in  my  golden 
age,  when  I  was  about  the  age  of  my 
poor  daughter;  and  the  latter  part,  which 
indeed  fits  me  best  now,  but  two  or  three 
years  ago,  when  the  cares  of  the  world 
began  to  take  hold  of  me:  but  you  shall, 
God  willing,  hear  them  both,  and  sung  [390 
as  well  as  we  can,  for  we  both  love  anglers. 
Come,  Maudlin,  sing  the  first  part  to 
the  gentlemen,  with  a  merry  heart;  and 
I'll  sing  the  second  when  you  have  done. 


WALTON 


141 


THE   MILKMAID  S   SONG 

Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hills,  or  field, 
Or  woods,  and  steepy  mountains  yield; 

Where  we  will  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  our  flocks,  [400 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  then  a  thousand  fragrant  posies; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle; 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold;  [410 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds; 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  my  meat, 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall,  on  an  ivory  table,  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing, 
For  thy  delight,  each  May  morning.      [420 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Venator.  Trust  me,  master,  it  is  a 
choice  song,  and  sweetly  sung  by  honest 
Maudlin.  I  now  see  it  was  not  without 
cause  that  our  good  Queen  Elizabeth  did 
so  often  wish  herself  a  milkmaid  all  the 
month  of  May,  because  they  are  not 
troubled  with  fears  and  cares,  but  sing 
sweetly  all  the  day,  and  sleep  securely  [430 
all  the  night;  and  without  doubt,  hon- 
est, innocent,  pretty  Maudlin  does  so. 
Til  bestow  Sir  Thomas  Overbury's  milk- 
maid's wish  upon  her,  "That  she  may  die 
in  the  spring,  and  being  dead,  may  have 
good  store  of  flowers  stuck  round  about 
her  winding-sheet." 


THE   MILKMAID  S   MOTHER  S    ANSWER 

If  all  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move  [440 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage  and  rocks  grow  cold; 
Then  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
And  age  complains  of  care  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yields. 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies,       [451 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten; 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy-buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps,  and  amber  studs, 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

What  should  we  talk  of  dainties,  then, 
Of  better  meat  than's  fit  for  men? 
These  are  but  vain :  that's  only  good     [460 
Which  God  hath  blest,  and  sent  for  food. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed; 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need; 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


Piscator.  Well  sung,  good  woman;  I 
thank  you.  I'll  give  you  another  dish 
of  fish  one  of  these  days,  and  then  beg 
another  song  of  you.  Come,  scholar!  let 
Maudlin  alone;  do  not  you  offer  to  [470 
spoil  her  voice.  Look !  yonder  comes  mine 
hostess,  to  call  us  to  supper.  How  now? 
Is  my  brother  Peter  come? 

Hostess.  Yes,  and  a  friend  with  him; 
they  are  both  glad  to  hear  that  you  are 
in  these  parts,  and  long  to  see  you;  and 
long  to  be  at  supper,  for  they  be  very 
hungry. 


142 


P  URI TA  NS  A  ND  CA  VA  LIERS 


From  Chapter  VIII 

If  this  direction  to  catch  a  pike  do  you 
no  good,  yet  I  am  certain  this  direction 
how  to  roast  him  when  he  is  caught  is 
choicely  good,  for  I  have  tried  it;  and  it 
is  somewhat  the  better  for  not  being  com- 
mon. But  with  my  direction  you  must 
take  this  caution,  that  your  pike  must 
not  be  a  small  one;  that  is,  it  must  be 
more  than  half  a  yard,  and  should  be 
bigger.  _  [10 

First  open  your  pike  at  the  gills,  and 
if  need  be  cut  also  a  little  slit  towards  the 
belly.  Out  of  these  take  his  guts,  and  keep 
his  liver,  which  you  are  to  shred  very 
small  with  thyme,  sweet  marjoram,  and 
winter-savory.  To  these  put  some  pickled 
oysters,  and  some  anchovies,  two  or  three, 
(both  these  last  whole,  for  the  anchovies 
will  melt,  and  the  oysters  should  not). 
To  these  you  must  add  also  a  pound  [20 
of  sweet  butter,  which  you  are  to  mix  with 
the  herbs  that  are  shred;  and  let  them  all  be 
well  salted  (if  the  pike  be  more  than  a  yard 
long,  then  you  may  put  into  these  herbs 
more  than  a  pound;  or  if  he  be  less,  then 
less  butter  will  suffice).  These  being  thus 
mixed,  with  a  blade  or  two  of  mace,  must 
be  put  into  the  pike's  belly,  and  then  his 
belly  sewed  up.  Then  you  are  to  thrust 
the  spit  through  his  mouth  out  at  his  [30 
tail;  and  then  take  four,  or  five,  or  six 
split  sticks  or  very  thin  laths,  and  a  con- 
venient quantity  of  tape  or  filetting. 
These  laths  are  to  be  tied  round  about  the 
pike's  body,  from  his  head  to  nis  tail,  and 
the  tape  tied  somewhat  thick  to  prevent 
his  breaking  or  falling  off  from  the  spit. 
Let  him  be  roasted  very  leisurely,  and 
often  basted  with  claret  wine  and  an- 
chovies and  butter  mixed  together,  and  [40 
also  with  what  moisture  falls  from  him 
into  the  pan.  When  you  have  roasted 
him  sufficiently  you  are  to  hold  under 
him,  when  you  unwind  or  cut  the  tape 
that  ties  him,  such  a  dish  as  you  purpose 
to  eat  him  out  of;  and  let  him  fall  into  it 
with  the  sauce  that  is  roasted  in  his  belly; 
and  by  this  means  the  pike  will  be  kept 
unbroken  and  complete.  Then  to  the 
sauce  which  was  within  him,  and  also  [50 
that  sauce  in  the  pan,  you  are  to  add  a 
fit  quantity  of  the  best  butter,  and  to 


squeeze  the  juice  of  three  or  four  oranges. 
Lastly,  you  may  either  put  into  the  pike 
with  the  oysters  two  cloves  of  garlic,  and 
take  it  whole  out  when  the  pike  is  cut 
off  the  spit;  or,  to  give  the  sauce  a  haut 
gout,  let  the  dish  into  which  you  let  the 
pike  fall  be  rubbed  with  it;  the  using  or  not 
using  of  this  garlic  is  left  to  your  dis-  [60 
cretion. 


JEREMY  TAYLOR  (1613-1667) 

From  HOLY  DYING 

It  is  a  mighty  change  that  is  made  by 
the  death  of  every  person,  and  it  is  visible 
to  us  who  are  alive.  Reckon  but  from 
the  sprightfulness  of  youth  and  the  fair 
cheeks  and  full  eyes  of  childhood,  from 
the  vigorousness  and  strong  flexure  of 
the  joints  of  five-and-twenty,  to  the 
hollowness  and  dead  paleness,  to  the 
loathsomeness  and  horror  of  a  three  days' 
burial,  and  we  shall  perceive  the  [10 
distance  to  be  very  great  and  very  strange. 
But  so  have  I  seen  a  rose  newly  spring- 
ing from  the  clefts  of  its  hood,  and  at 
first  it  was  fair  as  the  morning,  and  full 
with  the  dew  of  heaven  as  a  lamb's  fleece; 
but  when  a  ruder  breath  had  forced  open 
its  virgin  modesty  and  dismantled  its  too 
youthful  and  unripe  retirements,  it  began 
to  put  on  darkness  and  to  decline  to  soft- 
ness and  the  symptoms  of  a  sickly  [20 
age:  it  bowed  the  head  and  broke  its 
stalk,  and  at  night,  having  lost  some  of 
its  leaves  and  all  its  beauty,  it  fell  into 
the  portion  of  weeds  and  outworn  faces. 
The  same  is  the  portion  of  every  man 
and  every  woman:  the  heritage  of  worms 
and  serpents,  rottenness  and  cold  dis- 
honor, and  our  beauty  so  changed  that 
our  acquaintance  quickly  know  us  not; 
and  that  change  mingled  with  so  much  [30 
horror,  or  else  meets  so  with  our  fears  and 
weak  discoursings,  that  they  who  six 
hours  ago  tended  upon  us,  either  with 
charitable  or  ambitious  services,  cannot 
without  regret  stay  in  the  room  alone 
where  the  body  lies  stripped  of  its  life 
and  honor.  I  have  read  of  a  fair  young 
German  gentleman,  who,  living,  often 
refused  to  be  pictured,  but  put  off  the 


TA  YLOR 


143 


importunity  of  his  friends'  desire  by  [40 
giving  way  that,  after  a  few  days'  burial, 
they  might  send  a  painter  to  his  vault, 
and,  if  they  saw  cause  for  it,  draw  the 
image  of  his  death  unto  the  life.  They 
did  so,  and  found  his  face  half  eaten,  and 
his  midriff  and  backbone  full  of  serpents; 
and  so  he  stands  pictured  among  his 
armed  ancestors.  So  does  the  fairest 
beauty  change,  and  it  will  be  as  bad  for 
you  and  me;  and  then  what  servants  [50 
shall  we  have  to  wait  upon  us  in  the  grave? 
what  friends  to  visit  us?  what  officious 
people  to  cleanse  away  the  moist  and 
unwholesome  cloud  reflected  upon  our 
faces  from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults, 
which  are  the  longest  weepers  for  our 
funeral? 

This  discourse  will  be  useful  if  we  con- 
sider and  practise  by  the  following  rules 
and  considerations  respectively.  [60 

1.  All  the  rich  and  all  the  covetous 
men  in  the  world  will  perceive,  and  all  the 
world  will  perceive  for  them,  that  it  is 
but  an  ill  recompense  for  all  their  cares 
that  by  this  time  all  that  shall  be  left 
will  be  this,  that  the  neighbors  shall  say, 
"He  died  a  rich  man; "  and  yet  his  wealth 
will  not  profit  him  in  the  grave,  but 
hugely  swell  the  sad  accounts  of  dooms- 
day. And  he  that  kills  the  Lord's  [70 
people  with  unjust  or  ambitious  wars,  for 
an  unrewarding  interest  shall  have  this 
character,  that  he  threw  away  all  the 
days  of  his  life  that  one  year  might  be 
reckoned  with  his  name,  and  computed 
by  his  reign  or  consulship;  and  many  men 
by  great  labors  and  affronts,  many  in- 
dignities and  crimes,  labor  only  for  a 
pompous  epitaph  and  a  loud  title  upon 
their  marble;  whilst  those  into  whose  [80 
possessions  their  heirs  or  kindred  are 
entered  are  forgotten,  and  lie  unregarded 
as  their  ashes,  and  without  concernment 
or  relation,  as  the  turf  upon  the  face  of 
their  grave.  A  man  may  read  a  sermon, 
the  best  and  most  passionate  that  ever 
man  preached,  if  he  shall  but  enter  into 
the  sepulchres  of  kings.  In  the  same 
Escurial  where  the  Spanish  princes  live 
in  greatness  and  power,  and  decree  [90 
war  or  peace,  they  have  wisely  placed  a 
cemetery,  where  their  ashes  and  their 
glory   shall   sleep   till   time   shall   be   no 


more;  and  where  our  kings  have  been 
crowned  their  ancestors  lie  interred,  and 
they  must  walk  over  their  grandsire's 
head  to  take  his  crown.  There  is  an 
acre  sown  with  royal  seed,  the  copy  of  the 
greatest  change,  from  rich  to  naked,  from 
ceiled  roofs  to  arched  coffins,  from  [100 
living  like  gods  to  die  like  men.  There  is 
enough  to  cool  the  flames  of  lust,  to  abate 
the  heights  of  pride,  to  appease  the  itch 
of  covetous  desires,  to  sully  and  dash  out 
the  dissembling  colors  of  a  lustful,  arti- 
ficial, and  imaginary  beauty.  There  the 
warlike  and  the  peaceful,  the  fortunate 
and  the  miserable,  the  beloved  and  the 
despised  princes  mingle  their  dust,  and 
pay  down  their  symbol  of  mortality,  [no 
and  tell  all  the  world  that  when  we  die 
our  ashes  shall  be  equal  to  kings',  and 
our  accounts  easier,  and  our  pains  or  our 
crowns  shall  be  less.  To  my  apprehen- 
sion, it  is  a  sad  record  which  is  left  by 
Athenaeus  concerning  Ninus,  the  great 
Assyrian  monarch,  whose  life  and  death 
are  summed  up  in  these  words:  "Ninus 
the  Assyrian  had  an  ocean  of  gold  and 
other  riches  more  than  the  sand  in  [120 
the  Caspian  Sea;  he  never  saw  the  stars, 
and  perhaps  he  never  desired  it;  he  never 
stirred  up  the  holy  fire  among  the  Magi, 
nor  touched  his  god  with  the  sacred  rod 
according  to  the  laws;  he  never  offered 
sacrifice,  nor  worshipped  the  deity,  nor 
administered  justice,  nor  spake  to  his 
people,  nor  numbered  them;  but  he  was 
most  valiant  to  eat  and  drink,  and  having 
mingled  his  wines,  he  threw  the  rest  [130 
upon  the  stones.  This  man  is  dead;  be- 
hold his  sepulchre;  and  now  hear  where 
Ninus  is.  Sometimes  I  was  Ninus,  and 
drew  the  breath  of  a  living  man,  but  now 
am  nothing  but  clay.  I  have  nothing 
but  what  I  did  eat,  and  what  I  served  to 
myself  in  lust;  that  was  and  is  all  my  por- 
tion. The  wealth  with  which  I  was  es- 
teemed blessed,  my  enemies,  meeting 
together,  shall  bear  away,  as  the  mad  [140 
Thyades  carry  a  raw  goat.  I  am  gone 
to  hell;  and  when  I  went  thither  I  neither 
carried  gold,  nor  horse,  nor  silver  chariot. 
I  that  wore  a  mitre  am  now  a  little  heap 
of  dust."  I  know  not  anything  that  can 
better  represent  the  evil  condition  of  a 
wicked    man    or    a    changing    greatness. 


144 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


From  the  greatest  secular  dignity  to  dust 
and  ashes  his  nature  bears  him;  and 
from  thence  to  hell  his  sins  carry  him,  [150 
and  there  he  shall  be  for  ever  under  the 
dominion  of  chains  and  devils,  wrath  and 
an  intolerable  calamity.  This  is  the  re- 
ward of  an  unsanctified  condition,  and  a 
greatness  ill-gotten  or  ill-administered. 

2.  Let  no  man  extend  his  thoughts,  or 
let  his  hopes  wander  towards  future  and 
far-distant  events  and  accidental  con- 
tingencies. This  day  is  mine  and  yours, 
but  ye  know  not  what  shall  be  on  [160 
the  morrow;  and  every  morning  creeps 
out  of  a  dark  cloud,  leaving  behind  it  an 
ignorance  and  silence  deep  as  midnight 
and  undiscerned  as  are  the  phantasms 
that  make  a  chrisom-child  to  smile;  so 
that  we  cannot  discern  what  comes  here- 
after, unless  we  had  a  light  from  heaven 
brighter  than  the  vision  of  an  angel,  even 
the  spirit  of  prophecy.  Without  rev- 
elation we  cannot  tell  whether  we  [170 
shall  eat  tomorrow,  or  whether  a  squin- 
ancy  shall  choke  us;  and  it  is  written  in 
the  unrevealed  folds  of  divine  predestina- 
tion that  many  who  are  this  day  alive 
shall  tomorrow  be  laid  upon  the  cold 
earth,  and  the  women  shall  weep  over 
their  shroud,  and  dress  them  for  their 
funeral.  St.  James,  in  his  Epistle,  notes 
the  folly  of  some  men  his  contemporaries, 
who  were  so  impatient  of  the  event  [180 
of  tomorrow,  or  the  accidents  of  next 
year,  or  the  good  or  evils  of  old  age,  that 
they  would  consult  astrologers  and  witches, 
oracles  and  devils,  what  should  befall 
them  the  next  calends — what  should  be 
the  event  of  such  a  voyage — what  God 
had  written  in  his  book  concerning  the 
success  of  battles,  the  election  of  em- 
perors, the  heirs  of  families,  the  price  of 
merchandise,  the  return  of  the  Tyrian  [190 
fleet,  the  rate  of  Sidonian  carpets;  and 
as  they  were  taught  by  the  crafty  and 
lying  demons,  so  they  would  expect 
the  issue;  and  oftentimes  by  disposing 
their  affairs  in  order  towards  such  events, 
really  did  produce  some  little  accidents 
according  to  their  expectation,  and  that 
made  them  trust  the  oracles  in  greater 
things,  and  in  all.  Against  this  he  opposes 
his  counsel  that  we  should  not  search  [200 
after    forbidden    records,    much    less   by 


uncertain  significations;  for  whatsoever 
is  disposed  to  happen  by  the  order  of 
natural  causes  or  civil  counsels  may  be 
rescinded  by  a  peculiar  decree  of  Provi- 
dence, or  be  prevented  by  the  death  of 
the  interested  persons;  who,  while  their 
hopes  are  full,  and  their  causes  con- 
joined, and  the  work  brought  forward, 
and  the  sickle  put  into  the  harvest,  [210 
and  the  first-fruits  offered  and  ready  to  be 
eaten,  even  then,  if  they  put  forth  their 
hand  to  an  event  that  stands  but  at  the 
door,  at  that  door  their  body  may  be  car- 
ried forth  to  burial  before  the  expedition 
shall  enter  into  fruition.  When  Richilda, 
the  widow  of  Albert,  earl  of  Ebersberg, 
had  feasted  the  emperor  Henry  III, 
and  petitioned  in  behalf  of  her  nephew 
Welpho  for  some  lands  formerly  pos-  [220 
sessed  by  the  earl  her  husband,  just  as 
the  emperor  held  out  his  hand  to  signify 
his  consent,  the  chamber  floor  suddenly 
fell  under  them,  and  Richilda,  falling 
upon  the  edge  of  a  bathing-vessel,  was 
bruised  to  death,  and  stayed  not  to  see 
her  nephew  sleep  in  those  lands  which 
the  emperor  was  reaching  forth  to  her, 
and  placed  at  the  door  of  restitution. 

3.  As  our  hopes  must  be  confined,  so  [230 
must  our  designs:  let  us  not  project  long 
designs,  crafty  plots,  and  diggings  so 
deep  that  the  intrigues  of  a  design  shall 
never  be  unfolded  till  our  grandchildren 
have  forgotten  our  virtues  or  our  vices. 
The  work  of  our  soul  is  cut  short,  facile, 
sweet,  and  plain,  and  fitted  to  the  small 
portions  of  our  shorter  life;  and  as  we 
must  not  trouble  our  inquiry,  so  neither 
must  we  intricate  our  labor  and  pur-  [240 
poses  with  what  we  shall  never  enjoy.  This 
rule  does  not  forbid  us  to  plant  orchards, 
which  shall  feed  our  nephews  with  their 
fruit,  for  by  such  provisions  they  do  some- 
thing towards  an  imaginary  immortality, 
and  do  charity  to  their  relatives;  but  such 
projects  are  reproved  which  discompose 
our  present  duty  by  long  and  future 
designs:  such  which,  by  casting  our  labors 
to  events  at  distance,  make  us  less  to  [250 
remember  our  death  standing  at  the 
door.  It  is  fit  for  a  man  to  work  for  his 
day's  wages,  or  to  contrive  for  the  hire 
of  a  week,  or  to  lay  a  train  to  make  pro- 
visions for  such  a  time  as  is  within  our 


TA  YLOR 


145 


eye,  and  in  our  duty,  and  within  the  usual 
periods  of  man's  life,  for  whatsoever 
is  made  necessary  is  also  made  pru- 
dent; but  while  we  plot  and  busy  our- 
selves in  the  toils  of  an  ambitious  war,  [260 
or  the  levies  of  a  great  estate,  night  enters 
in  upon  us,  and  tells  all  the  world  how 
like  fools  we  lived  and  how  deceived  and 
miserably  we  died.  Seneca  tells  of  Senecio 
Cornelius,  a  man  crafty  in  getting,  and 
tenacious  in  holding,  a  great  estate,  and 
one  who  was  as  diligent  in  the  care  of  his 
body  as  of  his  money,  curious  of  his 
health  as  of  his  possessions,  that  he  all 
day  long  attended  upon  his  sick  and  [270 
dying  friend;  but  when  he  went  away 
was  quickly  comforted,  supped  merrily, 
went  to  bed  cheerfully,  and  on  a  sudden 
being  surprised  by  a  squinancy,  scarce 
drew  his  breath  until  the  morning,  but 
by  that  time  died,  being  snatched  from 
the  torrent  of  his  fortune,  and  the  swell- 
ing tide  of  wealth,  and  a  likely  hope 
bigger  than  the  necessities  of  ten  men. 
This  accident  was  much  noted  then  in  [280 
Rome,  because  it  happened  in  so  great  a 
fortune,  and  in  the  midst  of  wealthy  de- 
signs; and  presently  it  made  wise  men  to 
consider  how  imprudent  a  person  he  is  who 
disposes  of  ten  years  to  come  when  he  is 
not  lord  of  tomorrow. 


5.  Since  we  stay  not  here,  being  people 

but  of  a   day's   abode,  and  our  age   is 

like  that  of  a  fly,  and  contemporary  with 

a  gourd,  we  must  look  somewhere  else  [290 

for  an  abiding  city,  a  place  in  another 

country  to  fix  our  house  in,  whose  walls 

and  foundation  is  God,  where  we  must 

find  rest,  or  else  be  restless  forever.    For 

whatsoever  ease  we  can  have  or  fancy 

here  is  shortly  to  be  changed  into  sadness 

or   tediousness;   it   goes   away   too   soon 

like  the  periods  of  our  life,  or  stays  too 

long  like  the  sorrows  of  a  sinner;  its  own 

weariness,  or  a  contrary  disturbance,  [300 

I  is  its  load;  or  it  is  eased  by  its  revolution 

;  into  vanity  and  forgetfulness;  and  where 

either  there  is  sorrow  or  an  end  of  joy, 

there  can  be  no  true  felicity;  which,  be- 

I  cause  it  must  be  had  by  some  instrument, 

•  and  in  some  period  of  our  duration,  we 

I  must    carry    up    our    affections    to    the 


mansion  prepared  for  us  above,  where 
eternity  is  the  measure,  felicity  is  the  state, 
angels  are  the  company,  the  Lamb  is  [310 
the  light,  and  God  is  the  portion  and  in- 
heritance. 


JOHN   MILTON    (1608-1674) 
L'ALLEGRO 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes  and  shrieks  and 
sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell,  5 

Where  brooding   darkness   spreads   his 
jealous  wings, 
And  the  night-raven  sings; 

There    under    ebon    shades    and    low- 
browed rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell.  10 
But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclept1  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth, 
With  two  sister  Graces  more,  15 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager2  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,  20 

There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,3  blithe,  and  debonair. 
Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee  25 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee     35 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 


1  called. 


2  more  wisely. 


5  sprightly. 


146 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free: 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise; 
Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-briar  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine; 
While  the  cock,  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before: 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheeriy  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill: 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 
Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleas- 
ures 
Whilst  the  landskip1  round  it  measures:  70 
Russet  lawns  and  fallows  grey, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray; 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks  and  rivers  wide; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
The  cynosure2  of  neighboring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 


40 


45 


5° 


55 


60 


65 


75 


85 


landscape. 


Sometimes,  with  secure  delight, 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks3  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid       95 

Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail: 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said; 

And  he,  by  friar's  lantern4  led, 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat     105 

To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber5  fiend,  no 

And,    stretched    out    all    the    chimney's 

length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep,  115 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 
Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold,  120 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear  125 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 
With  mask  and  antique  pageantry; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.     130 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 
And  ever,  against  eating  cares,  135 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout6 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,      140 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

2  center  of  observation.        I        3  fiddles.         *  will  o'  the  wisp.         6  awkward.         6  turn. 


QO 


MILTON 


i47 


Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony; 

That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head  145 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice.  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred ! 
How  little  you  bested,1 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain,  5 

And  fancies  fond2  with  gaudy  shapes 
possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun- 
beams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The    fickle    pensioners    of    Morpheus' 
train.  10 

But  hail,  thou  Goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view  1 5 

O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  20 

The  sea  nymphs',  and  their  powers  of- 
fended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended: 
Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore; 
His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn's  reign         25 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain). 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.      30 
Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain, 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

1  profit.  *  foolish. 


And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  35 

Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes:         40 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet,  46 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing; 
And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure;  50 
But  first,  and  chief  est,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  cherub  Contemplation; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along,  55 

'Less  Philomel3  will  deign  a  song, 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.  60 

Sweet  bird,   that   shunn'st   the  noise  of 

folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among, 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song; 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen  65 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed,  71 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 
Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 
I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore,  75 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar; 
Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,         80 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 
Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour,  85 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower 

8  the  nightingale. 


148 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook; 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent,  95 

With  planet  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptered  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 
But,  O  sad  Virgin!  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower; 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing  105 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek, 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek; 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  no 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife 
That  owned  the  virtuous1  ring  and  glass, 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride;        115 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  tourneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where   more   is   meant   than   meets   the 
ear.  120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  tricked2  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kerchieft  in  a  comely  cloud,  125 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud; 
Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 
With  minute-drops  from  off  the  eaves.  130 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  Goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak,  135 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 


1  magical. 


1  adorned. 


There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  140 

Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee,  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep,  145 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid;  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail  155 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale,3 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight,4 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies,  165 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell5         170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give,    175 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


LYCIDAS 

In  this  Monody  the  Author  bewails  a  learned 
Friend,  unfortunately  drowned  in  his  pas- 
sage from  Chester  on  the  Irish  Seas,  1637a 
and  by  occasion  foretells  the  ruin  of  our 
corrupted  Clergy,  then  in  their  height. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once 

more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and 

crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 


3  enclosure. 


4  ornamented. 


6  reason,  study. 


MILTON 


140 


Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing 

year.  5 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young   Lycidas,   and  hath   not   left   his 

peer. 
Who   would    not    sing    for   Lycidas?    he 

knew  10 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter1  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed2  of  some  melodious  tear. 
Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well  15 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth 

spring; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the 

string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse; 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn, 
And  as  he  passes  turn,        .  21 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 
For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same 

hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade, 

and  rill; 
Together  both,   ere  the  high  lawns  ap- 
peared 25 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey-fly  winds  her  sultry 

horn, 
Battening3  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews 

of  night, 
Oft  till   the  star  that  rose  at   evening, 

bright,  30 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his 

westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute; 
Rough  Satyrs  danced,   and   Fauns  with 

cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent 

long;  35 

And   old    Damoetas    loved    to   hear   our 

song. 
But  oh!  the  heavy  change,  now  thou 

art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  re- 
turn! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert 

caves, 

1  toss.  2  tribute.  3  fattening. 


With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine 
o'ergrown,  40 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 

The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 

Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft 
lays. 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose,        45 

Or  taint- worm  to  the  weanling4  herds  that 
graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  ward- 
robe wear, 

When  first  the  white- thorn  blows; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 
Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  re- 
morseless deep  50 

Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lyci- 
das? 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids, 
lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard 
stream.  55 

Ay  me,  I  fondly5  dream ! 

Had  ye  been  there — for  what  could  that 
have  done? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus 
bore, 

The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 

Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,        60 

When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous 
roar 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 

Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian 
shore? 
Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 

To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's 
trade,  65 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 
raise  70 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days; 

But  the  fair  guerdon6  when  we  hope  to 
find, 

And    think    to    burst    out    into    sudden 
blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred 
shears,  75 

4  young,  weaned.  5  foolishly.  6  reward. 


15° 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "But  not 

the  praise," 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trem- 
bling ears: 
"Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal 

soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor 

lies;  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure 

eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all- judging  Jove; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy 

meed." 
O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored 

flood,  85 

Smooth-sliding    Mincius,    crowned    with 

vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea, 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea.  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon1 

winds, 
What    hard    mishap    hath    doomed    this 

gentle  swain? 
And    questioned    every    gust    of    rugged 

wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promon- 
tory: 
They  know  not  of  his  story;  95 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon 

strayed; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,     100 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 

dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of 

thine. 
Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  foot- 
ing slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the 

edge  105 

Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with 

woe. 
"Ah!   who   hath   reft,"   quoth   he,    "my 

dearest  pledge?"2 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake; 


1  criminal. 


2  child. 


Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  no 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  be- 
spake: 
"How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee, 

young  swain, 
Enow  of  such  as,  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the 

fold!  us 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers' 

feast 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 
Blind    mouths!    that    scarce    themselves 

know  how  to  hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else 

the  least  120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  be- 
longs ! 
What  recks  it  them?     What  need  they? 

They  are  sped;3 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy 

songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel4  pipes  of  wretched 

straw; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not 

fed,  125 

But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist 

they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy 

paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no 

more."  131 

Return,   Alpheus;    the   dread   voice   is 

past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams;  return,  Sicilian 

Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither 

cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand 

hues.  135 

Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers 

use5 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds  and  gushing 

brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star6  sparely 

looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled 

eyes, 


3  accomplish  their  end. 
6  dwell. 


4  harsh,  discordant. 
6  the  Dog-star,  Sirius. 


MILTON 


151 


That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed 
showers,  140 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal 
flowers. 

Bring  the  rathe1  primrose  that  forsaken 
dies, 

The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked 
with  jet, 

The  glowing  violet,  145 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  wood- 
bine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive 
head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery 
wears ; 

Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where 
Lycid  lies.  151 

For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  sur- 
mise : 

Ay  me!  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sound- 
ing seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are 
hurled;  155 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming 
tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous 
world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist2  vows 
denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old,        160 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded 
mount 

Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's 
hold. 

Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt 
with  ruth;3 

And  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep 

no  more,  165 

For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery 
floor; 

So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 

And  tricks4  his  beams,  and  with  new- 
spangled  ore  170 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky: 

So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 


early. 


2  tearful. 


1  pity- 


4  adorns. 


Through    the   dear    might    of    Him  that 

walked  the  waves, 
Where,   other  groves  and  other  streams 

along,  ^  174 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive5  nuptial  so*ng, 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and 

love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies,  1 79 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,    Lycidas,    the   shepherds   weep   no 

more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius6  of  the 

shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth7  swain  to  the 

oaks  and  rills,  186 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals 

grey; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various 

quills,8 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric 

lay: 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the 

hills,  190 

And  now  was  dropped  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle 

blue: 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures 

new. 

SONNETS 

ON  HIS  HAVING  ARRIVED  AT  THE 
AGE  OF  TWENTY-THREE 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  of 
youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three  and  twentieth 
year! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 
shew'th. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the 
truth  5 

That  I  to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near; 

And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  ap- 
pear, 

That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits 
endu'th. 

5  inexpressible.     •  guardian  angel.     '  unknown.     8  reeds. 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 
It    shall    be    still    in    strictest    measure 
even  10 

To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 
Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will 

"  of  Heaven ; 
All  is,  if  I  have  grace  to  use  it  so, 
As  ever  in  my  great  Task- Master's  eye. 


ON    SHAKESPEARE 

What    needs    my    Shakespeare    for    his 

honored  bones 
The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones? 
Or  that  his  hallowed  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-ypointing  pyramid? 
Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame,     5 
What  need'st  thou  such  weak  witness  of 

thy  name? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  livelong  monument. 
For  whilst,  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavor- 
ing art, 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each 

heart  10 

Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued1 

book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression 

took, 
Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost   make   us    marble   with    too   much 

conceiving, 
And  so  sepulchred  in  such  pomp  dost  lie   15 
That  kings  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to 

die. 


TO   THE   LORD   GENERAL  CROM- 
WELL 

MAY,    1652 

ON  THE  PROPOSALS  OF  CERTAIN  MINISTERS 
AT  THE  COMMITTEE  FOR  PROPAGATION 
OF   THE   GOSPEL 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a 

cloud 
Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 
Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 
To   peace   and    truth    thy   glorious   way 

hast  ploughed, 

1  invaluable. 


And   on    the   neck   of   crowned    Fortune 

proud  5 

Hast  reared  God's  trophies,  and  his  work 

pursued, 
While  Darwen  stream,  with  blood  of  Scots 

imbrued, 
And  Dunbar  field,  resounds  thy  praises 

loud, 
And    Worcester's    laureate    wreath:    yet 

much  remains 
To   conquer   still;    Peace   hath   her   vic- 
tories 10 
No   less  renowned  than  War:  new  foes 

arise, 
Threatening    to    bind    our    souls    with 

secular  chains. 
Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the 

paw 
Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their 

maw. 

ON  HIS   BLINDNESS 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and 

wide,  1/ 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to 

hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 

more  bent  ^      4 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide;  \f 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  de- 
nied? " 
I  fondly  ask.  But  Patience,  to  prevent  ^ 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,   "God  doth 

not  need 
Either    man's    work    or    his    own    gifts. 

Who  best  10 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best. 

His  state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed. 
And  post  o'er  land   and  ocean  without 

rest; 
They    also    serve    who    only   stand    and 

wait." 

ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIED- 
MONT 

Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints, 

whose  bones 
Lie   scattered   on   the   Alpine   mountains 

cold ; 


MILTON 


153 


Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of 

old, 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks 

and  stones, 
Forget    not:    in    thy    book    record    their 

groans  5 

Who  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient 

fold 
Slain   by   the   bloody  Piedmontese,  that 

rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.    Their 

moans 
The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 
To  heaven.     Their  martyred  blood  and 

ashes  sow  10 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth 

sway 
The  triple  tyrant;  that  from  these  may 

grow 
A  hundredfold,   who,   having  learnt  thy 

way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

TO   CYRIACK  SKINNER 

Cyriack,  this  three  years'  day  these  eyes, 

though  clear 
To  outward  view,  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 
Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot; 
Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun  or  moon  or  star  throughout  the 

year,  5 

Or  man  or  woman.    Yet  I  argue  not 
Against  Heaven's  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a 

jot 
Of  heart  or  hope,  but  still  bear  up  and 

steer 
Right  onward.     What  supports  me,  dost 

thou  ask? 
The  conscience,  friend,  to  have  lost  them 

overplied  10 

In  liberty's  defence,  my  noble  task, 
Of  which  all  Europe  talks  from  side  to 

side. 
This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the 

world's  vain  mask 
Content,  though  blind,  had  I  no  better 

guide. 

ON  HIS  DECEASED   WIFE 

Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 


Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  hus- 
band gave, 

Rescued  from  Death  by  force,  though  pale 
and  faint. 

Mine,  as  whom  washed  from  spot  of  child- 
bed taint  5 

Purification  in  the  old  law  did  save, 

And  such  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 

Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  re- 
straint, 

Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind. 

Her  face  was  veiled;  yet  to  my  fancied 
sight  10 

Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person 
shined 

So  clear  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 

But,  oh!  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 

I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back 
my  night. 


PARADISE   LOST 


BOOK  I 


THE    ARGUMENT 


This  First  Book  proposes,  first  in  brief, 
the  whole  subject, — Man's  disobedience, 
and  the  loss  thereupon  of  Paradise, 
wherein  he  was  placed:  then  touches 
the  prime  cause  of  his  fall, — the  Ser- 
pent, or  rather  Satan  in  the  Serpent; 
who,  revolting  from  God,  and  drawing 
to  his  side  many  legions  of  Angels,  was, 
by  the  command  of  God,  driven  out  of 
Heaven,  with  all  his  crew,  into  the  great 
Deep.  Which  action  passed  over,  the 
Poem  hastens  into  the  midst  of  things; 
presenting  Satan,  with  his  Angels,  now 
fallen  into  Hell — described  here,  not  in 
the  Center  (for  Heaven  and  earth  may 
be  supposed  as  yet  not  made,  certainly 
not  yet  accursed),  but  in  a  place  of  utter 
darkness,  fitliest  called  Chaos.  Here 
Satan  with  his  Angels,  lying  on  the  burn- 
ing lake,  thunderstruck  and  astonished, 
after  a  certain  space  recovers,  as  from 
confusion;  calls  up  him  who,  next  in 
order  and  dignity,  lay  by  him:  they 
confer  of  their  miserable  fall.  Satan 
awakens  all  his  legions,  who  lay  till  then 
in  the  same  manner  confounded.  They 
rise;  their  numbers;  array  of  battle;  their 


iS4 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


chief  leaders  named,  according  to  the 
idols  known  afterwards  in  Canaan  and 
the  countries  adjoining.  To  these  Satan 
directs  his  speech;  comforts  them  with 
hope  yet  of  regaining  Heaven;  but  tells 
them  lastly  of  a  new  world  and  new 
kind  of  creature  to  be  created,  according 
to  an  ancient  prophecy,  or  report,  in 
Heaven — for  that  Angels  were  long  be- 
fore this  visible  creation  was  the  opinion 
of  many  ancient  Fathers.  To  find  out 
the  truth  of  this  prophecy,  and  what  to 
determine  thereon,  he  refers  to  a  full 
council.  What  his  associates  thence 
attempt.  Pandemonium,  the  palace  of 
Satan,  rises,  suddenly  built  out  of  the 
Deep:  the  infernal  Peers  there  sit  in 
council. 

Of  Man's   first  disobedience,  and  the 
fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world,  and  all  our 

woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us,  and  regain  the  blissful  seat,      5 
Sing,  Heavenly  Muse,  that  on  the  secret 

top 
Of  Oreb,  or  of  Sinai,  didst  inspire 
That  shepherd  who  first  taught  the  chosen 

seed 
In  the  beginning  how  the  heavens  and 

earth 
Rose  out  of  Chaos :  or ,  if  Sion  hill  1  o 

Delight  thee  more,  and  Siloa's  brook  that 

flowed 
Fast1  by  the  oracle  of  God,  I  thence 
Invoke  thy  aid  to  my  adventurous  song, 
That  with  no  middle  flight  intends  to  soar 
Above  the  Aonian  mount,  while  it  pursues 
Things  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme. 
And  chiefly  Thou,  0  Spirit,  that  dost  pre- 
fer 17 
Before  all  temples  the  upright  heart  and 

pure, 
Instruct  me,  for  Thou  know'st;  Thou  from 

the  first 
Wast  present,  and,  with  mighty  wings  out- 
spread, 20 
Dove-like   sat'st    brooding    on    the   vast 

Abyss, 
And  mad'st  it  pregnant:  what  in  me  is 
dark, 

1  close. 


Illumine;  what  is  low,  raise  and  support; 
That  to  the  highth  of  this  great  argument 
I  may  assert 2  Eternal  Providence,  25 

And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

Say   first — for   Heaven   hides    nothing 
from  Thy  view, 
Nor  the  deep  tract  of  Hell — say  first  what 

cause 
Moved  our  grand  Parents,  in  that  happy 

state, 
Favored  of  Heaven  so  highly,  to  fall  off    3.0 
From  their  Creator,  and  transgress  his  will 
For 3  one  restraint,  lords  of  the  world  be- 
sides. 
Who  first  seduced  them  to  that  foul  revolt? 
The  infernal  Serpent;  he  it  was,  whose 
guile, 
Stirred  up  with  envy  and  revenge,  de- 
ceived 35 
The  mother  of  mankind,  what  time  his 

pride 
Had  cast  him  out  from  Heaven,  with  all 

his  host 
Of  rebel  Angels,  by  whose  aid,  aspiring 
To  set  himself  in  glory  above  his  peers, 
He  trusted   to  have  equalled   the  Most 
High,  40 

If  he  opposed;  and,  with  ambitious  aim 
Against  the  throne  and  monarchy  of  God, 
Raised  impious  war  in  Heaven,  and  battle 

proud, 
With  vain  attempt.     Him  the  Almighty 

Power 
Hurled  headlong  flaming  from  the  ethereal 
sky,  45 

With  hideous  ruin  and  combustion,  down 
To  bottomless  perdition ;  there  to  dwell 
In  adamantine  chains  and  penal  fire, 
Who  durst  defy  the  Omnipotent  to  arms. 
Nine  times  the  space  that  measures  day 
and  night  50 

To  mortal  men,  he  with  his  horrid  crew 
Lay  vanquished,  rolling  in  the  fiery  gulf, 
Confounded,  though  immortal.     But  his 

doom 
Reserved  him  to  more  wrath;  for  now  the 

thought 
Both  of  lost  happiness  and  lasting  pain  55 
Torments  him;  round  he  throws  his  bale- 
ful eyes, 
That  witnessed  huge  affliction  and  dismay, 
Mixed  with  obdurate  pride,  and  steadfast 
hate. 


-  vindicate. 


3  because  of. 


MILTON 


i55 


At  once,  as  far  as  Angel's  ken,  he  views 
The  dismal  situation  waste  and  wild.        60 
A  dungeon  horrible  on  all  sides  round 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed;  yet  from 

those  flames 
No  light;  but  rather  darkness  visible 
Served  only  to  discover  sights  of  woe, 
Regions  of  sorrow,  doleful  shades,  where 

peace  65 

And   rest   can  never  dwell;   hope   never 

comes 
That  comes  to  all ;  but  torture  without  end 
Still  urges,  and  a  fiery  deluge,  fed 
With  ever-burning  sulphur  unconsumed. 
Such  place  Eternal  Justice  had  prepared  70 
For  those  rebellious;  here  their  prison  or- 
dained 
In  utter  darkness,  and  their  portion  set, 
As  far  removed  from  God  and  light  of 

Heaven, 
As  from  the  center  thrice  to  the  utmost 

pole. 
Oh  how  unlike  the  place  from  whence  they 

fell!  75 

There  the  companions  of  his  fall,  o'er- 

whelmed 
V  With  floods  and  whirlwinds  of  tempestuous 

fire, 
He  soon  discerns;  and  weltering  by  his 

side 
One  next  himself  in  power,  and  next  in 

crime, 
Long  after  known  in  Palestine,  and  named 
Beelzebub.    To  whom  the  Arch-Enemy,  Si 
And  thence  in  Heaven  called  Satan^  with 

bold  words 
Breaking  the  horrid  silence,  thus  began: — 
"If  thou  beest  he — but  oh  how  fallen! 

how  changed 
From  him  who,  in  the  happy  realms  of 

light,    _  85 

Clothed    with    transcendent    brightness, 

didst  outshine 
Myriads,    though   bright! — if   he,    whom 

mutual  league, 
United  thoughts  and  counsels,  equal  hope 
And   hazard   in   the   glorious   enterprise, 
Joined  with  me  once,  now  misery  hath 

joined  90 

In  equal  ruin;  into  what  pit  thou  seest 
From  what  highth  fallen,  so  much  the 

stronger  proved 
He  with  his  thunder:  and  till  then  who 

knew 


The  force  of  those  dire  arms?    Yet  not  for 

those, 
Nor  what  the  potent  Victor  in  his  rage     95 
Can  else  inflict,  do  I  repent  or  change, 
Though  changed  in  outward  luster,  that 

fixed  mind, 
And  high  disdain  from  sense  of  injured 

merit, 
That  with   the  Mightiest   raised   me   to 

contend, 
And  to  the  fierce  contention  brought  along 
Innumerable  force  of  Spirits  armed,        101 
That  durst  dislike  his  reign,  and,  me  pre- 
ferring, 
His  utmost  power  with  adverse  power  op- 
posed 
In  dubious  battle  on  the  plains  of  Heaven, 
And  shook  his  throne.    What  though  the 
field  be  lost?  105 

All  is  not  lost:  the  unconquerable  will, 
And  study  of  revenge,  immortal  hate, 
And  courage  never  to  submit  or  yield, 
And  what  is  else  not  to  be  overcome; 
That  glory  never  shall  his  wrath  or  might 
Extort  from  me.     To  bow  and  sue  for 
grace  in 

With  suppliant  knee,  and  deify  his  power 
Who,  from  the  terror  of  this  arm,  so  late 
Doubted  his  empire1 — that  were  low  in- 
deed; 
That  were  an  ignominy  and  shame  be- 
neath 1 1 5 
This  downfall ;  since  by  fate  the  strength  of 

gods 
And  this  empyreal  substance  cannot  fail; 
Since,   through  experience  of   this  great 

event, 
In  arms  not  worse,  in  foresight  much  ad- 
vanced, 
We  may  with  more  successful  hope  re- 
solve 120 
To  wage  by  force  or  guile  eternal  war, . 
Irreconcilable  to  our  grand  Foe, 
Who  now  triumphs,  and  in  the  excess  of 

joy  _ 
Sole     reigning     holds     the     tyranny    of 
Heaven." 
So  spake  the  apostate  Angel,  though  in 
pain,  125 

Vaunting  aloud,  but  racked  with  deep  de- 
spair; 
And  him  thus  answered  soon  his  bold  com- 
peer:— 

1  sovereignty. 


156 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


"O  Prince!  O  Chief  of  many  throned 

powers 

That  led  the  embattled  Seraphim  to  war 

Under    thy    conduct,1    and,    in    dreadful 

deeds  13° 

Fearless,  endangered  Heaven's  perpetual 

King, 
And  put  to  proof  his  high  supremacy, 
Whether  upheld  by  strength,  or  chance,  or 

fate! 
Too  well  I  see  and  rue  the  dire  event 
That  with  sad  overthrow  and  foul  de- 
feat 13  s 
Hath  lost  us  Heaven,  and  all  this  mighty 

host 
In  horrible  destruction  laid  thus  low, 
As  far  as  gods  and  heavenly  essences 
Can  perish:  for  the  mind  and  spirit  re- 
mains 
Invincible,  and  vigor  soon  returns,         140 
Though  all  our  glory  extinct,  and  happy 

state 
Here  swallowed  up  in  endless  misery. 
But  what  if  he  our  Conqueror  (whom  I 

now 
Of  force  believe  almighty,  since  no  less 
Than  such  could  have  o'erpowered  such 
force  as  ours)  145 

Have  left  us  this  our  spirit  and  strength 

entire, 
Strongly  to  suffer  and  support  our  pains. 
That  we  may  so  suffice2  his  vengeful  ire, 
Or  do  him  mightier  service  as  his  thralls 
By  right  of  war,   whate'er  his  business 
be,  _  150 

Here  in  the  heart  of  Hell  to  work  in  fire, 
Or  do  his  errands  in  the  gloomy  Deep? 
What  can  it  then  avail,  though  yet  we  feel 
Strength  undiminished,  or  eternal  being 
To  undergo  eternal  punishment?"         155 
Whereto  with  speedy  words  the  Arch- 
Fiend  replied: — 
"Fallen  Cherub,  to  be  weak  is  miserable. 
Doing  or  suffering:  but  of  this  be  sure — 
To  do  aught  good  never  will  be  our  task, 
Hut  ever  to  do  ill  our  sole  delight,  160 

As  being  the  contrary  to  his  high  will 
Whom  we  resist.    If  then  his  providence 
Out  of  our  evil  seek  to  bring  forth  good, 
Our  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil; 
Which  ofttimes  may  succeed  so  as  per- 
haps 1 66 


command. 


8  satisfy. 


Shall  grieve  him,  if  I  fail  not,  and  disturb 
His  inmost  counsels  from  their  destined 

aim. 
But  see!  the  angry  Victor  hath  recalled 
His  ministers  of  vengeance  and  pursuit  170 
Back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven;   the  sul- 
phurous hail, 
Shot  after  us  in  storm,   o'erblown  hath 

laid 
The  fiery  surge  that  from  the  precipice 
Of  Heaven  received  us  falling;  and  the 

thunder, 
Winged  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous 
rage,  175 

Perhaps  hath  spent  his  shafts,  and  ceases 

now 
To  bellow  through  the  vast  and  boundless 

Deep. 
Let  us  not  slip3  the  occasion,  whether  scorn 
Or  satiate  fury  yield  it  from  our  Foe. 
Seest  thou  yon  dreary  plain,  forlorn  and 
wild,  180 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light, 
Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid 

flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful?    Thither  let  us 

tend 
From  off  the  tossing  of  these  fiery  waves; 
There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbor  there;  185 
And,  reassembling  our  afflicted  powers, 
Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  of- 
fend 
Our  Enemy,  our  own  loss  how  repair, 
How  overcome  this  dire  calamity, 
What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from 
hope,  190 

If  not  what  resolution  from  despair." 

Thus  Satan,  talking  to  his  nearest  mate, 
With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed;  his  other  parts  be- 
sides, 
Prone  on  the  flood,   extended  long  and 
large,  105 

Lay  floating  many  a  rood,  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom4  the  fables  name  of  monstrous 

size, 
Titanian,  or  Earth-born,  that  warred  on 

Jove, 
Briareos  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held,  or  that  sea-beast 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works  201 
Created    hugest    that    swim    the    ocean- 
stream. 


3  let  slip. 


those  whom. 


MILTON 


157 


Him,   haply  slumbering  on  the  Norway 

foam, 
The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered1 

skiff 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell, 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind,       206 
Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while 

night 
Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays. 
So  stretched  out  huge  in  length  the  Arch- 

Fiend  lay, 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake;  nor  ever 

thence  210 

Had  risen  or  heaved  his  head,  but  that  the 

will 
And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  de- 
signs, 
That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap   on    himself    damnation,    while    he 

sought  215 

Evil  to  others,  and  enraged  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring 

forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy,  shown 
On  Man  by  him  seduced;  but  on  himself 
Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance 

poured.  220 

Forthwith  upright  he  rears  from  off  the 

pool 
His  mighty  stature;   on  each   hand   the 

flames 
Driven    backward    slope    their    pointing 

spires,  and,  rolled 
In  billows,  leave  i'  the  midst  a  horrid  vale. 
Then  with  expanded  wings  he  steers  his 

flight  225 

Aloft,  incumbent  on  the  dusky  air, 
That   felt    unusual   weight;    till    on    dry 

land 
He  lights — if  it  were  land  that  ever  burned 
With  solid,  as  the  lake  with  liquid  fire, 
And  such  appeared  in  hue,  as  when  the 

force  230 

Of  subterranean  wind  transports  a  hill 
Torn  from  Pelorus,  or  the  shattered  side 
Of  thundering  ^tna,  whose  combustible 
And  fuelled  entrails  thence  conceiving  fire, 
Sublimed2    with    mineral    fury,    aid   the 

winds,  235 

And  leave  a  singed  bottom  all  involved 
With  stench  and  smoke:  such  resting  found 

the  sole 


1  overtaken  by  night. 


2  sublimated. 


Of  unblest  feet.     Him  followed  his  next 

mate, 
Both  glorying  to  have  scaped  the  Stygian 

flood 
As   gods,    and    by    their   own    recovered 

strength,  240 

Not  by  the  sufferance  of  supernal  power. 
"Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the 

clime," 
Said  then  the  lost  Archangel,  "  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  Heaven?  this 

mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light?     Be  it  so,  since 

he  245 

Who  now  is  sovran  can  dispose  and  bid 
What  shall  be  right:  farthest  from  him  is 

best, 
Whom  reason  hath  equalled,  force  hath 

made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.    Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  forever  dwells!    Hail,  horrors! 

hail,  250 

Infernal    world!    and    thou,    profoundest 

Hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor,  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  Heaven  of  Hell,  a  Hell  of 

Heaven.  255 

What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be,  all  but3  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?    Here 

at  least 
We  shall  be  free;  the  Almighty  hath  not 

built 
Here  for  his  envy,  will  not  drive  us  hence : 
Here  we  may  reign  secure,  and  in  my 

choice  261 

To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  Hell: 
Better   to  reign   in  Hell,   than   serve   in 

Heaven. 
But  wherefore  let  we  then  our  faithful 

friends, 
The    associates    and    co-partners    of    our 

loss,  265 

Lie  thus  astonished4  on  the  oblivious  pool, 
And  call  them  not  to  share  with  us  their 

part 
In  this  unhappy  mansion,  or  once  more 
With  rallied  arms  to  try  what  may  be  yet 
Regained  in  Heaven,  or  what  more  lost  in 

Hell?"  270 

So  Satan  spake;  and  him  Beelzebub 


1  only. 


4  confounded. 


158 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Thus  answered: — "Leader  of  those  armies 

bright 
Which  but  the  Omnipotent  none  could 

have  foiled, 
If  once  they  hear  that  voice,  their  liveliest 

pledge 
Of  hope  in  fears  and  dangers — heard  so 

oft  275 

In  worst  extremes,  and  on  the  perilous  edge 
Of  battle  when  it  raged,  in  all  assaults 
Their  surest  signal — they  will  soon  resume 
New  courage  and  revive,  though  now  they 

lie 
Grovelling  and  prostrate  on  yon  lake  of 

fire,  280 

As  we  erewhile,  astounded  and  amazed: 
No    wonder,    fallen    such    a    pernicious 

highth!" 
He  scarce  had  ceased  when  the  superior 

Fiend 
Was  moving  toward  the  shore;  his  ponder- 
ous shield, 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round, 
Behind  him  cast.  The  broad  circum- 
ference 286 
Hung   on   his   shoulders   like   the   moon, 

whose  orb 
Through   optic   glass   the   Tuscan   artist 

views 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands,  290 
Rivers,  or  mountains,  in  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear — to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the  mast 
Of    some    great    ammiral,1    were    but    a 

wand — 
He    walked    with,    to    support    uneasy 

steps  295 

Over  the  burning  marl,2  not  like  those 

steps 
On  Heaven's  azure;  and  the  torrid  clime 
Smote  on  him  sore  besides,  vaulted  with 

fire. 
Nathless  he  so  endured,  till  on  the  beach 
Of  that  inflamed  sea  he  stood,  and  called 
His  legions,  Angel  forms,  who  lay  en- 
tranced, 301 
Thick  as  autumnal  leaves,  that  strew  the 

brooks 
In    Vallombrosa,     where     the     Etrurian 

shades, 
High  over-arched,  embower;  or  scattered 

sedge 

1  flag-ship.  2  soil. 


Afloat,    when    with    fierce    winds    Orion 

armed  305 

Hath   vexed   the  Red  Sea  coast,  whose 

waves  o'er  threw 
Busiris  and  his  Memphian  chivalry, 
While  with  perfidious  hatred  they  pursued 
The  sojourners  of  Goshen,  who  beheld 
From  the  safe  shore  their  floating  car- 
casses 310 
And  broken  chariot-wheels.    So  thick  be- 

strown, 
Abject  and  lost  lay  these,  covering  the 

flood, 
Under     amazement     of3    their     hideous 

change. 
He  called  so  loud,  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of    Hell    resounded: — "Princes,    Poten- 
tates, 315 
Warriors,  the  Flower  of   Heaven, — once 

yours,  now  lost, 
If  such  astonishment  as  this  can  seize 
Eternal  Spirits!  Or  have  ye  chosen  this 

place 
After  the  toil  of  battle  to  repose 
Your  wearied   virtue,   for   the   ease  you 
find  320 

To  slumber  here,  as  in  the  vales  of  Heaven? 
Or  in  this  abject  posture  have  ye  sworn 
To  adore  the  Conqueror,  who  now  beholds 
Cherub  and  Seraph  rolling  in  the  flood 
With  scattered  arms  and  ensigns,  till  anon 
His  swift  pursuers  from  Heaven-gates  dis- 
cern 326 
The  advantage,  and  descending  tread  us 

down 
Thus  drooping,  or  with  linked  thunder- 
bolts 
Transfix  us  to  the  bottom  of  this  gulf? 
Awake,  arise,  or  be  for  ever  fall'n!"       330 
They  heard,  and  were  abashed,  and  up 
they  sprung 
Upon  the  wing;  as  when  men,  wont  to 

watch, 
On  duty  sleeping  found  by  whom  they 

dread, 
Rouse    and    bestir    themselves    ere    well 

awake. 

Nor  did  they  not  perceive  the  evil  plight 

In  which  they  were,  or  the  fierce  pains  not 

feel;  336 

Yet  to  their  General's  voice  they  soon 

obeyed, 
Innumerable.    As  when  the  potent  rod 

3  overwhelmed  by. 


MILTON 


159 


Of  Amram's  son,1  in  Egypt's  evil  day, 
Waved  round  the  coast,  up-called  a  pitchy 

cloud  340 

Of  locusts,  warping  on  the  eastern  wind, 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  impious  Pharaoh 

hung 
Like  night,  and  darkened  all  the  land  of 

Nile: 
So  numberless  were  those  bad  Angels  seen 
Hovering  on  wing  under  the  cope  of  Hell, 
'Twixt   upper,   nether,   and   surrounding 

fires;  346 

Till,  as  a  signal  given,  the  uplifted  spear 
Of  their  great  Sultan  waving  to  direct 
Their  course,  in  even  balance  down  they 

light 
On  the  firm  brimstone,  and  fill  all  the 

plain:  350 

A    multitude    like    which    the    populous 

North 
Poured  never  from  her  frozen  loins,  to 

pass 
Rhene  or  the  Danaw,2  when  her  barbarous 

sons 
Came  like  a  deluge  on  the   South,  and 

spread 
Beneath3  Gibraltar  to  the  Libyan  sands. 
Forthwith  from  every  squadron  and  each 

band  356 

The  heads  and  leaders  thither  haste  where 

stood 
Their  great  Commander;  godlike  shapes, 

and  forms 
Excelling  human,  princely  Dignities, 
And  Powers  that  erst  in  Heaven  sat  on 

thrones;  360 

Though  of  their  names  in  Heavenly  records 

now 
Be  no  memorial,  blotted  out  and  rased 
By  their  rebellion  from  the  Books  of  Life. 
Nor  had  they  yet  among  the  sons  of  Eve 
Got  them  new  names,  till,  wandering  o'er 

the  Earth,  365 

Through  God's  high  sufferance,  for  the 

trial  of  man, 
By  falsities  and  lies  the  greatest  part 
Of  mankind  they  corrupted  to  forsake 
God  their  Creator,  and  the  invisible 
Glory  of  him  that  made  them,  to  trans- 
form 370 
Oft  to  the  image  of  a  brute,  adorned 
With  gay  religions4  full  of  pomp  and  gold, 
And  devils  to  adore  for  deities: 


1  Moses. 


Danube. 


3  south  of. 


Then  were  they  known  to  men  by  various 

names, 
And  various  idols  through  the  heathen 

world.  375 

Say,  Muse,  their  names  then  known, 

who  first,  who  last, 
Roused  from  the  slumber  on  that  fiery 

couch, 
At  their  great  Emperor's  call,  as  next  in 

worth, 
Came  singly  where  he  stood  on  the  bare 

strand, 
While  the  promiscuous  crowd  stood  yet 

aloof.  380 

The  chief  were  those  who  from  the  pit  of 

Hell 
Roaming  to  seek  their  prey  on  Earth,  durst 

fix 
Their  seats,  long  after,  next  the  seat  of 

God, 
Their  altars  by  his  altar,  gods  adored 
Among    the    nations    round,    and    durst 

abide  385 

Jehovah  thundering  out  of  Sion,  throned 
Between  the  Cherubim;  yea,  often  placed 
Within  his  sanctuary  itself  their  shrines, 
Abominations;  and  with  cursed  things 
His  holy  rites  and  solemn  feasts  profaned, 
And  with  their  darkness  durst  affront  his 

light.  _  391 

First,  Moloch,  horrid  king,  besmeared  with 

blood 
Of  human  sacrifice,  and  parents'  tears; 
Though,  for  the  noise  of  drums  and  tim- 
brels loud, 
Their  children's  cries  unheard  that  passed 

through  fire  395 

To  his  grim  idol.    Him  the  Ammonite 
Worshipped   in   Rabba   and   her   watery 

plain, 
In  Argob  and  in  Basan,  to  the  stream 
Of  utmost  Arnon.    Nor  content  with  such 
Audacious  neighborhood,  the  wisest  heart 
Of  Solomon  he  led  by  fraud  to  build        401 
His  temple  right  against  the  temple  of 

God, 
On  that  opprobrious  hill,,  and  made  his 

grove 
The  pleasant  valley  of  Hinnom,  Tophet 

thence 
And  black  Gehenna  called,  the  type  of 

Hell.  405 

Next,    Chemos,    the    obscene    dread    of 

Moab's  sons, 


i6o 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


From  Aroer  to  Nebo  and  the  wild 
Of  southmost  Abarim ;  in  Hesebon 
And  Horonaim,  Seon's  realm,  beyond 
The  flowery  dale  of  Sibma  clad  with  vines, 
And  Eleale  to  the  Asphaltic  pool ;  411 

Peor  his  other  name,  when  he  enticed 
Israel  in  Sittim,  on  their  march  from  Nile, 
To  do  him  wanton  rites,  which  cost  them 

woe. 
Yet  thence  his  lustful  orgies  he  enlarged  415 
Even  to  that  hill  of  scandal,  by  the  grove 
Of  Moloch  homicide,  lust  hard  by  hate, 
Till  good  Josiah  drove  them  thence  to 

Hell. 
With    these   came   they   who,    from    the 

bordering  flood 
Of  old  Euphrates  to  the  brook  that  parts 
Egypt  from  Syrian  ground,  had  general 

names  421 

Of  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth:  those  male, 
These  feminine.     For  Spirits,  when  they 

please, 
Can  either  sex  assume,  or  both;  so  soft 
And  uncompounded  is  their  essence  pure, 
Not  tied  or  manacled  with  joint  or  limb,  426 
Nor  founded  on  the  brittle  strength  of 

bones, 
Like  cumbrous  flesh;  but,  in  what  shape 

they  choose, 
Dilated  or  condensed,  bright  or  obscure, 
Can  execute  their  aery  purposes,  430 

And  works  of  love  or  enmity  fulfil. 
For  those  the  race  of  Israel  oft  forsook 
Their  living  Strength,  and  unfrequented 

left 
His  righteous  altar,  bowing  lowly  down 
To  bestial  gods;  for  which  their  heads  as 

low  435 

Bowed  down  in  battle,  sunk  before  the 

spear 
Of  despicable  foes.     With  these  in  troop 
Came    Astoreth,    whom    the    Phenicians 

called 
Astarte,  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  crescent 

horns; 
To   whose  bright  image  nightly  by   the 

moon  44° 

Sii Ionian  virgins  paid  their  vows  and  songs; 
I  n  Sion  also  not  unsung,  where  stood 
Her  temple  on   the  offensive   mountain, 

built 
By  that  uxorious  king  whose  heart,  though 

large, 
Beguiled  by  fair  idolatresses,  fell  445 


To  idols  foul.     Thammuz  came  next  be- 
hind, 
Whose  annual  wound  in  Lebanon  allured 
The  Syrian  damsels  to  lament  his  fate 
In  amorous  ditties  all  a  summer's  day, 
While  smooth  Adonis  from  his  native  rock 
Ran  purple   to   the   sea,   supposed   with 
blood  451 

Of  Thammuz  yearly  wounded:  the  love- 
tale 
Infected  Sion's  daughters  with  like  heat, 
Whose    wanton    passions    in    the    sacred 

porch 
Ezekiel  saw,  when,  by  the  vision  led,       455 
His  eye  surveyed  the  dark  idolatries 
Of  alienated  Judah.    Next  came  one 
Who  mourned  in  earnest,  when  the  captive 

ark 
Maimed  his  brute  image,  head  and  hands 

lopt  off 
In  his  own  temple,  on  the  grunsel-edge,1 460 
Where  he  fell  flat,  and  shamed  his  wor- 
shippers : 
Dagon   his   name,    sea-monster,    upward 

man 
And  downward  fish;  yet  had  his  temple 

high 
Reared  in  Azotus,  dreaded  through  the 

coast 
Of  Palestine,  in  Gath  and  Ascalon,  465 

And  Accaron  and  Gaza's  frontier  bounds. 
Him  followed  Rimmon,  whose  delightful 

seat 
Was  fair  Damascus,  on  the  fertile  banks 
Of  Abbana  and  Pharphar,  lucid  streams. 
He  also  against  the  house  of  God  was  bold : 
A  leper  once  he  lost,  and  gained  a  king,  471 
Ahaz,  his  sottish  conqueror,  whom  he  drew 
God's  altar  to  disparage  and  displace 
For  one  of  Syrian  mode,  whereon  to  burn 
His  odious  offerings,  and  adore  the  gods  475 
Whom  he  had  vanquished.     After  these 

appeared 
A  crew  who,  under  names  of  old  renown, 
Osiris,  Isis,  Orus,  and  their  train, 
With    monstrous    shapes    and    sorceries 

abused2 
Fanatic  Egypt  and  her  priests,  to  seek    480 
Their  wandering  gods  disguised  in  brutish 

forms 
Rather  than  human.    Nor  did  Israel  scape 
The  infection,  when  their  borrowed  gold 
composed 

1  threshold.  2  deceived. 


MILTON 


161 


The  calf  in  Oreb,  and  the  rebel  king 
Doubled  that  sin  in  Bethel  and  in  Dan,    485 
Likening  his  Maker  to  the  grazed  ox — 
Jehovah,    who,    in   one   night,    when   he 

passed 
From  Egypt  marching,  equalled  with  one 

stroke 
Both  her  first-born  and  all  her  bleating 

gods. 
Belial  came  last,  than  whom  a  Spirit  more 

lewd  49° 

Fell  not  from  Heaven,  or  more  gross  to 

love 
Vice  for  itself.    To  him  no  temple  stood 
Or  altar  smoked;  yet  who  more  oft  than 

he 
In  temples  and  at  altars,  when  the  priest 
Turns  atheist,  as  did  Eli's  sons,  who  filled 
With  lust  and  violence  the  house  of  God? 
In  courts  and  palaces  he  also  reigns,  497 
And  in  luxurious  cities,  where  the  noise 
Of  riot  ascends  above  their  loftiest  towers, 
And  injury  and  outrage;  and  when  night 
Darkens  the  streets,  then  wander  forth  the 

sons  501 

Of  Belial,  flown1  with  insolence  and  wine. 
Witness  the  streets  of  Sodom,  and  that 

night 
In  Gibeah,  when  the  hospitable  door 
Exposed  a  matron,  to  avoid  worse  rape. 505 
These  were  the  prime  in  order  and  in 

might; 
The  rest  were  long  to  tell,  though  far  re- 
nowned 
The  Ionian  gods — of  Javan's  issue  held 
Gods,  yet  confessed  later  than  Heaven  and 

Earth, 
Their  boasted  parents; — Titan,  Heaven's 

first-born,  510 

With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright 

seized 
By  younger  Saturn;  he  from  mightier  Jove, 
His  own  and  Rhea's  son,  like  measure 

found ; 
So  Jove  usurping  reigned.    These,  first  in 

Crete 
And  Ida  known,  thence  on  the  snowy  top 
Of  cold  Olympus  ruled  the  middle  air,     516 
Their  highest  Heaven;  or  on  the  Delphian 

cliff, 
Or  in  Dodona,  and  through  all  the  bounds 
Of  Doric  land;  or  who  with  Saturn  old 
Fled  over  Adria  to  the  Hesperian  fields,  520 

1  flushed. 


And  o'er  the  Celtic  roamed  the  utmost 
isles. 
All  these  and  more  came  flocking;  but 
with  looks 

Downcast  and  damp,  yet  such  wherein 
appeared 

Obscure   some  glimpse   of  joy,   to  have 
found  their  Chief 

Not  in  despair,  to  have  found  themselves 
not  lost  52.5 

In  loss  itself;  which  on  his  countenance 
cast 

Like  doubtful  hue.     But  he,  his  wonted 
pride 

Soon  recollecting,2  with  high  words  that 
bore 

Semblance  of  worth,  not  substance,  gently 
raised 

Their  fainting  courage,  and  dispelled  their 
fears:  530 

Then  straight  commands  that  at  the  war- 
like sound 

Of  trumpets  loud  and  clarions,   be  up- 
reared 

His  mighty  standard.    That  proud  honor 
claimed 

Azazel  as  his  right,  a  Cherub  tall: 

Who  forthwith  from  the  glittering  staff 
unfurled  535 

The  imperial  ensign,  which,  full  high  ad- 
vanced, 

Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind, 

With  gems  and  golden   lustre  rich  em- 
blazed, 

Seraphic  arms  and  trophies;  all  the  while 

Sonorous  metal  blowing  martial  sounds  ^40 

At  which  the  universal  host  up-sent 

A  shout  that  tore  Hell's  concave,  and  be- 
yond 

Frighted  the  reign  of  Chaos  and  old  Night. 

All  in  a  moment  through  the  gloom  were 
seen 

Ten  thousand  banners  rise  into  the  air,  545 

With  orient  colors  waving ;  with  them  rose 

A  forest  huge  of  spears;  and  thronging 
helms 

Appeared,   and   serried3  shields  in   thick 
array 

Of  depth  immeasurable.    Anon  they  move 

In  perfect  phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood  550 

Of    flutes   and    soft   recorders4 — such   as 
raised 

To  highth  of  noblest  temper  heroes  old 


-  recovering. 


3  interlocked. 


flageolets. 


l62 


PURITANS  ANV  CAVALIERS 


Arming  to  battle,  and  instead  of  rage 

Deliberate  valor  breathed,  firm  and  un- 
moved 

With  dread  of  death  to  flight  or  foul  re- 
treat; 555 

Nor  wanting  power  to  mitigate  and  swage,1 

With  solemn  touches  troubled  thoughts, 
and  chase 

Anguish  and  doubt  and  fear  and  sorrow 
and  pain 

From  mortal  or  immortal  minds.  Thus 
they. 

Breathing  united  force  with  fixed  thought, 

Moved  on  in  silence  to  soft  pipes  that 
charmed  561 

Their  painful  steps  o'er  the  burnt  soil;  and 
now 

Advanced  in  view  they  stand,  a  horrid 
front 

Of  dreadful  length  and  dazzling  arms,  in 
guise 

Of  warriors  old,  with  ordered  spear  and 
shield,  565 

Awaiting  what  command  their  mighty 
Chief 

Had  to  impose.  He  through  the  armed 
files 

Darts  his  experienced  eye,  and  soon  trav- 
erse2 

The  whole  battalion  views — their  order 
due, 

Their  visages  and  stature  as  of  gods;       570 

Their  number  last  he  sums.  And  now  his 
heart 

Distends  with  pride,  and  hardening  in  his 
strength, 

Glories;    for   never,    since    created    man, 

Met  such  embodied  force  as,  named3  with 
these, 

Could  merit  more  than  that  small  in- 
fantry 575 

Warred  on  by  cranes:  though  all  the  giant 
brood 

Of  Phlegra  with  the  heroic  race  were  joined 

That  fought  at  Thebes  and  Ilium,  on  each 
side 

Mixed  with  auxiliar  gods;  and  what  re- 
sounds 

In  fable  or  romance  of  Uther's  son,  580 

Begirt  with  British  and  Armoric  knights; 

And  all  who  since,  baptized  or  infidel, 

Jousted  in  Aspramont,  or  Montalban, 

Damasco,  or  Marocco,  or  Trebisond; 


1  assuage. 


'  compared. 


Or  whom  Biserta  sent  from  Afric  shore  585 
When  Charlemain  with  all  his  peerage  fell 
By  Fontarabbia.  Thus  far  these  beyond 
Compare  of  mortal  prowess,  yet  observed4 
Their  dread  Commander.    He,  above  the 

rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent,   590 
Stood  like  a  tower;  his  form  had  yet  not 

lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  Archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured:  as  when  the  sun  new- 
risen 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air  595 
Shorn  of  his  beams,  or  from  behind  the 

moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous5  twilight  sheds 
On   half   the   nations,   and   with  fear   of 

change 
Perplexes  monarchs.     Darkened  so,  yet 

shone 
Above  them  all  the  Archangel;  but  his 

face  600 

Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched,  and 

care 
Sat  on  his  faded  cheek,  but  under  brows 
Of    dauntless   courage,    and   considerate6 

pride 
Waiting  revenge.    Cruel  his  eye,  but  cast 
Signs  of  remorse  and  passion,  to  behold  605 
The  fellows  of  his  crime,   the  followers 

rather 
(Far   other   once   beheld   in   bliss),   con- 
demned 
Forever  now  to  have  their  lot  in  pain ; 
Millions  of  Spirits  for  his  fault  amerced7 
Of  Heaven,  and  from  eternal  splendors 

flung  610 

For   his   revolt;    yet    faithful    how    they 

stood, 
Their  glory  withered:  as,  when  Heaven's 

fire 
Hath  scathed  the  forest  oaks  or  mountain 

pines, 
With    singed    top    their    stately   growth, 

though  bare, 
Stands  on  the  blasted  heath.    He  now  pre- 
pared 615 
To  speak;  whereat  their  doubled  ranks 

they  bend 
From  wing  to  wing,  and  half  enclose  him 

round 


4  obeyed. 

6  meditative. 


6  threatening  disaster. 

7  deprived. 


MILTON 


163 


With  all  his  peers:  attention  held  them 

mute. 
Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of 

scorn, 
Tears,  such  as  Angels  weep,  burst  forth:  at 
last  620 

Words  interwove  with   sighs   found   out 
their  way: — 
"O    myriads    of    immortal    Spirits!    O 
Powers 
Matchless,  but  with  the  Almighty! — and 

that  strife 
Was  not  inglorious,  though  the  event1  was 

dire, 
As  this  place  testifies,  and  this  dire  change, 
Hateful   to   utter.     But   what  power   of 
mind,  626 

Foreseeing  or  presaging,  from  the  depth 
Of  knowledge  past  or  present,  could  have 

feared 
How  such  united  force  of  gods,  how  such 
As  stood  like  these,  could  ever  know  re- 
pulse? 630 
For  who   can  yet  believe,   though  after 

loss, 
That  all  these  puissant  legions,  whose  exile 
Hath  emptied  Heaven,  shall  fail  to  re- 
ascend, 
Self-raised,    and    repossess    their    native 

seat? 
For  me,  be  witness  all  the  host  of  Heaven, 
If  counsels  different,  or  danger  shunned  636 
By  me,  have  lost  our  hopes.    But  he  who 

reigns 
Monarch  in  Heaven,  till  then  as  one  secure 
Sat  on  his  throne,  upheld  by  old  repute, 
Consent  or  custom,  and  his  regal  state  640 
Put  forth  at  full,  but  still  his  strength  con- 
cealed ; 
Which  tempted  our  attempt,  and  wrought 

our  fall. 
Henceforth  his  might  we  know,  and  know 

our  own, 
So  as  not  either  to  provoke,  or  dread 
New  war  provoked.    Our  better  part  re- 
mains 645 
To  work2  in  close  design,  by  fraud  or  guile, 
What  force  effected  not;  that  he  no  less 
At  length  from  us  may  find,  who  over- 
comes 
By  force  hath  overcome  but  half  his  foe. 
Space  may  produce  new  worlds;  whereof 
so  rife  650 

1  outcome.  2  accomplish. 


There  went  a  fame  in  Heaven  that  he  ere 

long 
Intended  to  create,  and  therein  plant 
A  generation  whom  his  choice  regard 
Should  favor  equal  to  the  Sons  of  Heaven. 
Thither,  if  but  to  pry,  shall  be  perhaps  055 
Our  first  eruption;3  thither,  or  elsewhere; 
For  this  infernal  pit  shall  never  hold 
Celestial    Spirits    in    bondage,    nor    the 

Abyss 
Long  under  darkness  cover.     But  these 

thoughts 
Full  counsel  must  mature.     Peace  is  de- 
spaired, 660 
For   who   can   think   submission?     War, 

then,  war, 
Open  or  understood,4  must  be  resolved." 
He  spake;  and,  to  confirm  his  words, 
outflew 
Millions  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the 

thighs 
Of  mighty  Cherubim;  the  sudden  blaze  665 
Far  round   illumined   Hell;    highly    they 

raged 
Against    the    Highest,    and    fierce    with 

grasped  arms 
Clashed  on  their  sounding  shields  the  din 

of  war, 
Hurling    defiance    toward    the    vault    of 
Heaven. 
There  stood  a  hill  not  far,  whose  grisly 
top  670 

Belched  fire  and  rolling  smoke ;  the  rest  en- 
tire 
Shone  with  a  glossy  scurf,  undoubted  sign 
That  in  his  womb  was  hid  metallic  ore, 
The  work  of  sulphur.     Thither,  winged 

with  speed, 
A   numerous   brigad   hastened:   as   when 
bands  675 

Of    pioneers,    with    spade    and    pickaxe 

armed, 
Forerun  the  royal  camp,  to  trench  a  field, 
Or  cast  a  rampart.     Mammon  led  them 

on: 

Mammon,  the  least  erected  Spirit  that  fell 

From  Heaven;   for  even  in  Heaven  his 

looks  and  thoughts  680 

Were  always  downward  bent,   admiring 

more 
The  riches  of  Heaven's  pavement,  trodden 

gold, 
Than  aught  divine  or  holy  else  enjoyed 


3  sortie. 


4  secretly  decided  on. 


1 64 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


In  vision  beatific.    By  him  first 

Men  also,  and  by  his  suggestion  taught,  685 

Ransacked  the  Center,  and  with  impious 

hands 
Rifled  the  bowels  of  their  mother  Earth 
For  treasures,  better  hid.     Soon  had  his 

crew 
Opened  into  the  hill  a  spacious  wound, 
And  digged  out  ribs  of  gold.     Let  none 


admire 


690 


That  riches  grow  in  Hell;  that  soil  may 

best 
Deserve  the  precious  bane.    And  here  let 

those 
Who  boast  in  mortal  things,  and  wonder- 
ing tell 
Of  Babel,  and  the  works  of  Memphian 

kings, 
Learn  how  their  greatest  monuments  of 

fame,  695 

And  strength  and  art,  are  easily  outdone 
By  Spirits  reprobate,  and  in  an  hour 
What  in  an  age  they,  with  incessant  toil 
And  hands  innumerable,  scarce  perform. 
Nigh  on  the  plain,  in  many  cells  prepared, 
That  underneath  had  veins  of  liquid  fire  701 
Sluiced  from  the  lake,  a  second  multitude 
With  wondrous  art  founded2  the  massy 

ore, 
Severing3  each  kind,  and   scummed    the 

bullion  dross. 
A  third  as  soon  had  formed  within  the 

ground  705 

A  various  mold,  and  from  the  boiling  cells, 
By  strange  conveyance,  filled  each  hollow 

nook: 
As  in  an  organ,  from  one  blast  of  wind, 
To  many  a  row  of  pipes  the  sound-board 

breathes. 
Anon,  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge  710 
Rose  like  an  exhalation,  with  the  sound 
Of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices  sweet — 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With   golden   architrave;    nor   did    there 

want  715 

Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy4  sculptures 

graven : 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.    Not  Babylon, 
Nor  great  Alcairo,  such  magnificence 
Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat  720 


1  wonder. 
3  separating. 


2  melted. 

*  embossed,  in  high  relief. 


Their   kings,   when   Egypt   with  Assyria 

strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.    The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  highth,  and  straight 

the  doors, 
Opening  their  brazen  folds,  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces  o'er  the  smooth 
And   level   pavement;    from    the   arched 

roof,  726 

Pendent  by  subtle  magic,  many  a  row 
Of  starry  lamps  and  blazing  cressets,  fed 
With  naphtha  and  asphaltus,  yielded  light 
As  from  a  sky.    The  hasty  multitude      730 
Admiring   entered,   and    the   work   some 

praise, 
And  some  the  architect.      His  hand  was 

known 
In  Heaven  by  many  a  towered  structure 

high 

Where  sceptered  Angels  held   their  res- 
idence, 
And  sat  as  Princes,  whom  the  supreme 

King  735 

Exalted  to  such  power,  and  gave  to  rule, 
Each  in  his  hierarchy,  the  Orders  bright. 
Nor  was  his  name  unheard  or  unadored 
In  ancient  Greece;  and  in  Ausonian  land 
Men  called  him  Mulciber;  and  how  he- 

fell  740 

From   Heaven   they   fabled,    thrown   by 

angry  Jove 
Sheer  o'er  the  crystal  battlements:  from 

morn 
To  noon  he  fell,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day;  and  with  the  setting  sun 
Dropped  from  the  zenith  like  a  falling 

star,  745 

On  Lemnos,  the  ^Egean  isle.     Thus  they 

relate, 
Erring;  for  he  with  this  rebellious  rout 
Fell  long  before;  nor  aught  availed  him 

now 
To  have  built  in  Heaven  high  towers;  nor 

did  he  scape 
By   all   his   engines,5   but   was   headlong 

sent  750 

With  his  industrious  crew  to  build  in  Hell. 
Meanwhile,  the  winged  heralds,  by  com- 
mand 
Of  sovran  power,  with  awful  ceremony 
And    trumpet's    sound,    throughout    the 

host  proclaim 
A  solemn  council  forthwith  to  be  held     755 

6  contrivances. 


MILTON 


165 


At  Pandemonium,  the  high  capital 

Of  Satan  and  his  peers.    Their  summons 

called 
From  every  band  and  squared  regiment 
By  place  or  choice  the  worthiest;   they 

anon, 
With  hundreds  and  with  thousands,  troop- 
ing came,  760 
Attended.    All  access  was  thronged;  the 

gates 
And  porches  wide,  but  chief  the  spacious 

hall 
(Though  like  a  covered  field,  where  cham- 
pions bold 
Wont1  ride  in  armed,  and  at  the  Soldan's 

chair 
Defied  the  best  of  Panim2  chivalry  765 

To  mortal  combat,  or  career  with  lance). 
Thick  swarmed,  both  on  the  ground  and  in 

the  air, 
Brushed  with  the  hiss  of  rustling  wings. 

As  bees 
In  spring-time,  when  the  Sun  with  Taurus 

rides, 
Pour  forth  their  populous  youth  about  the 

hive  770 

In  clusters;  they  among  fresh  dews  and 

flowers 
Fly  to  and  fro,  or  on  the  smoothed  plank, 
The  suburb  of  their  straw-built  citadel, 
New  rubbed  with  balm,  expatiate3  and 

confer4 
Their   state-affairs.      So    thick    the   aery 

crowd  775 

Swarmed  and  were  straitened;   till,    the 

signal  given, 
Behold   a   wonder!    they   but   now   who 

seemed 
In  bigness  to  surpass  Earth's  giant  sons, 
Now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs,  in  narrow 

room 
Throng   numberless,   like   that   pygmean 

race  780 

Beyond  the  Indian  mount;  or  faery  elves. 
Whose  midnight  revels,  by  a  forest-side 
Or  fountain,  some  belated  peasant  sees. 
Or  dreams  he  sees,  while  overhead  the 

Moon 
Sits  arbitress,5  and  nearer  to  the  Earth    7S5 
Wheels  her  pale  course;  they,  on   their 

mirth  and  dance 
Intent,  with  jocund  music  charm  his  ear; 


1  used  to. 
4  discuss. 


3  walk  about. 
5  governess. 


At  once  with  joy  and  fear  his  heart  re- 
bounds. 
Thus  incorporeal  Spirits  to  smallest  forms 
Reduced  their  shapes  immense,  and  were 
at  large,  790 

Though  without  number  still,  amidst  the 

hall 
Of  that  infernal  court.    But  far  within, 
And  in  their  own  dimensions  like  them- 
selves, 
The  great  Seraphic  Lords  and  Cherubim 
In  close  recess6  and  secret  conclave  sat,   795 
A  thousand  demi-gods  on  golden  seats, 
Frequent7  and  full.     After  short  silence 

then, 
And    summons   read,    the   great   consult 
began. 

BOOK  II 

THE  ARGUMENT 

The  consultation  begun,  Satan  debates 
whether  another  battle  be  to  be  haz- 
arded for  the  recovery  of  Heaven: 
some  advise  it,  others  dissuade.  A 
third  proposal  is  preferred,  mentioned 
before  by  Satan — to  search  the  truth 
of  that  prophecy  or  tradition  in  Heaven 
concerning  another  world,  and  another 
kind  of  creature,  equal,  or  not  much 
inferior,  to  themselves,  about  this  time 
to  be  created.  Their  doubt  who  shall 
be  sent  on  this  difficult  search:  Satan, 
their  chief,  undertakes  alone  the  voy- 
age; is  honored  and  applauded.  The 
council  thus  ended,  the  rest  betake 
them  several  ways  and  to  several  em- 
ployments, as  their  inclinations  lead 
them,  to  entertain  the  time  till  Satan 
return.  He  passes  on  his  journey  to 
Hell-gates,  finds  them  shut,  and  who 
sat  there  to  guard  them;  by  whom  at 
length  they  are  opened,  and  discover 
to  him  the  great  gulf  between  Hell 
and  Heaven;  with  what  difficulty  he 
passes  through,  directed  by  Chaos,  the 
Power  of  that  place,  to  the  sight  of 
this  new  World  which  he  sought. 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of   Ormus   and  of 
Ind, 

6  retirement.  '  crowded. 


i66 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Or  where  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest 

hand 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and 

gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat,  by  merit  raised  5 

To  that  bad  eminence;  and,  from  despair 
Thus  high  uplifted  beyond  hope,  aspires 
Beyond  thus  high,  insatiate  to  pursue 
Vain  war  with  Heaven;  and,  by  success1 

untaught, 
His  proud  imaginations  thus  displayed: — 
"Powers    and    Dominions,    Deities    of 

Heaven !  1 1 

For  since  no  deep  within  her  gulf  can  hold 
Immortal   vigor,    though   oppressed    and 

fallen, 
I  give  not  Heaven  for  lost:  from  this  de- 
scent 
Celestial  Virtues  rising  will  appear  15 

More  glorious  and  more  dread  than  from 

no  fall, 
And  trust  themselves  to  fear  no  second 

fate! 
Me  though  just  right,  and  the  fixed  laws  of 

Heaven, 
Did  first  create  your  leader,   next,  free 

choice, 
With  what  besides  in  council  or  in  fight  20 
Hath  been  achieved  of  merit,  yet  this  loss, 
Thus  far  at  least  recovered,  hath  much 

more 
Established  in  a  safe,  unenvied  throne, 
Yielded  with  full  consent.     The  happier 

state 
In  Heaven,  which  follows  dignity,  might 

draw  25 

Envy  from  each  inferior;  but  who  here 
Will  envy  whom  the  highest  place  exposes 
Foremost  to  stand  against  the  Thunderer's 

aim 
Your  bulwark,  and  condemns  to  greatest 

share 
Of  endless  pain?     Where  there  is,  then,  no 

good 
For  which  to  strive,  no  strife  can  grow  up 

there  31 

From  faction:  for  none  sure  will  claim  in 

Hell 
Precedence;  none  whose  portion  is  so  small 
Of  present  pain  that  with  ambitious  mind 
Will  covet  more!     With  this  advantage, 

then,  35 

To  union,  and  firm  faith,  and  firm  accord, 

1  the  event. 


More  than  can  be  in  Heaven,  we  now  re- 
turn 
To  claim  our  just  inheritance  of  old, 
Surer  to  prosper  than  prosperity 
Could  have  assured  us;  and  by  what  best 
way,  40 

Whether  of  open  war  or  covert  guile, 
We  now  debate.     Who  can  advise  may 
speak." 
He  ceased;  and  next  him  Moloch,  scep- 
tred king, 
Stood  up,  the  strongest  and  the  fiercest 

Spirit 
That  fought  in  Heaven,  now  fiercer  by 
despair.  45 

His   trust   was   with   the   Eternal   to  be 

deemed 
Equal  in  strength,  and  rather  than  be  less 
Cared  not  to  be  at  all;  with  that  care 

lost 
Went  all  his  fear:  of  God,  or  Hell,  or  worse, 
He  recked  not,  and  these  words  thereafter 
spake: —  50 

"  My  sentence2  is  for  open  war.  Of  wiles, 
More  unexpert,  I  boast  not:  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need,  or  when  they  need; 

not  now. 
For  while  they  sit  contriving,  shall  the 

rest — 
Millions  that  stand  in  arms,  and  longing 
wait  ss 

The  signal  to  ascend — sit  lingering  here, 
Heaven's  fugitives,  and  for  their  dwelling- 
place 
Accept  this  dark  opprobrious  den  of  shame, 
The  prison  of  his  tyranny  who  reigns 
By  our  delay?    No!  let  us  rather  choose,  60 
Armed  with  Hell-flames  and  fury,  all  at 

once 
O'er  Heaven's  high  towers  to  force  resist- 
less way, 
Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Against  the  Torturer;  when,  to  meet  the 

noise 
Of  his  almighty  engine,  he  shall  hear       65 
Infernal  thunder,  and  for  lightning  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  Angels,  and  his  throne  itself 
Mixed  with  Tartarean  sulphur  and  strange 
fire,  69 

His  own  invented  torments.  But  perhaps 
The  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 
With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe? 

2  judgment. 


MILTON 


167 


Let    such    bethink    them,    if    the    sleepy 

drench 
Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  still, 
That  in  our  proper  motion  we  ascend  75 
Up  to  our  native  seat;  descent  and  fall 
To  us  is  adverse.  Who  but  felt  of  late, 
When  the  fierce  foe  hung  on  our  broken 

rear 
Insulting,   and   pursued   us   through   the 

deep, 
With    what    compulsion    and    laborious 
flight  So 

We  sunk  thus  low?     The  ascent  is  easy, 
then; 
i  The  event  is  feared?     Should  we  again 
provoke 
Our  stronger,  some  worse  way  his  wrath 
may  find 
!  To  our  destruction — if  there  be  in  Hell 
Fear  to  be  worse  destroyed?    What  can  be 
worse  85 

Than  to  dwell  here,  driven  out  from  bliss, 
condemned 
'  In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  woe; 
1  Where  pain  of  unextinguishable  fire 
Must  exercise  us,  without  hope  of  end, 
The  vassals  of  his  anger,  when  the  scourge 
•  Inexorably,  and  the  torturing  hour,         gi 
'.  Calls   us   to   penance?     More   destroyed 
than  thus, 
We  should  be  quite  abolished,  and  expire. 
1  What  fear  we  then?  what  doubt  we  to 
incense 
His  utmost  ire?  which,  to  the  highth  en- 
raged, 95 
'  Will  either  quite  consume  us,  and  reduce 
!  To   nothing   this   essential1 — happier   far 
!  Than  miserable  to  have  eternal  being! — 
!  Or,  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine, 
i  And  cannot  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst  100 
On  this  side  nothing ;  and  by  proof  we  feel 
;  Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  Heaven, 
;  And  with  perpetual  inroads  to  alarm, 
1  Though  inaccessible,  his  fatal  throne: 
1  Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge."  105 
He  ended  frowning,  and  his  look  de- 
nounced2 
I  Desperate  revenge,  and  battle  dangerous 
j  To  less  than  gods.    On  the  other  side  up 
': .        rose 

^'Belial,  in  act  more  graceful  and  humane; 
1  A  fairer  person  lost  not  Heaven ;  he  seemed 
!  For  dignity  composed,  and  high  exploit.m 


1  this  being  of  ours. 


threatened. 


But  all  was  false  and  hollow;  though  his 

tongue 
Dropped    manna,    and    could    make    the 

worse  appear 
The  better  reason,  to  perplex  and  dash 
Maturest  counsels:  for  his  thoughts  were 

low —  115 

To  vice  industrious,  but  to  nobler  deeds 
Timorous  and  slothful.     Yet  he  pleased 

the  ear, 
And  with  persuasive  accent  thus  began : — 
' '  I  should  be  much  for  open  war,  O  Peers, 
As  not  behind  in  hate,  if  what  was  urged 
Main  reason  to  persuade  immediate  war 
Did  not  dissuade  me  most,  and  seem  to 

cast  122 

Ominous  conjecture  on  the  whole  success; 
When  he  who  most  excels  in  fact  of  arms, 
In  what  he  counsels  and  in  what  excels  125 
Mistrustful,  grounds  his  courage  on  de- 
spair 
And  utter  dissolution,  as  the  scope 
Of  all  his  aim,  after  some  dire  revenge. 
First,    what    revenge?      The    towers    of 

Heaven  are  filled 
With  armed  watch,  that  render  all  access 
Impregnable:  oft  on  the  bordering  deep  131 
Encamp    their   legions,   or   with   obscure 

wing 
Scout  far  and  wide  into  the  realm  of  Night, 
Scorning  surprise.    Or  could  we  break  our 

way 
By  force,  and  at  our  heels  all  Hell  should 

rise  135 

With  blackest  insurrection,  to  confound 
Heaven's    purest    light,    yet    our    great 

Enemy, 
All  incorruptible,  would  on  his  throne 
Sit  unpolluted,  and  the  ethereal  mould, 
Incapable  of  stain,  would  soon  expel       140 
Her  mischief,  and  purge  off  the  baser  fire, 
Victorious.    Thus  repulsed,  our  final  hope 
Is  flat  despair:  we  must  exasperate 
The   Almighty   Victor   to   spend   all   his 

rage, 
And  that  must  end  us;  that  must  be  our 

cure —  145 

To  be  no  more.    Sad  cure!  for  who  would 

lose, 
Though  full  of  pain,  this  intellectual  being, 
Those    thoughts    that    wander    through 

eternity, 
To  perish  rather,  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  the  wide  womb  of  uncreated  Night,  150 


i68 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Devoid  of  sense  and  motion?     And  who 

knows, 
Let  this  be  good,  whether  our  angry  Foe 
Can  give  it,  or  will  ever?    How  he  can 
Is  doubtful;  that  he  never  will  is  sure. 
Will  He,  so  wise,  let  loose  at  once  his  ire,i55 
Belike  through  impotence,  or  unaware, 
To  give  his  enemies  their  wish,  and  end 
Them  in  his  anger,  whom  his  anger  saves 
To  punish  endless?    'Wherefore  cease  we 

then? ' 
Say  they  who  counsel  war; '  we  are  decreed, 
Reserved,  and  destined  to  eternal  woe;  161 
Whatever  doing,  what  can  we  suffer  more, 
What  can  we  suffer  worse?'    Is  this  then 

worst, 
Thus  sitting,  thus  consulting,  thus  in  arms? 
What  when  we  fled  amain,  pursued  and 
strook  165 

With  Heaven's  afflicting  thunder,  and  be- 
sought 
The  Deep  to  shelter  us?    This  Hell  then 

seemed 
A  refuge  from  those  wounds.    Or  when  we 

lay 
Chained  on  the  burning  lake?    That  sure 

was  worse. 
What  if  the  breath  that  kindled  those  grim 
fires,  170 

Awaked,  should  blow  them  into  sevenfold 

rage, 
And  plunge  us  in  the  flames;  or  from  above 
Should  intermitted  vengeance  arm  again 
His  red  right  hand  to  plague  us?    What  if 

all 
Her  stores  were  opened,  and  this  firma- 
ment 175 
Of  Hell  should  spout  her  cataracts  of  fire, 
Impendent  horrors,   threatening  hideous 

fall 
One  day  upon  our  heads;  while  we  per- 
haps, 
Designing  or  exhorting  glorious  war, 
Caught  in  a  fiery  tempest,  shall  be  hurled, 
Each  on  his  rock  transfixed,  the  sport  and 
prey  181 

Of  racking  whirlwinds,  or  forever  sunk 
Under   yon    boiling    ocean,    wrapped    in 

chains, 
There  to  converse  with  everlasting  groans, 
Unrespited,  unpitied,  unreprieved,         185 
Ages  of   hopeless  end?     This  would  be 

worse. 
War  therefore,  open  or  concealed,  alike 


My  voice  dissuades:  for  what  can1  force  or 

guile 
With  him,  or  who  deceive  his  mind,  whose 

eye 
Views  all  things  at  one  view?     He  from 
Heaven's  highth  190 

All  these  our  motions  vain  sees  and  de- 
rides ; 
Not  more  almighty  to  resist  our  might 
Than  wise  to  frustrate  all  our  plots  and 

wiles. 
Shall  we,  then,  live  thus  vile — the  race  of 

Heaven 
Thus  trampled,  thus  expelled  to  suffer  here 
Chains  and  these  torments?    Better  these 
than  worse,  196 

By  my  advice;  since  fate  inevitable 
Subdues  us,  and  omnipotent  decree, 
The  Victor's  will.    To  suffer,  as  to  do, 
Our  strength  is  equal;  nor  the  law  unjust 
That  so  ordains:  this  was  at  first  resolved, 
If  we  were  wise,  against  so  great  a  foe     202 
Contending,  and  so  doubtful  what  might 

fall. 
I  laugh  when  those  who  at  the  spear  are 

bold 
And  venturous,  if  that  fail  them,  shrink, 
and  fear  205 

What  yet  they  know  must  follow — to  en- 
dure 
Exile,  or  ignominy,  or  bonds,  or  pain, 
The  sentence  of  their  conqueror.    This  is 

now 
Our  doom;  which  if  we  can  sustain  and 

bear, 
Our  Supreme  Foe  in  time  may  much  remit 
His  anger,  and  perhaps,  thus  far  removed, 
Not  mind  us  not  offending,  satisfied  212 
With  what  is  punished;  whence  these  rag- 
ing fires 
Will  slacken,  if  his  breath  stir  not  their 

flames. 
Our  purer  essence  then  will  overcome     215 
Their  noxious  vapor,  or,  inured,  not  feel; 
Or,  changed  at  length,  and  to  the  place 

conformed 
In  temper  and  in  nature,  will  receive 
Familiar  the  fierce  heat;  and,  void  of  pain, 
This  horror  will  grow  mild,  this  darkness 
light;  220 

Besides  what  hope  the  never-ending  flight 
Of  future  days  may  bring,  what  chance, 
what  change 

1  avail. 


MILTON 


160 


Worth  waiting, — since  our  present  lot  ap- 
pears 
For  happy  though  but  ill,  for  ill  not  worst, 
If  we  procure  not  to  ourselves  more  woe." 
Thus  Belial,  with  words  clothed  in  rea- 
son's garb,  226 
Counselled  ignoble  ease  and  peaceful  sloth, 
Not  peace;  and  after  him  thus  Mammon 
spake: — 
"Either   to   disenthrone   the   King   of 
Heaven 
We  war,  if  war  be  best,  or  to  regain        230 
Our  own  right  lost.    Him  to  unthrone  we 

then 
May  hope,  when  everlasting  Fate  shall 

yield 
To  fickle  Chance,  and  Chaos  judge  the 

strife. 
The  former,  vain  to  hope,  argues  as  vain 
The  latter;  for  what  place  can  be  for  us  235 
Within  Heaven's  bound,  unless  Heaven's 

Lord  Supreme 
We  overpower?    Suppose  he  should  relent, 
And  publish  grace  to  all,  on  promise  made 
Of  new  subjection;  with  what  eyes  could 
we  239 

Stand  in  his  presence,  humble,  and  receive 
Strict  laws  imposed,  to  celebrate  his  throne 
With  warbled  hymns,  and  to  his  Godhead 

sing 
Forced  Halleluiahs,  while  he  lordly  sits 
Our  envied  sovran,  and  his  altar  breathes 
Ambrosial  odors  and  ambrosial  flowers,  245 
Our  servile  offerings?    This  must  be  our 

task 
In  Heaven,  this  our  delight.    How  weari- 
some 
Eternity  so  spent  in  worship  paid 
To  whom  we  hate!    Let  us  not  then  pur- 
sue, 
By  force  impossible,  by  leave  obtained  250 
Unacceptable,  though  in  Heaven,  our  state 
Of  splendid  vassalage;  but  rather  seek 
Our  own  good  from  ourselves,  and  from 

our  own 
Live   to  ourselves,  though   in   this  vast 

recess, 
Free,  and  to  none  accountable,  preferring 
Hard  liberty  before  the  easy  yoke  256 

Of  servile  pomp.     Our  greatness  will  ap- 
pear 
Then  most  conspicuous,  when  great  things 

of  small, 
Useful  of  hurtful,  prosperous  of  adverse, 


We  can  create,  and  in  what  place  soe'er  260 
Thrive  under  evil,  and  work  ease  out  of 

pain 
Through  labor  and  endurance.    This  deep 

world 
Of  darkness  do  we  dread?    How  oft  amidst 
Thick  clouds  and  dark  doth  Heaven's  all- 
ruling  Sire 
Choose  to  reside,  his  glory  unobscured,  265 
And  with  the  majesty  of  darkness  round 
Covers    his    throne,    from    whence    deep 

thunders  roar, 
Mustering  their  rage,  and  Heaven  resem- 
bles Hell! 
As  he  our  darkness,  cannot  we  his  light 
Imitate  when  we  please?    This  desert  soil 
Wants  not  her  hidden  lustre,  gems  and 
gold;  271 

Nor  want  we  skill  or  art  from  whence  to 

raise 
Magnificence;  and  what  can  Heaven  show 

more? 
Our  torments  also  may,  in  length  of  time, 
Become  our  elements,  these  piercing  fires 
As  soft  as  now  severe,  our  temper  changed 
Into  their  temper;  which  must  needs  re- 
move 277 
The  sensible1  of  pain.    All  things  invite 
To  peaceful  counsels,  and  the  settled  state 
Of  order,  how  in  safety  best  we  may       280 
Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are  and  where,  dismissing  quite 
All  thoughts  of  war.    Ye  have  what  I  ad- 
vise." 
He  scarce  had  finished,  when  such  mur- 
mur filled 
The  assembly,  as  when  hollow  rocks  re- 
tain                                                    285 
The  sound  of  blustering  winds,  which  all 

night  long 
Had  roused  the  sea,  now  with  hoarse  ca- 
dence lull 
Seafaring  men  o'erwatched,  whose  bark  by 

chance, 
Or  pinnace,  anchors  in  a  craggy  bay 
After   the   tempest:    such   applause   was 
heard  290 

As    Mammon    ended,    and    his    sentence 

pleased, 
Advising  peace;  for  such  another  field 
They  dreaded  worse  than  Hell;  so  much 

the  fear 
Of  thunder  and  the  sword  of  Michael 


170 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Wrought  still  within  them;  and  no  less 

desire  295 

To  found  this  nether  empire,  which  might 

rise, 
By  policy,  and  long  process  of  time, 
In  emulation  opposite  to  Heaven. 
Which  when  Beelzebub  perceived — than 

whom, 
Satan  except,  none  higher  sat— with  grave 
Aspect  he  rose,  and  in  his  rising  seemed  301 
A  pillar  of  state.     Deep  on  his  front  en- 
graven 
Deliberation  sat  and  public  care; 
And  princely  counsel  in  his  face  yet  shone, 
Majestic,  though  in  ruin.    Sage  he  stood, 
With  Atlantean  shoulders  fit  to  bear      306 
The  weight  of  mightiest  monarchies;  his 

look 
Drew  audience  and  attention  still  as  night 
Or  summer's  noontide  air,  while  thus  he 
spake : — 
"Thrones   and   Imperial   Powers,   Off- 
spring of  Heaven,  310 
Ethereal  Virtues!  or  these  titles  now 
Must  we  renounce,  and,  changing  style, 

be  called 
Princes  of  Hell?  for  so  the  popular  vote 
Inclines — here  to  continue,  and  build  up 

here 
A  growing  empire;  doubtless!  while  we 
dream,  315 

And  know  not  that  the  King  of  Heaven 

hath  doomed 
This  place  our  dungeon — not  our  safe  re- 
treat 
Beyond  his  potent  arm,  to  live  exempt 
From  Heaven's  high  jurisdiction,  in  new 

league 
Banded    against   his   throne,  but    to  re- 
main 
In  strictest  bondage,  though  thus  far  re- 
moved, 321 
Under  the  inevitable  curb,  reserved 
His  captive  multitude.    For  he,  be  sure, 
In  highth  or  depth,  still  first  and  last  will 

reign 
Sole  king,  and  of   his   kingdom   lose  no 
part  325 

By  our  revolt,  but  over  Hell  extend 
His  empire,  and  with  iron  sceptre  rule 
Us   here,    as   with   his   golden    those    in 

Heaven. 
What  sit  we  then  projecting  peace  and 
war? 


War  hath  determined  us,1  and  foiled  with 

loss  330 

Irreparable;  terms  of  peace  yet  none 
Vouchsafed  or  sought;  for  what  peace  will 

be  given 
To  us  enslaved,  but  custody  severe, 
And  stripes,  and  arbitrary  punishment 
Inflicted?  and  what  peace  can  we  return, 
But,  to  our  power,  hostility  and  hate,     336 
Untamed  reluctance,  and  revenge,  though 

slow, 
Yet  ever  plotting  how  the  Conqueror  least 
May  reap  his  conquest,  and  may  least  re- 
joice 
In  doing  what  we  most  in  suffering  feel?  340 
Nor  will  occasion  want,  nor  shall  we  need 
With  dangerous  expedition  to  invade 
Heaven,  whose  high  walls  fear  no  assault 

or  siege, 
Or  ambush  from  the  Deep.    What  if  we 

find  344 

Some  easier  enterprise?    There  is  a  place 
(If  ancient  and  prophetic  fame  in  Heaven 
Err  not),  another  World,  the  happy  seat 
Of  some  new  race  called  Man,  about  this 

time 
To  be  created  like  to  us,  though  less     349 
In  power  and  excellence,  but  favored  more 
Of  him  who  rules  above ;  so  was  his  will 
Pronounced  among  the  gods,  and,  by  an 

oath 
That  shook  Heaven's  whole  circumference, 

confirmed. 
Thither  let  us  bend  all  our  thoughts,  to 

learn 
What   creatures   there   inhabit,   of   what 

mould  355 

Or  substance,  how  endued,  and  what  their 

power, 
And  where  their  weakness:  how  attempted 

best, 
By  force  or  subtlety.    Though  Heaven  be 

shut, 
And  Heaven's  high  Arbitrator  sit  secure 
In  his  own  strength,  this  place  may  lie  ex- 
posed, 360 
The  utmost  border  of  his  kingdom,  left 
To  their  defence  who  hold  it ;  here,  perhaps, 
Some  advantageous  act  may  be  achieved 
By  sudden  onset — either  with  Hell-fire 
To  waste  his  whole  creation,  or  possess  365 
All  as  our  own,  and  drive,  as  we  were 

driven, 

1  made  an  end  of. 


MILTON 


171 


The  puny  habitants;  or  if  not  drive, 
Seduce  them  to  our  party,  that  their  God 
May  prove  their  foe,  and  with  repenting 

hand 
Abolish  his  own  works.    This  would  sur- 
pass 370 
Common  revenge,  and  interrupt  his  joy 
In  our  confusion,  and  our  joy  upraise 
In  his  disturbance;  when  his  darling  sons, 
Hurled  headlong  to  partake  with  us,  shall 

curse 
Their  frail  original,  and  faded  bliss —    375 
Faded  so  soon!    Advise  if  this  be  worth 
Attempting,  or  to  sit  in  darkness  here 
Hatching  vain  empires."    Thus  Beelzebub 
Pleaded  his  devilish  counsel,  first  devised 
By    Satan,    and    in    part    proposed;    for 
whence,  380 

But  from  the  author  of  all  ill,  could  spring 
So  deep  a  malice,  to  confound  the  race 
Of  mankind  in  one  root,  and  Earth  with 

Hell 
To  mingle  and  involve,  done  all  to  spite 
The  great  Creator?     But  their  spite  still 
serves  385 

His  glory  to  augment.    The  bold  design 
Pleased  highly  those  Infernal  States,  and 

Sparkled  in  all  their  eyes:  with  full  assent 
They  vote:  whereat  his  speech  he  thus 

renews : — 
"Well  have  ye  judged,  well  ended  long 

debate,  3qo 

Synod  of  gods!  and,  like  to  what  ye  are, 
Great  things  resolved;   which  from   the 

lowest  deep 
Will  once  more  lift  us  up,  in  spite  of  fate, 
Nearer  our  ancient  seat — perhaps  in  view 
Of  those  bright   confines,   whence,   with 

neighboring  arms  39s 

And  opportune  excursion,  we  may  chance 
Re-enter  Heaven;  or  else  in  some  mild 

zone 
Dwell,  not  unvisited  of  Heaven's  fair  light, 
Secure,  and  at  the  brightening  orient  beam 
Purge  off  this  gloom:  the  soft  delicious  air, 
To  heal  the  scar  of  these  corrosive  fires,  401 
Shall  breathe  her  balm.    But  first,  whom 

shall  we  send 
In  search  of  this  new  world?  whom  shall 

we  find 
Sufficient?  who  shall  tempt  with  wander- 
ing feet 
The  dark,  unbottomed,  infinite  Abyss,  405 


And  through  the  palpable  obscure  find  out 
His  uncouth  way,  or  spread  his  aery  flight, 
Upborne  with  indefatigable  wings 
Over  the  vast  abrupt,  ere  he  arrive 
The  happy  isle?   What  strength,  what  art, 

can  then  410 

Suffice,  or  what  evasion  bear  him  safe 
Through  the  strict  senteries  and  stations 

thick 
Of  Angels  watching  round?    Here  he  had 

need 
All  circumspection:  and  we  now  no  less 
Choice  in  our  suffrage;  for  on  whom  we 

send,  415 

The  weight  of  all,  and  our  last  hope,  relies." 
This  said,  he  sat;  and  expectation  held 
His  look  suspense,  awaiting  who  appeared 
To  second,  or  oppose,  or  undertake 
The  perilous  attempt.  But  all  sat  mute, 
Pondering  the  danger  with  deep  thoughts; 

and  each  421 

In  other's  countenance  read  his  own  dis- 
may, 
Astonished.    None  among  the  choice  and 

prime 
Of  those  Heaven-warring  champions  could 

be  found 
So  hardy  as  to  proffer  or  accept,  425 

Alone,  the  dreadful  voyage;  till  at  last 
Satan,    whom    now    transcendent    glory 

raised 
Above  his  fellows,  with  monarchal  pride 
Conscious  of  highest  worth,  unmoved  thus 

spake : — 
"O    Progeny    of    Heaven!    Empyreal 

Thrones!  430 

With  reason  hath  deep  silence  and  demur 
Seized  us,  though  undismayed.    Long  is 

the  way 
And  hard,  that  out  of  Hell  leads  up  to 

Light. 
Our  prison  strong,  this  huge  convex  of  fire, 
Outrageous  to  devour,  immures  us  round 
Ninefold;  and  gates  of  burning  adamant, 
Barred  over  us,  prohibit  all  egress.        437 
These  passed,  if  any  pass,  the  void  pro- 
found 
Of  unessential1  Night  receives  him  next, 
Wide-gaping,  and  with  utter  loss  of  being 
Threatens  him,  plunged  in  that  abortive 

gulf.  441 

If  thence  he  scape  into  whatever  world 
Or  unknown  region,  what  remains  him  less 

1  devoid  of  being,  or  essence. 


172 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Than  unknown  dangers  and  as  hard  es- 
cape? 
But  I  should  ill  become  this  throne,  O 

Peers,  445 

And  this  imperial  sovranty,  adorned 
With    splendor,    armed    with    power,    if 

aught  proposed 
And  judged  of  public  moment,  in  the  shape 
Of  difficulty  or  danger,  could  deter 
Me  from   attempting.     Wherefore  do   I 

assume  45° 

These  royalties,  and  not  refuse  to  reign, 
Refusing  to  accept  as  great  a  share 
Of  hazard  as  of  honor,  due  alike 
To  him  who  reigns,  and  so  much  to  him 

due 
Of  hazard  more,  as  he  above  the  rest     455 
High  honored  sits?    Go  therefore,  mighty 

Powers, 
Terror  of  Heaven,  though  fallen;  intend  at 

home, 
While  here  shall  be  our  home,  what  best 

may  ease 
The  present  misery,  and  render  Hell 
More  tolerable;  if  there  be  cure  or  charm 
To  respite,  or  deceive,  or  slack  the  pain  461 
Of  this  ill  mansion;  intermit  no  watch 
Against  a  wakeful  foe,  while  I  abroad 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  dark  destruction 

seek 
Deliverance  for  us  all.    This  enterprise  465 
None  shall  partake  with  me."    Thus  say- 
ing, rose 
The  Monarch,  and  prevented  all  reply; 
Prudent,  lest,  from  his  resolution  raised,1 
Others  among  the  chief  might  offer  now, 
Certain   to   be   refused,   what   erst   they 

feared,  470 

And,  so  refused,  might  in  opinion  stand 
His  rivals,  winning  cheap  the  high  repute 
Which  he  through  hazard  huge  must  earn. 

But  they 
Dreaded  not  more  the  adventure  than  his 

voice 
Forbidding;  and  at  once  with  him  they 

rose.  475 

Their  rising  all  at  once  was  as  the  sound 
Of  thunder  heard  remote.    Towards  him 

they  bend 
With  awful  reverence  prone,  and  as  a  god 
Extol  him  equal  to  the  Highest  in  Heaven. 
Nor  failed  they  to  express  how  much  they 

praised  480 

1  encouraged  by  his  resolution. 


That  for  the  general  safety  he  despised 
His  own;  for  neither  do  the  Spirits  damned 
Lose  all  their  virtue, — lest  bad  men  should 

boast 
Their  specious  deeds  on  Earth,  which  glory 

excites, 
Or  close  ambition  varnished  o'er  with  zeal. 
Thus  they  their  doubtful  consultations 

dark  486 

Ended,  rejoicing  in  their  matchless  Chief: 
As  when  from  mountain-tops  the  dusky 

clouds 
Ascending,  while  the  North-wind  sleeps, 

o'erspread 
Heaven's  cheerful  face,   the  louring  ele- 
ment 490 
Scowls  o'er  the  darkened  landskip  snow  or 

shower, 
If  chance  the  radiant  sun  with  farewell 

sweet 
Extend  his  evening  beam,  the  fields  revive, 
The  birds  their  notes  renew,  and  bleating 

herds  494 

Attest  their  joy,  that  hill  and  valley  rings. 
O  shame  to  men !    Devil  with  devil  damned 
Firm  concord  holds;  men  only  disagree 
Of  creatures  rational,  though  under  hope 
Of  heavenly  grace;  and,  God  proclaiming     , 

peace, 
Yet  live  in  hatred,  enmity,  and  strife     500 
Among  themselves,  and  levy  cruel  wars, 
Wasting  the  earth,  each  other  to  destroy: 
As  if  (which  might  induce  us  to  accord) 
Man  had  not  hellish  foes  enow  besides, 
That  day  and  night  for  his  destruction 

wait!  505 

The  Stygian  council  thus  dissolved;  and 

forth 
In  order  came  the  grand  Infernal  Peers: 
Midst  came  their  mighty  Paramount,  and 

seemed 
Alone  the  antagonist  of  Heaven,  nor  less 
Than  Hell's  dread  Emperor,  with  pomp 

supreme,  510 

And  god-like  imitated  state;  him  round 
A  globe  of  fiery  Seraphim  enclosed 
With    bright    emblazonry    and    horrent2 

arms. 
Then  of  their  session  ended  they  bid  cry 
With    trumpet's    regal    sound    the   great 

result :  515 

Toward    the    four    winds    four    speedy 

Cherubim 

•  bristling. 


MILTON 


173 


Put  to  their  mouths  the  sounding  alchymy,1 
By  harald's  voice  explained;  the  hollow 

Abyss 
Heard  far  and  wide,  and  all  the  host  of  Hell 
With  deafening  shout  returned  them  loud 

acclaim.  520 

Thence   more  at   ease  their  minds,   and 

somewhat  raised 
By  false  presumptuous  hope,  the  ranged 

Powers 
Disband;  and,  wandering,  each  his  several 

way  , 
Pursues,  as  inclination  or  sad  choice 
Leads  him  perplexed,  where  he  may  like- 
liest find  525 
Truce  to  his  restless  thoughts,  and  enter- 
tain 
The  irksome  hours,  till  his  great   Chief 

return. 
Part  on  the  plain,  or  in  the  air  sublime,2 
Upon  the  wing  or  in  swift  race  contend, 
As  at  the  Olympian  games  or  Pythian 

fields;  530 

Part  curb  their  fiery  steeds,  or  shun  the 

goal 
With   rapid   wheels,    or   fronted   brigads 

form: 
As  when,  to  warn  proud  cities,  war  appears 
Waged  in  the  troubled  sky,  and  armies  rush 
To  battle  in  the  clouds;  before  each  van 
Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch 

their  spears,  536 

Till  thickest  legions  close;  with  feats  of 

arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin 

burns. 
Others,  with  vast  Typhcean  rage,  more 

fell, 
Rend  up  both  rocks  and  hills,  and  ride  the 

air  540 

In  whirlwind;  Hell  scarce  holds  the  wild 

uproar: 
As  when  Alcides,  from  (Echalia  crowned 
With  conquest,  felt  the  envenomed  robe, 

and  tore 
Through  pain  up  by  the  roots  Thessalian 

pines, 
And  Lichas  from  the  top  of  (Eta  threw  545 
Into  the  Euboic  sea.    Others,  more  mild, 
Retreated  in  a  silent  valley,  sing 
With  notes  angelical  to  many  a  harp 
Their  own  heroic  deeds,  and  hapless  fall 
By  doom  of  battle,  and  complain  that  Fate 

1  trumpet.  2  raised. 


Free  Virtue  should  enthrall  to  Force  or 

Chance.  551 

Their  song  was  partial,  but  the  harmony 
(What  could  it  less  when  Spirits  immortal 

sing?) 
Suspended   Hell,  and   took  with  ravish- 
ment 
The    thronging   audience.      In    discourse 

more  sweet  555 

(For  eloquence  the  soul,  song  charms  the 

sense) 
Others  apart  sat  on  a  hill  retired, 
In  thoughts  more  elevate,  and  reasoned 

high 
Of  providence,  foreknowledge,  will,  and 

fate, 
Fixed  fate,  free  will,  foreknowledge  ab- 
solute, 560 
And  found  no  end,  in  wandering  mazes 

lost. 
Of  good  and  evil  much  they  argued  then, 
Of  happiness  and  final  misery, 
Passion  and  apathy,  and  glory  and  shame : 
Vain  wisdom  all,  and  false  philosophy! — 
Yet  with  a  pleasing  sorcery  could  charm 
Pain  for  a  while  or  anguish,  and  excite  567 
Fallacious   hope,    or    arm    the    obdured3 

breast 
With  stubborn  patience  as  with  triple  steel. 
Another    part,    in    squadrons    and   gross 

bands,  570 

On  bold  adventure  to  discover  wide 
That  dismal  world,  if  any  clime  perhaps 
Might  yield  them  easier  habitation,  bend 
Four  ways  their  flying  march,  along  the 

banks 
Of  four  infernal  rivers,  that  disgorge      575 
Into  the  burning  lake  their  baleful  streams : 
Abhorred  Styx,  the  flood  of  deadly  hate; 
Sad  Acheron,  of  sorrow,  black  and  deep; 
Cocytus,  named  of  lamentation  loud 
Heard     on     the     rueful     stream;     fierce 

Phlegeton,  580 

Whose  waves  of  torrent  fire  inflame  with 

rage. 
Far  off  from  these  a  slow  and  silent  stream, 
Lethe,  the  river  of  oblivion,  rolls 
Her  watery  labyrinth,  whereof  who  drinks 
Forthwith    his    former    state    and    being 

forgets,  585 

Forgets  both  joy  and  grief,  pleasure  and 

pain. 
Beyond  this  flood  a  frozen  continent 

3  obdurate. 


i74 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Lies  dark  and  wild,  beat  with  perpetual 

storms 
Of  whirlwind  and  dire  hail,  which  on  firm 

land 
Thaws  not,  but  gathers  heap,  and  ruin 

seems  590 

Of  ancient  pile;  all  else  deep  snow  and  ice, 
A  gulf  profound  as  that  Serbonian  bog 
Betwixt  Damiata  and  Mount  Casius  old, 
Where  armies  whole  have  sunk:  the  parch- 
ing air 
Burns  frore,1  and  cold  performs  the  effect 

of  fire.  595 

Thither,  by  harpy-footed  Furies  haled, 
At  certain  revolutions  all  the  damned 
Are  brought;  and  feel  by  turns  the  bitter 

change 
Of  fierce  extremes,   extremes  by  change 

more  fierce, 
From  beds  of  raging  fire  to  starve2  in  ice 
Their  soft  ethereal  warmth,  and  there  to 

pine  601 

Immovable,  infixed,  and  frozen  round 
Periods  of  time, — thence  hurried  back  to 

fire. 
They  ferry  over  this  Lethean  sound 
Both  to  and  fro,  their  sorrow  to  augment, 
And  wish  and  struggle,  as  they  pass,  to 

reach  606 

The  tempting  stream,  with  one  small  drop 

to  lose 
In  sweet  forgetfulness  all  pain  and  woe, 
All  in  one  moment,  and  so  near  the  brink ; 
But  Fate  withstands,  and,  to  oppose  the 

attempt  610 

Medusa  with  Gorgonian  terror  guards 
The  ford,  and  of  itself  the  water  flies 
All  taste  of  living  wight,  as  once  it  fled 
The  lip  of  Tantalus.    Thus  roving  on 
In  confused  march  forlorn,  the  adventur- 
ous bands,  615 
With   shuddering  horror  pale,   and  eyes 

aghast, 
Viewed   first    their    lamentable   lot,    and 

found 
No  rest.    Through  many  a  dark  and  dreary 

vale 
They  passed,  and  many  a  region  dolorous, 
O'er  many  a  frozen,  many  a  fiery  Alp,    620 
Rocks,  caves,  lakes,  fens,  bogs,  dens,  and 

shades  of  death — 
A  universe  of  death,  which  God  by  curse 
Created  evil,  for  evil  only  good; 


1  frozen. 


2  extinguish- 


Where  all  life  dies,  death  lives,  and  Nature 

breeds, 
Perverse,    all    monstrous,    all    prodigious 

things,  625 

Abominable,  inutterable,  and  worse 
Than  fables  yet  have  feigned,  or  fear  con- 
ceived, 
Gorgons,    and    Hydras,    and    Chinueras 

dire. 
Meanwhile  the  Adversary  of  God  and 

Man, 
Satan,  with  thoughts  inflamed  of  highest 

design,  630 

Puts  on  swift  wings,  and  toward  the  gates 

of  Hell 
Explores  his  solitary  flight:  sometimes 
He  scours  the  right  hand  coast,  sometimes 

the  left; 
Now  shaves  with  level  wing  the  deep,  then 

soars 
Up  to  the  fiery  concave  towering  high.  635 
As  when  far  off  at  sea  a  fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  isles 
Of  Ternate  and  Tidore,  whence  merchants 

bring 
Their  spicy  drugs;  they  on  the  trading 

flood,  640 

Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape, 
Ply  stemming  nightly  toward  the  pole:  so 

seemed 
Far  off  the  flying  Fiend.    At  last  appear 
Hell-bounds,  high  reaching  to  the  horrid 

roof, 
And  thrice  threefold  the  gates;  three  folds 

were  brass,  645 

Three  iron,  three  of  adamantine  rock 
Impenetrable,  impaled  with  circling  fire, 
Yet  unconsumed.    Before  the  gates  there 

sat 
On  either  side  a  formidable  Shape. 
The  one  seemed  woman  to  the  waist,  and 

fair,  650 

But  ended  foul  in  many  a  scaly  fold, 
Voluminous  and  vast — a  serpent  armed 
With   mortal   sting.     About   her  middle 

round 

A  cry  of  Hell-hounds  never-ceasing  barked 

With  wide  Cerberean  mouths  full  loud, 

_  and  rung  655 

A  hideous  peal;  yet,  when  they  list,  would 

creep, 
If  aught  disturbed  their  noise,  into  her 

womb, 


MILTON 


175 


And  kennel  there;  yet  there  still  barked 

and  howled 
Within  unseen.     Far  less  abhorred  than 

these  659 

Vexed  Scylla,  bathing  in  the  sea  that  parts 
Calabria  from  the  hoarse  Trinacrian  shore ; 
Nor  uglier  follow   the  night-hag,   when, 

called 
In    secret,    riding    through    the    air    she 

comes, 
Lured  with  the  smell  of  infant  blood,  to 

dance 
With  Lapland  witches,  while  the  laboring 

moon  665 

Eclipses    at    their    charms.      The    other 

Shape — 
If  shape  it  might  be  called  that  shape  had 

none 
Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb; 
Or  substance  might  be  called  that  shadow 

seemed, 
For  each  seemed  either — black  it  stood  as 

Night,  670 

Fierce  as  ten  Furies,  terrible  as  Hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart;  what  seemed 

his  head 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand,  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast, 
With  horrid  strides;  Hell  trembled  as  he 

strode.  676 

The  undaunted  Fiend  what  this  might  be 

admired1 — 
Admired,  not  feared — God  and  his  Son 

except, 
Created    thing    naught    valued    he    nor 

shunned — 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began : 
"Whence  and  what  art  thou,  execrable 

Shape,  681 

That   dar'st,   though  grim   and   terrible, 

advance 
Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates?    Through  them  I  mean 

to  pass, 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  asked  of 

thee.  685 

Retire;  or  taste  thy  folly,  and  learn  by 

proof, 
Hell-born,  not  to  contend  with  Spirits  of 

Heaven." 
To  whom  the  Goblin,  full  of  wrath,  re- 
plied:— 

1  wondered. 


"Art  thou  that  Traitor- Angel,  art  thou  he 
Who  first  broke  peace  in  Heaven  and  faith, 

till  then  690 

Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 
Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  Heaven's 

sons, 
Conjured  against  the  Highest,  for  which 

both  thou 
And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  con- 
demned 
To  waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain?  695 
And  recon'st  thou  thyself  with  Spirits  of 

Heaven, 
Hell-doomed,  and  breath 'st  defiance  here 

and  scorn, 
Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee 

more, 
Thy  king  and  lord?    Back  to  thy  punish- 
ment, 
False  fugitive,  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings, 
Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue    701 
Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this 

dart 
Strange  horror  seize  thee,  and  pangs  un- 

felt  before." 
So  spake  the  grisly  Terror,  and  in  shape, 
So  speaking  and  so  threatening,  grew  ten- 
fold 705 
More  dreadful  and  deform.    On  the  other 

side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus  huge 
In  the  arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid 

hair  710 

Shakes  pestilence  and  war.     Each  at  the 

head 
Levelled  his  deadly  aim;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other  as  when  two  black 

clouds, 
With   Heaven's    artillery   fraught,    come 

rattling  on  715 

Over  the  Caspian — then  stand  front  to 

front 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 
To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid-air. 
So  frowned  the  mighty  combatants  that 

Hell 
Grew  darker  at  their  frown;  so  matched 

they  stood;  720 

For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 
To  meet  so  great  a  foe.    And  now  great 

deeds 


176 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Had  been  achieved,  whereof  all  Hell  had 

rung, 
Had  not  the  snaky  Sorceress  that  sat   724 
Fast  by  Hell-gate  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 
Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rushed  be- 
tween. 
"0  father,  what  intends  thy  hand,"  she 

cried, 
' '  Against  thy  only  son  ?    What  fury ,  O  son , 
Possesses  thee  to  bend  that  mortal  dart 
Against  thy  father's  head?  and  know'st  for 

whom?  730 

For  him  who  sits  above,  and  laughs  the 

while 
At  thee,  ordained  his  drudge  to  execute 
Whate'er  his  wrath,  which  he  calls  justice, 

bids — 
His  wrath,  which  one  day  will  destroy  ye 

both!" 
She  spake,  and  at  her  words  the  hellish 

Pest  735 

Forbore:  then  these  to  her  Satan  returned: 

"So  strange  thy  outcry,  and  thy  words 

so  strange 
Thou  interposest,  that  my  sudden  hand, 
Prevented,  spares  to  tell  thee  yet  by  deeds 
What  it  intends,  till  first  I  know  of  thee  740 
What  thing  thou  art,  thus  double- formed, 

and  why, 
In  this  infernal  vale  first  met,  thou  call'st 
Me  father,  and  that  phantasm  call'st  my 

son. 
I  know  thee  not,  nor  ever  saw  till  now 
Sight  more  detestable  than  him  and  thee." 
To  whom  thus  the  Portress  of  Hell-gate 

replied : —  746 

"Hast  thou  forgot  me,  then,  and  do  I  seem 
Now  in  thine  eye  so  foul?  once  deemed  so 

fair 
In  Heaven,  when  at  the  assembly,  and  in 

sight 
Of  all  the  Seraphim  with  thee  combined  750 
In  bold  conspiracy  against  Heaven's  King, 
All  on  a  sudden  miserable  pain 
Surprised  thee;  dim  thine  eyes,  and  dizzy 

swum 
In  darkness,  while  thy  head  flames  thick 

and  fast 
Threw  forth,  till  on  the  left  side  opening 

wide,  755 

Likest  to  thee  in  shape  and  countenance 

bright, 
Then   shining   heavenly   fair,    a   goddess 

armed, 


Out  of  thy  head  I  sprung.     Amazement 

seized 
All  the  host  of  Heaven:  back  they  recoiled 

afraid  759 

At  first,  and  called  me  Sin,  and  for  a  sign 
Portentous  held  me;  but,  familiar  grown, 
I  pleased,  and  with  attractive  graces  won 
The  most  averse;  thee  chiefly,  who  full  oft 
Thyself  in  me  thy  perfect  image  viewing 
Becam'st  enamored;  and   such  joy  thou 

took'st  765 

With  me  in  secret,  that  my  womb  con- 
ceived 
A  growing  burden.    Meanwhile  war  arose, 
And  fields  were  fought  in  Heaven;  wherein 

remained 
(For  what  could  else?)  to  our  Almighty 

Foe 
Clear  victory;  to  our  part  loss  and  rout  770 
Through  all  the  Empyrean.     Down  they 

fell, 
Driven  headlong  from  the  pitch  of  Heaven, 

down 
Into  this  deep;  and  in  the  general  fall 
I  also :  at  which  time  this  powerful  key 
Into  my  bands  was  given,  with  charge  to 

keep  775 

These  gates  forever  shut,  which  none  can 

pass 
Without  my  opening.    Pensive  here  I  sat 
Alone;  but  long  I  sat  not,  till  my  womb, 
Pregnant    by    thee,    and    now    excessive 

grown, 
Prodigious  motion  felt  and  rueful  throes. 
At  last  this  odious  offspring  whom  thou 

seest,  781 

Thine  own  begotten,  breaking  violent  way, 
Tore  through  my  entrails,  that,  with  fear, 

and  pain 
Distorted,  all  my  nether  shape  thus  grew 
Transformed;  but  he,  my  inbred  enemy, 
Forth  issued,  brandishing  his  fatal  dart, 
Made  to  destroy.     I  fled,  and  cried  out 

Death!  787 

Hell  trembled  at  the  hideous  name,  and 

sighed 
From  all  her  caves,  and  back  resounded 

Death! 
I  fled;  but  he  pursued  (though  more,  it 

seems,  790 

Inflamed  with  lust  than  rage)  and,  swifter 

far, 
Me  overtook,  his  mother,  all  dismayed, 
And,  in  embraces  forcible  and  foul 


MILTON 


177 


Engendering  with  me,  of  that  rape  begot 
These  yelling  monsters,  that  with  ceaseless 
cry  795 

Surround  me,  as  thou  saw'st,  hourly  con- 
ceived 
And  hourly  born,  with  sorrow  infinite 
To  me:  for,  when  they  list,  into  the  womb 
That  bred  them  they  return,  and  howl, 

and  gnaw 
My  bowels,  their  repast;  then,  bursting 
forth  800 

Afresh,   with   conscious    terrors   vex   me 

round, 
That  rest  or  intermission  none  I  find. 
Before  mine  eyes  in  opposition  sits 
Grim  Death,  my  son  and  foe,  who  sets 

them  on, 
And  me,  his  parent,  would  full  soon  devour 
For  want  of  other  prey,  but  that  he  knows 
His  end  with  mine  involved,  and  knows 
that  I  807 

Should  prove  a  bitter  morsel,  and  his  bane, 
Whenever   that   shall   be:   so   Fate   pro- 
nounced. 
But  thou,  O  father,  I  forewarn  thee,  shun 
His  deadly  arrow;  neither  vainly  hope   811 
To  be  invulnerable  in  those  bright  arms, 
Though  tempered  heavenly;  for  that  mor- 
tal dint, 
Save  he  who  reigns  above,  none  can  re- 
sist." 
She  finished;  and  the  subtle  Fiend  his 
lore  815 

Soon  learned,  now  milder,  and  thus  an- 
swered smooth: — 
"  Dear  daughter — since  thou  claim'st  me 
for  thy  sire, 
And  my  fair  son  here  show'st  me,  the  dear 

pledge 
Of  dalliance  had  with  thee  in  Heaven,  and 

joys 
Then  sweet,  now  sad  to  mention,  through 
dire  change  820 

Befallen  us  unforeseen,   unthought   of — 

know, 
I  come  no  enemy,  but  to  set  free 
From  out  this  dark  and  dismal  house  of 

pain 
Both  him  and  thee,  and  all  the  Heavenly 

host 
Of   Spirits    that,    in   our   just   pretences 
armed,  825 

Fell  with  us  from  on  high.    From  them  I  go 
This  uncouth  errand  sole,  and  one  for  all 


Myself  expose,  with  lonely  steps  to  tread 
The  unfounded  Deep,  and  through  the 

void  immense 
To  search  with  wandering  quest  a  place 
foretold  830 

Should  be — -and  by  concurring  signs,  ere 

now 
Created  vast  and  round — a  place  of  bliss 
In  the  purlieus  of  Heaven;  and  therein 

placed 
A  race  of  upstart  creatures,  to  supply 
Perhaps  our  vacant  room,  though  more 
removed,  835 

Lest  Heaven,  surcharged  with  potent  mul- 
titude, 
Might  hap  to  move  new  broils.    Be  this, 

or  aught 
Than  this  more  secret,  now  designed,  I 

haste 
To  know;  and,  this  once  known,  shall  soon 

return, 
And  bring  ye  to  the  place  where  thou  and 
Death  840 

Shall  dwell  at  ease,  and  up  and  down  un- 
seen 
Wing  silently  the  buxom1  air,  embalmed 
With  odors:  there  ye  shall  be  fed  and  filled 
Immeasurably;  all  things  shall  be  your 
prey." 
He    ceased;    for    both    seemed    highly 
pleased,  and  Death  845 

Grinned  horrible  a  ghastly  smile,  to  hear 
His  famine  should  be  filled,  and  blessed  his 

maw 
Destined  to  that  good  hour.    No  less  re- 
joiced 
His  mother  bad,  and  thus  bespake  her 
sire : — 
"The  key  of  this  infernal  pit,  by  due  850 
And  by  command  of  Heaven's  all-powerful 

King, 
I  keep,  by  him  forbidden  to  unlock 
These  adamantine  gates;  against  all  force 
Death  ready  stands  to  interpose  his  dart, 
Fearless    to    be    o'errhatched    by    living 
might.  855 

But  what  owe  I  to  his  commands  above, 
Who  hates  me,  and  hath  hither  thrust  me 

down 
Into  this  gloom  of  Tartarus  profound, 
To  sit  in  hateful  office  here  confined, 
Inhabitant    of    Heaven    and    Heavenly- 
born, —  860 

'yielding,  obedient. 


i78 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Here  in  perpetual  agony  and  pain, 

With  terrors  and  with  clamors  compassed 

round 
Of  mine  own  brood,  that  on  my  bowels 

feed? 
Thou  art  my  father,  thou  my  author,  thou 
My  being  gav'st  me;  whom  should  I  obey 
But  thee?  whom  follow?  Thou  wilt  bring 

me  soon  866 

To  that  new  world  of  light  and  bliss,  among 
The  gods  who  live  at  ease,  where  I  shall 

reign 
At  thy  right  hand  voluptuous,  as  beseems 
Thy  daughter  and  thy  darling,  without 

end."  870 

Thus  saying,  from  her  side  the  fatal  key, 
Sad  instrument  of  all  our  woe,  she  took; 
And,  towards  the  gate  rolling  her  bestial 

train, 
Forthwith  the  huge  portcullis  high  up- 

drew, 
Which  but   herself   not   all   the   Stygian 

Powers  875 

Could  once  have  moved;  then  in  the  key- 
hole turns 
The  intricate  wards,  and  every  bolt  and 

bar 
Of  massy  iron  or  solid  rock  with  ease 
Unfastens.    On  a  sudden  open  fly, 
With  impetuous  recoil  and  jarring  sound, 
The  infernal  doors,  and  on  their  hinges 

grate  881 

Harsh  thunder,  that  the  lowest  bottom 

shook 
Of  Erebus.    She  opened ;  but  to  shut 
Excelled  her  power:  the  gates  wide  open 

stood, 
That   with   extended   wings   a   bannered 

host,  88S 

Under   spread    ensigns   marching,   might 

pass  through 
With  horse  and  chariots  ranked  in  loose 

array; 
So  wide  they  stood,  and  like  a  furnace- 
mouth 
Cast  forth  redounding  smoke  and  ruddy 

flame. 
Before  their  eyes  in  sudden  view  appear 
The  secrets  of  the  hoary  Deep,  a  dark    891 
Illimitable  ocean,  without  bound, 
Without  dimension;  where  length, breadth, 

and  highth, 
And  time,  and  place,  are  lost;  where  eldest 

Night 


And  Chaos,  ancestors  of  Nature,  hold    895 
Eternal  anarchy,  amidst  the  noise 
Of  endless  wars,  and  by  confusion  stand. 
For   Hot,    Cold,    Moist,   and    Dry,    four 

champions  fierce, 
Strive  here  for  mastery,  and  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryon  atoms;  they  around  the 

flag  9°o 

Of  each  his  faction,  in  their  several  clans, 
Light-armed    or    heavy,    sharp,    smooth, 

swift,  or  slow, 
Swarm  populous,  unnumbered  as  the  sands 
Of  Barca  or  Cyrene's  torrid  soil, 
Levied  to  side  with  wrarring  winds,  and 

poise  9°S 

Their  lighter  wings.    To  whom  these  most 

adhere, 
He  rules  a  moment;  Chaos  umpire  sits, 
And  by  decision  more  embroils  the  fray 
By  which  he  reigns;  next  him,  high  arbiter, 
Chance  governs  all.    Into  this  wild  Abyss, 
The  womb  of  Nature,  and  perhaps  her 

grave,  911 

Of  neither  sea,  nor  shore,  nor  air,  nor  fire, 
But   all   these  in  their  pregnant   causes 

mixed 
Confusedly,   and  which  thus  must  ever 

fight,  914 

Unless  the  Almighty  Maker  them  ordain 
His  dark  materials  to  create  more  worlds — 
Into  this  wild  Abyss  the  wary  Fiend 
Stood  on  the  brink  of  Hell  and  looked 

awhile, 
Pondering  his  voyage;  for  no  narrow  frith 
He  had  to  cross.     Nor  was  his  ear  less 

pealed  920 

With  noises  loud  and  ruinous  (to  compare 
Great  things  with  small)  than  when  Bel- 

lona  storms 
With  all  her  battering  engines,  bent  to 

rase 
Some  capital  city;  or  less  than  if  this  frame 
Of  Heaven  were  falling,  and  these  elements 
In  mutiny  had  from  her  axle  torn  926 

The  steadfast  Earth.     At  last  his  sail- 
broad  vans 
He  spreads  for  flight,  and,  in  the  surging 

smoke 
Uplifted,  spurns  the  ground;  thence  many 

a  league, 
As  in  a  cloudy  chair,  ascending  rides      930 
Audacious;   but,   that   seat   soon   failing, 

meets 
A  vast  vacuity.    All  unawares, 


MILTON 


179 


Fluttering  his  pennons  vain,  plumb-down 

he  drops 
Ten  thousand  fathom  deep,  and  to  this 

hour 
Down  had  been  falling,  had  not,  by  ill 

chance,  935 

The   strong   rebuff   of   some   tumultuous 

cloud, 
Instinct  with  fire  and  nitre,  hurried  him 
As  many  miles  aloft.    That  fury  stayed — 
Quenched    in    a    boggy    Syrtis,1    neither 

sea 
Nor  good  dry  land — nigh  foundered,  on 

he  fares,  940 

Treading  the  crude  consistence,  half  on 

foot, 
Half  flying;  behoves  him  now  both  oar 

and  sail. 
As  when  a  gryphon  through  the  wilderness 
With  winged  course,  o'er  hill   or  moory 

dale, 
Pursues  the  Arimaspian,  who  by  stealth  945 
Had  from  his  wakeful  custody  purloined 
The  guarded  gold:  so  eagerly  the  Fiend 
O'er  bog  or  steep,  through  strait,  rough, 

dense,  or  rare, 
With  head,  hands,  wings,  or  feet,  pursues 

his  way, 
And  swims,  or  sinks,  or  wades,  or  creeps, 

or  flies.  950 

At  length  a  universal  hubbub  wild 
Of  stunning  sounds  and  voices  all  confused, 
Borne  through  the  hollow  dark,  assaults 

his  ear 
With  loudest  vehemence.    Thither  he  plies 
Undaunted,     to    meet     there    whatever 

Power  955 

Or  Spirit  of  the  nethermost  Abyss 
Might  in  that  noise  reside,  of  whom  to 

ask 
Which  way  the  nearest  coast  of  darkness 

lies 
Bordering  on  light;  when  straight  behold 

the  throne 
Of  Chaos,  and  his  dark  pavilion  spread  960 
Wide  on  the  wasteful  Deep!     With  him 

enthroned 
Sat  sable- vested  Night,  eldest  of  things, 
The  consort  of  his  reign ;  and  by  them  stood 
Orcus  and  Ades,  and  the  dreaded  name 
Of  Demogorgon ;  Rumor  next,  and  Chance, 
And    Tumult,    and    Confusion,    all    em- 
broiled, 966 

'quicksand. 


And    Discord  'with   a    thousand    various 
mouths. 
To  whom  Satan,  turning  boldly,  thus: — 
"Ye  Powers 
And  Spirits  of  this  nethermost  Abyss, 
Chaos  and  ancient  Night,  I  come  no  spy, 
With  purpose  to  explore  or  to  disturb    971 
The  secrets  of  your  realm;  but,  by  con- 
straint 
Wandering  this  darksome  desert,  as  my 

way 
Lies  through  your  spacious  empire  up  to 

light, 
Alone  and  without  guide,  half  lost,  I  seek 
What    readiest    path    leads    where    your 
gloomy  bounds  976 

Confine2  with  Heaven;  or  if  some  other 

place, 
From  your  dominion  won,  the  Ethereal 

King 
Possesses  lately,  thither  to  arrive 
I  travel  this  profound.    Direct  my  course: 
Directed,  no  mean  recompense  it  brings 
To  your  behoof,  if  I  that  region  lost,      982 
All  usurpation  thence  expelled,  reduce 
To  her  original  darkness  and  your  sway 
(Which  is  my  present  journey),  and  once 
more  985 

Erect  the  standard  there  of  ancient  Night. 
Yours  be  the  advantage  all,  mine  the  re- 
venge!" 
Thus  Satan;  and  him  thus  the  Anarch 
old, 
With  faltering  speech  and  visage  incom- 

posed, 
Answered: — "I  know  thee,  stranger,  who 
thou  art:  990 

That  mighty  leading  Angel,  who  of  late 
Made  head  against  Heaven's  King,  though 

overthrown. 
I  saw  and  heard ;  for  such  a  numerous  host 
Fled  not  in  silence  through  the  frighted 

Deep, 
With  ruin  upon  ruin,  rout  on  rout,  995 

Confusion  worse  confounded ;  and  Heaven- 
gates 
Poured   out   by   millions    her   victorious 

bands, 
Pursuing.    I  upon  my  frontiers  here 
Keep  residence;  if  all  I  can  will  serve 
That  little  which  is  left  so  to  defend,     1000 
Encroached  on  still  through  our  intestine 
broils, 

2  are  contiguous  to. 


i  So 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


Weakening  the  sceptre  of  old  Night:  first, 

Hell, 
Your  dungeon,  stretching  far  and  wide 

beneath; 
Now  lately  Heaven  and  Earth,  another 

world 
Hung  o'er  my  realm,  linked  in  a  golden 

chain  1005 

To  that  side  Heaven  from  whence  your 

legions  fell! 
If  that  way  be  your  walk,  you  have  not 

far; 
So  much   the  nearer  danger.     Go,  and 

speed ! 
Havoc,  and  spoil,  and  ruin,  are  my  gain." 
He  ceased;  and  Satan  stayed  not  to 

reply,  1010 

But,  glad  that  now  his  sea  should  find  a 

shore, 
With  fresh  alacrity  and  force  renewed 
Springs  upward,  like  a  pyramid  of  fire, 
Into  the  wild  expanse,  and  through  the 

shock 
Of  fighting  elements,  on  all  sides  round 
Environed,  wins  his  way;  harder  beset  1016 
And  more  endangered,  than  when  Argo 

passed 
Through   Bosporus  betwixt   the  justling 

rocks; 
Or  when  Ulysses  on  the  larboard  shunned 
Charybdis,   and  by  the  other  whirlpool 

steered:  1020 

So  he  with  difficulty  and  labor  hard 
Moved  on.    With  difficulty  and  labor  he; 
But,  he  once  passed,  soon  after,  when  Man 

fell, 
Strange  alteration!    Sin  and  Death  amain 
Following  his  track  (such  was  the  will  of 

Heaven)  1025 

Paved  after  him  a  broad  and  beaten  way 
Over  the  dark  Abyss,  whose  boiling  gulf 
Tamely   endured  a  bridge  of   wondrous 

length, 
From  Hell  continued,  reaching  the  utmost 

orb 
Of  this  frail  World;  by  which  the  Spirits 

perverse  1030 

With  easy  intercourse  pass  to  and  fro 
To  tempt  or  punish  mortals,  except  whom 
God  and  good  Angels  guard  by  special 

grace. 
But  now  at  last  the  sacred  influence 
Of  light  appears,  and  from  the  walls  of 

Heaven  1035 


Shoots  far  into  the  bosom  of  dim  Night 
A  glimmering  dawn.     Here  Nature  first 

begins 
Her  farthest  verge,  and  Chaos  to  retire, 
As  from  her  outmost  works,  a  broken  foe, 
With  tumult  less  and   with  less  hostile 
din;  1040 

That  Satan  with  less  toil,  and  now  with 

ease, 
Wafts  on  the  calmer  wave  by  dubious 

light, 
And,  like  a  weather-beaten  vessel,  holds 
Gladly  the  port,  though  shrouds  and  tackle 
torn;  1044 

Or  in  the  emptier  waste,  resembling  air, 
Weighs  his  spread  wings,  at  leisure  to  be- 
hold 
Far  off  the  empyreal  Heaven,  extended 

wide 
In  circuit,  undetermined  square  or  round, 
With     opal     towers,     and     battlements 
adorned  1 049 

Of  living  sapphire,  once  his  native  seat; 
And  fast  by,  hanging  in  a  golden  chain, 
This  pendent  World,  in  bigness  as  a  star 
Of  smallest  magnitude  close  by  the  moon. 
Thither,  full  fraught  with  mischievous  re- 
venge, 
Accurst,  and  in  a  cursed  hour,  he  hies.  1055 

From  BOOK  XII 

THE   EXPULSION   FROM  PARADISE 

He  ended,  and  they  both  descend  the 

hill.  604 

Descended,  Adam  to  the  bower  where  Eve 

Lay  sleeping  ran  before,  but  found  her 

waked ; 
And  thus  with  words  not  sad  she  him  re- 
ceived : — 
"Whence  thou   return'st   and   whither 
went'st  I  know;  610 

For  God  is  also  in  sleep,  and  dreams  advise, 
Which  he  hath  sent  propitious,  some  great 

good 
Presaging,  since,  with  sorrow  and  heart's 

distress 
Wearied,  I  fell  asleep.    But  now  lead  on; 
In  me  is  no  delay;  with  thee  to  go          615 
Is  to  stay  here ;  without  thee  here  to  stay 
Is  to  go  hence  unwilling;  thou  to  me 
Art  all  things  under  Heaven,  all  places 
thou, 


MILTON 


Who  for  my  wilful   crime  art  banished 

hence. 
This  further  consolation  yet  secure         620 
I  carry  hence:  though  all  by  me  is  lost, 
Such  favor  I  unworthy  am  voutsafed, 
By  me  the  Promised  Seed  shall  all  restore." 
So  spake  our  mother  Eve;  and  Adam 

heard 
Well  pleased,  but  answered  not;  for  now 

too  nigh  625 

The  Archangel  stood,  and  from  the  other 

hill 
To  their  fixed  station,  all  in  bright  array, 
The  Cherubim  descended,  on  the  ground 
Gliding  meteorous,  as  evening  mist 
Risen  from  a  river  o'er  the  marish  glides, 
And  gathers  ground  fast  at  the  laborer's 

heel  631 

Homeward  returning.    High  in  front  ad- 
vanced, 
The  brandished  sword  of  God  before  them 

blazed, 
Fierce  as  a  comet;  which  with  torrid  heat, 
And  vapor  as  the  Libyan  air  adust,1       635 
Began   to  parch   that   temperate   clime; 

whereat 
In  either  hand  the  hastening  Angel  caught 
Our  lingering  parents,  and  to  the  eastern 

gate 
Led  them  direct,  and  down  the  cliff  as  fast 
To  the  subjected  plain — then  disappeared. 
They,  looking  back,  all  the  eastern  side 

beheld  641 

Of  Paradise,  so  late  their  happy  seat, 
Waved  over  by  that  flaming  brand;  the 

gate 
With  dreadful  faces  thronged  and  fiery 

arms. 
Some   natural    tears   they   dropped,   but 

wiped  them  soon;  645 

The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to 

choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their 

guide. 
They,  hand  in  hand,  with  wandering  steps 

and  slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way. 

From  AREOPAGITICA 

I  deny  not,  but  that  it  is  of  greatest 
concernment  in  the  Church  and  Common- 
wealth, to  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books 

1  scorched. 


demean  themselves  as  well  as  men;  and 
thereafter  to  confine,  imprison,  and  do 
sharpest  justice  on  them  as  malefactors. 
For  books  are  not  absolutely  dead  things, 
but  do  contain  a  potency  of  life  in  them 
to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was  whose 
progeny  they  are;  nay,  they  do  pre-  [10 
serve  as  in  a  vial  the  purest  efficacy  and 
extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that 
bred  them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively, 
and  as  vigorously  productive,  as  those 
fabulous  dragon's  teeth;  and  being  sown 
up  and  down,  may  chance  to  spring  up 
armed  men.  And  yet  on  the  other  hand, 
unless  wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost 
kill  a  man  as  kill  a  good  book:  who  kills  a 
man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's  [20 
image;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good  book, 
kills  reason  itself,  kills  the  image  of  God, 
as  it  were  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives 
a  burden  to  the  earth;  but  a  good  book  is 
the  precious  lifeblood  of  a  master  spirit, 
embalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose 
to  a  life  beyond  life.  'Tis  true,  no  age 
can  restore  a  life,  whereof  perhaps  there 
is  no  great  loss;  and  revolutions  of  ages 
do  not  oft  recover  the  loss  of  a  rejected  [30 
truth,  for  the  want  of  which  whole  na- 
tions fare  the  worse.  We  should  be  wary 
therefore  what  persecution  we  raise  against 
the  living  labors  of  public  men,  how  we 
spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man,  preserved 
and  stored  up  in  books;  since  we  see  a 
kind  of  homicide  may  be  thus  committed, 
sometimes  a  martyrdom,  and  if  it  extend 
to  the  whole  impression,  a  kind  of  mas- 
sacre, whereof  the  execution  ends  not  [40 
in  the  slaying  of  an  elemental  life,  but 
strikes  at  that  ethereal  and  fifth  essence 
the  breath  of  reason  itself;  slays  an  im- 
mortality rather  than  a  life.  .  .  .  But 
some  will  say,  "What  though  the  in- 
ventors were  bad,  the  thing  for  all  that 
may  be  good?"  It  may  so;  yet  if  that 
thing  be  no  such  deep  invention,  but 
obvious,  and  easy  for  any  man  to  light 
on,  and  yet  best  and  wisest  common-  [50 
wealths  through  all  ages  and  occasions 
have  forborne  to  use  it,  and  falsest  se- 
ducers and  oppressors  of  men  were  the 
first  who  took  it  up,  and  to  no  other  pur- 
pose but  to  obstruct  and  hinder  the  first 
approach  of  Reformation,  I  am  of  those 
who  believe,  it  will  be  a  harder  alchemy 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


than  Lullius  ever  knew,  to  sublimate  any 
good  use  out  of  such  an  invention.  Yet 
this  only  is  what  I  request  to  gain  [60 
from  this  reason,  that  it  may  be  held  a 
dangerous  and  suspicious  fruit,  as  cer- 
tainly it  deserves,  for  the  tree  that  bore 
it,  until  I  can  dissect  one  by  one  the  prop- 
erties it  has.  .  .  .  Books  are  as  meats 
and  viands  are;  some  of  good,  some  of 
evil  substance;  and  yet  God  in  that  un- 
apocryphal  vision,  said  without  exception, 
"Rise,  Peter,  kill  and  eat,"  leaving  the 
choice  to  each  man's  discretion.  [70 
Wholesome  meats  to  a  vitiated  stomach 
differ  little  or  nothing  from  unwholesome; 
and  best  books  to  a  naughty  mind  are  not 
unappliable  to  occasions  of  evil.  Bad 
meats  will  scarce  breed  good  nourish- 
ment in  the  healthiest  concoction;  but 
herein  the  difference  is  of  bad  books,  that 
they  to  a  discreet  and  judicious  reader 
serve  in  many  respects  to  discover,  to 
confute,  to  forewarn,  and  to  illus-  [80 
trate.  Whereof  what  better  witness  can 
ye  expect  I  should  produce,  than  one  of 
your  own  now  sitting  in  Parliament,  the 
chief  of  learned  men  reputed  in  this  land, 
Mr.  Selden;  whose  volume  of  natural  and 
national  laws  proves,  not  only  by  great 
authorities  brought  together,  but  by  ex- 
quisite reasons  and  theorems  almost 
mathematically  demonstrative,  that  all 
opinions,  yea  errors,  known,  read,  [90 
and  collated,  are  of  main  service  and  as- 
sistance toward  the  speedy  attainment  of 
what  is  truest.  I  conceive,  therefore, 
that  when  God  did  enlarge  the  universal 
diet  of  man's  body,  saving  ever  the  rules 
of  temperance,  He  then  also,  as  before, 
left  arbitrary  the  dieting  and  repasting 
of  our  minds;  as  wherein  every  mature 
man  might  have  to  exercise  his  own 
leading  capacity.  How  great  a  virtue  [100 
is  temperance,  how  much  of  moment 
through  the  whole  life  of  man!  Yet  God 
commits  the  managing  so  great  a  trust, 
without  particular  law  or  prescription, 
wholly  to  the  demeanor  of  every  grown 
man.  And  therefore  when  He  Himself 
tabled  the  Jews  from  heaven,  that  omer, 
which  was  every  man's  daily  portion  of 
manna,  is  computed  to  have  been  more 
than  might  have  well  sufficed  the  [no 
heartiest   feeder   thrice   as   many   meals. 


For  those  actions  which  enter  into  a  man, 
rather  than  issue  out  of  him,  and  there- 
fore defile  not,  God  uses  not  to  captivate 
under  a  perpetual  childhood  of  prescrip- 
tion, but  trusts  him  with  the  gift  of 
reason  to  be  his  own  chooser;  there  were 
but  little  work  left  for  preaching,  if  law 
and  compulsion  should  grow  so  fast 
upon  those  things  which  heretofore  [120 
were  governed  only  by  exhortation.  .  .  . 
Good  and  evil  we  know  in  the  field  of, 
this  world  grow  up  together  almost  in- 
separably; and  the  knowledge  of  good  is 
so  involved  and  interwoven  with  the . 
knowledge  of  evil,  and  in  so  many  cun- 
ning resemblances  hardly  to  be  discerned, 
that  those  confused  seeds  which  were 
imposed  on  Psyche  as  an  incessant  labor 
to  cull  out  and  sort  asunder,  were  not  [130 
more  intermixed.  It  was  from  out  the 
rind  of  one  apple  tasted  that  the  knowl- 
edge of  good  and  evil,  as  two  twins  cleav- 
ing together,  leaped  forth  into  the  world. 
And  perhaps  this  is  that  doom  which 
Adam  fell  into  of  knowing  good  and  evil, 
that  is  to  say  of  knowing  good  by  evil. 
As  therefore  the  state  of  man  now  is, 
what  wisdom  can  there  be  to  choose, 
what  continence  to  forbear,  without  [140. 
the  knowledge  of  evil?  He  that  can  ap-; 
prehend  and  consider  vice  with  all  her 
baits  and  seeming  pleasures,  and  yet  ab- 
stain, and  yet  distinguish,  and  yet  prefer 
that  which  is  truly  better,  he  is  the  true, 
warfaring  Christian.  I  cannot  praise  a 
fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue,  unexercised  1 
and  unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and 
sees  her  adversary,  but  slinks  out  of  the 
race,  where  that  immortal  garland  [1501 
is  to  be  run  for,  not  without  dust  and  heat. 
Assuredly  we  bring  not  innocence  into  the 
world,  we  bring  impurity  much  rather; 
that  which  purifies  us  is  trial,  and  trial 
is  by  what  is  contrary.  That  virtue 
therefore  which  is  but  a  youngling  in  the 
contemplation  of  evil,  and  knows  not  the 
utmost  that  vice  promises  to  her  followers,  1 
and  rejects  it,  is  but  a  blank  virtue,  not 
a  pure;  her  whiteness  is  but  an  excre-  [160 
mental  whiteness;  which  was  the  reason 
why  our  sage  and  serious  poet  Spenser, 
whom  I  dare  be  known  to  think  a  better 
teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas,  describ- 
ing true  temperance  under  the  person  of 


MILTON 


183 


Guyon,  brings  him  in  with  his  palmer 
through  the  cave  of  Mammon,  and  the 
bower  of  earthly  bliss,  that  he  might  see 
and  know,  and  yet  abstain.  Since  there- 
fore the  knowledge  and  survey  of  [170 
vice  is  in  this  world  so  necessary  to  the 
constituting   of   human   virtue,    and   the 

1  scanning  of  error  to  the  confirmation  of 
truth,  how  can  we  more  safely,  and  with 
less  danger  scout  into  the  regions  of  sin 
and  falsity  than  by  reading  all  manner 

1  of  tractates  and  hearing  all  manner  of 
reason?     And  this  is  the  benefit  which 

1  may  be  ha'd  of  books  promiscuously  read. 


I  lastly  proceed  from  the  no  good  [180 
it  can  do,  to  the  manifest  hurt  it  causes, 
in  being  first  the  greatest  discouragement 
and  affront  that  can  be  offered  to  learn- 
ing, and  to  learned  men. 

It  was  the  complaint  and  lamentation 
of  prelates,  upon  every  least  breath  of  a 
motion  to  remove  pluralities,  and  distrib- 
ute more  equally  Church  revenues,  that 
then  all  learning  would  be  for  ever  dashed 
and  discouraged.  But  as  for  that  [190 
opinion,  I  never  found  cause  to  think  that 
the  tenth  part  of  learning  stood  or  fell 
with  the  clergy :  nor  could  I  ever  but  hold 
it  for  a  sordid  and  unworthy  speech  of 
any  churchman  who  had  a  competency 
left  him.  If  therefore  ye  be  loth  to  dis- 
hearten heartily  and  discontent,  not  the 
mercenary  crew  of  false  pretenders  to 
learning,  but  the  free  and  ingenuous  sort 
of  such  as  evidently  were  born  to  [200 
study,  and  love  learning  for  itself,  not  for 
lucre,  or  any  other  end,  but  the  service  of 
God  and  of  truth,  and  perhaps  that  last- 
ing fame  and  perpetuity  of  praise  which 
God  and  good  men  have  consented  shall 
be  the  reward  of  those  whose  published 
labors  advance  the  good  of  mankind, 
then  know,  that  so  far  to  distrust  the 
judgment  and  the  honesty  of  one  who 
hath  but  a  common  repute  in  learn-  [210 
ing,  and  never  yet  offended,  as  not  to 
count  him  fit  to  print  his  mind  without 
a  tutor  and  examiner,  lest  he  should  drop 
a  schism,  or  something  of  corruption,  is 
the  greatest  displeasure  and  indignity  to 
a  free  and  knowing  spirit  that  can  be  put 
upon  him.    What  advantage  is  it  to  be  a 


man  over  it  is  to  be  a  boy  at  school,  if 
we  have  only  escaped  the  ferular  to  come 
under  the  fescu  of  an  Imprimatur?  if  [220 
serious  and  elaborate  writings,  as  if  they 
were  no  more  than  the  theme  of  a  gram- 
mar-lad under  his  pedagogue  must  not 
be  uttered  without  the  cursory  eyes  of  a 
temporising  and  extemporising  licenser? 
He  who  is  not  trusted  with  his  own  ac- 
tions, his  drift  not  being  known  to  be  evil, 
and  standing  to  the  hazard  of  law  and 
penalty,  has  no  great  argument  to  think 
himself  reputed  in  the  Common-  [230 
wealth  wherein  he  was  born,  for  other 
than  a  fool  or  a  foreigner.  When  a  man 
writes  to  the  world,  he  summons  up  all  his 
reason  and  deliberation  to  assist  him;  he 
searches,  meditates,  is  industrious,  and 
likely  consults  and  confers  with  his  judi- 
cious friends;  after  all  which  done,  he 
takes  himself  to  be  informed  in  what  he 
writes,  as  well  as  any  that  writ  before  him; 
if  in  this  the  most  consummate  act  [240 
of  his  fidelity  and  ripeness,  no  years,  no 
industry,  no  former  proof  of  his  abilities, 
can  bring  him  to  that  state  of  maturity, 
as  not  to  be  still  mistrusted  and  suspected, 
unless  he  carry  all  his  considerate  dili- 
gence, all  his  midnight  watchings,  and 
expense  of  Palladian  oil,  to  the  hasty  view 
of  an  unleisured  licenser,  perhaps  much  his 
younger,  perhaps  far  his  inferior  in  judg- 
ment, perhaps  one  who  never  knew  [250 
the  labor  of  book  writing;  and  if  he  be 
not  repulsed,  or  slighted,  must  appear  in 
print  like  a  puny  with  his  guardian,  and 
his  censor's  hand  on  the  back  of  his  title 
to  be  his  bail  and  security  that  he  is  no 
idiot,  or  seducer, — it  can  not  be  but  a 
dishonor  and  derogation  to  the  author, 
to  the  book,  to  the  privilege  and  dignity 
of  learning.  .  .  . 

Lords  and  Commons  of  England,  [260 
consider  what  nation  it  is  whereof  ye  are, 
and  whereof  ye  are  the  governors:  a  na- 
tion not  slow  and  dull,  but  of  a  quick, 
ingenious,  and  piercing  spirit,  acute  to 
invent,  subtle  and  sinewy  to  discourse, 
not  beneath  the  reach  of  any  point  the 
highest  that  human  capacity  can  soar  to. 
Therefore  the  studies  of  learning  in  her 
deepest  sciences  have  been  so  ancient  and 
so  eminent  among  us,  that  writers  of  [270 
good  antiquity  and  ablest  judgment  have 


i«4 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


been  persuaded  that  even  the  school  of 
Pythagoras  and  the  Persian  wisdom  took 
beginning  from  the  old  philosophy  of  this 
island.  And  that  wise  and  civil  Roman, 
Julius  Agricola,  who  governed  once  here 
for  Caesar,  preferred  the  natural  wits  of 
Britain,  before  the  labored  studies  of  the 
French.  .  .  .  Yet  that  which  is  above 
all  this,  the  favor  and  the  love  of  [280 
Heaven,  we  have  great  argument  to  think 
in  a  peculiar  manner  propitious  and  pro- 
pending  towards  us.  Why  else  was  this 
nation  chosen  before  any  other,  that 
out  of  her  as  out  of  Sion  should  be  pro- 
claimed and  sounded  forth  the  first  tidings 
and  trumpet  of  Reformation  to  all  Eu- 
rope? ...  But  now,  as  our  obdurate  clergy 
have  with  violence  demeaned  the  matter, 
we  are  become  hitherto  the  latest  [290 
and  the  backwardest  scholars,  of  whom 
God  offered  to  have  made  us  the  teachers. 
Now  once  again  by  all  concurrence  of 
signs,  and  by  the  general  instinct  of  holy 
and  devout  men,  as  they  daily  and  sol- 
emnly express  their  thoughts,  God  is 
decreeing  to  begin  some  new  and  great 
period  in  His  church,  even  to  the  reform- 
ing of  Reformation  itself:  what  does  He 
then  but  reveal  Himself  to  His  serv-  [300 
ants,  and  as  His  manner  is,  first  to  His 
Englishmen:  I  say  as  His  manner  is,  first 
to  us,  though  we  mark  not  the  method  of 
His  counsels,  and  are  unworthy.  Behold 
now  this  vast  city:  a  city  of  refuge,  the 
mansion  house  of  liberty,  encompassed 
and  surrounded  with  His  protection. 
The  shop  of  war  hath  not  there  more 
anvils  and  hammers  waking,  to  fashion 
out  the  plates  and  instruments  of  [310 
armed  justice  in  defense  of  beleaguered 
truth,  than  there  be  pens  and  heads 
there,  sitting  by  their  studious  lamps, 
musing,  searching,  revolving  new  no- 
tions and  ideas  wherewith  to  present,  as 
with  their  homage  and  their  fealty,  the 
approaching  Reformation;  others  as  fast 
reading,  trying  all  things,  assenting  to 
the  force  of  reason  and  convincement. 
What  could  a  man  require  more  from  [320 
a  nation  so  pliant  and  so  prone  to  seek 
after  knowledge?  What  wants  there  to 
such  a  towardly  and  pregnant  soil,  but 
wise  and  faithful  laborers,  to  make  a 
knowing  people,  a  nation  of  prophets,  of 


sages,  and  of  worthies?  We  reckon  more 
than  five  months  yet  to  harvest;  there 
need  not  be  five  weeks;  had  we  but  eyes 
to  lift  up,  the  fields  are  white  already. 
Where  there  is  much  desire  to  learn,  [330 
there  of  necessity  will  be  much  arguing, 
much  writing,  many  opinions;  for  opinion 
in  good  men  is  but  knowledge  in  the  mak- 
ing. Under  these  fantastic  terrors  of 
sect  and  schism,  we  wrong  the  earnest 
and  zealous  thirst  after  knowledge  and 
understanding  which  God  hath  stirred 
up  in  this  city.  What  some  lament  of, 
we  rather  should  rejoice  at;  should  rather 
praise  this  pious  forwardness  among  [340 
men,  to  reassume  the  ill-deputed  care  of 
their  religion  into  their  own  hands  again. 
A  little  generous  prudence,  a  little  for- 
bearance of  one  another,  and  some  grain 
of  charity  might  win  all  these  diligences 
to  join  and  unite  in  one  general  and 
brotherly  search  after  truth,  could  we 
but  forego  this  prelatical  tradition  of 
crowding  free  consciences  and  Christian 
liberties  into  canons  and  precepts  of  [350 
men.  I  doubt  not,  if  some  great  and 
worthy  stranger  should  come  among  us, 
wise  to  discern  the  mould  and  temper  of 
a  people,  and  how  to  govern  it,  observing 
the  high  hopes  and  aims,  the  diligent 
alacrity  of  our  extended  thoughts  and 
reasonings  in  the  pursuance  of  truth  and 
freedom,  but  that  he  would  cry  out  as 
Pyrrhus  did,  admiring  the  Roman  docility 
and  courage,  "If  such  were  my  [360 
Epirots,  I  would  not  despair  the  greatest 
design  that  could  be  attempted  to  make 
a  church  or  kingdom  happy."  Yet  these 
are  the  men  cried  out  against  for  schis- 
matics and  sectaries;  as  if,  while  the 
temple  of  the  Lord  was  building,  some 
cutting,  some  squaring  the  marble,  others 
hewing  the  cedars,  there  should  be  a  sort 
of  irrational  men  who  would  not  con- 
sider there  must  be  many  schisms  [370 
and  many  dissections  made  in  the  quarry 
and  in  the  timber,  ere  the  house  of  God 
can  be  built.  And  when  every  stone  is 
laid  artfully  together,  it  cannot  be  united 
into  a  continuity,  it  can  but  be  contiguous 
in  this  world;  neither  can  every  piece 
of  the  building  be  of  one  form;  nay,  rather 
the  perfection  consists  in  this,  that  out 
of  many  moderate  varieties  and  brotherly 


MILTON 


i»S 


dissimilitudes  that  are  not  vastly  [380 
disproportional,  arises  the  goodly  and 
the  graceful  symmetry  that  commends 
the  whole  pile  and  structure.  Let  us 
therefore  be  more  considerate  builders, 
more  wise  in  spiritual  architecture,  when 
great  reformation  is  expected.  For  now 
the  time  seems  come,  wherein  Moses  the 
great  prophet  may  sit  in  heaven  rejoicing 
to  see  that  memorable  and  glorious  wish 
of  his  fulfilled,  when  not  only  our  [390 
seventy  elders,  but  all  the  Lord's  people, 
are  become  prophets.  No  marvel  then 
though  some  men,  and  some  good  men 
too,  perhaps,  but  young  in  goodness,  as 
Joshua  then  was,  envy  them.  They  fret, 
and  out  of  their  own  weakness  are  in 
agony,  lest  those  divisions  and  subdivi- 
sions will  undo  us.  The  adversary  again 
applauds,  and  waits  the  hour;  when  they 
have  branched  themselves  out  (saith  [400 
he)  small  enough  into  parties  and  par- 
titions, then  will  be  our  time.  Fool! 
he  sees  not  the  firm  root,  out  of  which 
we  all  grow,  though  into  branches;  nor 
will  beware  until  he  see  our  small  di- 
vided maniples  cutting  through  at  every 
angle  of  his  ill-united  and  unwieldy 
brigade.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  time  in  special  is,  by  priv- 
ilege to  write  and  speak  what  may  help  [410 
to  the  further  discussing  of  matters  in 
agitation.  The  temple  of  Janus  with  his 
two  controversal  faces  might  now  not 
unsignificantly  be  set  open.  And  though 
all  the  winds  of  doctrine  were  let  loose  to 
play  upon  the  earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the 
field,  we  do  injuriously  by  licensing  and 
prohibiting  to  misdoubt  her  strength.  Let 
her  and  Falsehood  grapple;  who  ever  knew 
Truth  put  to  the  worse,  in  a  free  [420 
and  open  encounter?  Her  confuting  is 
the  best  and  surest  suppressing.  He  who 
hears  what  praying  there  is  for  light  and 
clearer  knowledge  to  be  sent  down  among 
us,  would  think  of  other  matters  to  be 
constituted  beyond  the  discipline  of 
Geneva,  framed  and  fabricked  already  to 
our  hands.  Yet  when  the  new  light  which 
we  beg  for  shines  in  upon  us,  there  be 
who  envy  and  oppose,  if  it  come  not  [430 
first  in  at  their  casements.  What  a  collu- 
sion is  this,  whenas  we  are  exhorted  by 
the  wise  man  to  use  diligence,  to  seek  for 


wisdom  as  for  hidden  treasures  early  and 
late,  that  another  order  shall  enjoin  us 
to  know  nothing  but  by  statute?  When 
a  man  hath  been  laboring  the  hardest  labor 
in  the  deep  mines  of  knowledge,  hath  fur- 
nished out  his  findings  in  all  their  equipage, 
drawn  forth  his  reasons  as  it  were  [440 
a  battle  ranged,  scattered  and  defeated 
all  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his 
adversary  into  the  plain,  offers  him  the 
advantage  of  wind  and  sun,  if  he  please, 
only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint 
of  argument — for  his  opponents  then 
to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a 
narrow  bridge  of  licensing  where  the  chal- 
lenger should  pass,  though  it  be  valor 
enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness  [450 
and  cowardice  in  the  wars  of  Truth.  For 
who  knows  not  that  Truth  is  strong,  next 
to  the  Almighty?  She  needs  no  policies, 
no  stratagems,  no  licensings  to  make  her 
victorious;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the 
defenses  that  error  uses  against  her  power. 
Give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her 
when  she  sleeps,  for  then  she  speaks  not 
true,  as  the  old  Proteus  did,  who  spake 
oracles  only  when  he  was  caught  and  [460 
bound;  but  then  rather  she  turns  herself 
into  all  shapes,  except  her  own,  and  per- 
haps tunes  her  voice  according  to  the 
time,  as  Micaiah  did  before  Ahab,  until 
she  be  adjured  into  her  own  likeness.  Yet 
it  is  not  impossible  that  she  may  have 
more  shapes  than  one.  What  else  is  all 
that  rank  of  things  indifferent,  wherein 
Truth  may  be  on  this  side,  or  on  the 
other,  without  being  unlike  herself?  [470 
What  but  a  vain  shadow  else  is  the  aboli- 
tion of  those  ordinances,  that  hand-writ- 
ing nailed  to  the  cross?  what  great  pur- 
chase is  this  Christian  liberty  which  Paul 
so  often  boasts  of?  His  doctrine  is,  that 
he  who  eats  or  eats  not,  regards  a  day  or 
regards  it  not,  may  do  either  to  the  Lord. 
How  many  other  things  might  be  tolerated 
in  peace,  and  left  to  conscience,  had  we 
but  charity,  and  were  it  not  the  [480 
chief  stronghold  of  our  hypocrisy  t©  be 
ever  judging  one  another.  I  fear  yet  this 
iron  yoke  of  outward  conformity  hath 
left  a  slavish  print  upon  our  necks;  the 
ghost  of  a  linen  decency  yet  haunts  us. 
We  stumble  and  are  impatient  at  the  least 
dividing  of  one  visible  congregation  from 


i86 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


another,  though  it  be  not  in  fundamen- 
tals; and  through  our  forwardness  to  sup- 
press, and  our  backwardness  to  re-  [490 
cover  any  enthralled  piece  of  truth  out 
of  the  gripe  of  custom,  we  care  not  to  keep 
truth  separated  from  truth,  which  is  the 
fiercest  rent  and  disunion  of  all.  We  do 
not  see  that  while  we  still  affect  by  all 
means  a  rigid  external  formality,  we  may 
as  soon  fall  again  into  a  gross  conforming 
stupidity,  a  stark  and  dead  congealment 
of  wood  and  hay  and  stubble  forced  and 
frozen  together,  which  is  more  to  the  [500 
sudden  degenerating  of  a  church  than 
many  subdichotomies  of  petty  schisms. 
Not  that  I  can  think  well  of  every  light 
separation,  or  that  all  in  a  church  is  to 
be  expected  gold  and  silver  and  precious 
stones.  It  is  not  possible  for  man  to  sever 
the  wheat  from  the  tares,  the  good  fish 
from  the  other  fry;  that  must  be  the 
angels'  ministry  at  the  end  of  mortal 
things.  Yet  if  all  cannot  be  of  one  [510 
mind,  (as  who  looks  they  should  be?)  this 
doubtless  is  more  wholesome,  more  pru- 
dent, and  more  Christian,  that  many  be 
tolerated,  rather  than  all  compelled.  I 
mean  not  tolerated  popery,  and  open 
superstition,  which,  as  it  extirpates  all 
religions  and  civil  supremacies,  so  itself 
should  be  extirpate,  provided  first  that 
all  charitable  and  compassionate  means 
be  used  to  win  and  regain  the  weak  [520 
and  the  misled:  that  also  which  is  im- 
pious or  evil  absolutely  either  against 
faith  or  manners,  no  law  can  possibly 
permit  that  intends  not  to  unlaw  itself. 
But  those  neighboring  differences,  or 
rather  indifferences,  are  what  I  speak  of, 
whether  in  some  point  of  doctrine  or  of 
discipline,  which  though  they  may  be 
many,  yet  need  not  interrupt  the  unity  of 
Spirit,  if  we  could  but  find  among  us  [530 
the  bond  of  peace.  In  the  meanwhile  if 
any  one  would  write,  and  bring  his  helpful 
hand  to  the  slow-moving  reformation 
which  we  labor  under,  if  Truth  have 
spoken  to  him  before  others,  or  but  seemed 
at  least  to  speak,  who  hath  so  bejesuited 
us  that  we  should  trouble  that  man  with 
asking  license  to  do  so  worthy  a  deed? 
and  not  consider  this,  that  if  it  come 
to  prohibiting,  there  is  not  aught  [540 
more  likely  to  be  prohibited  than  truth 


itself;  whose  first  appearance  to  our  eyes 
bleared  and  dimmed  with  prejudice  and 
custom,  is  more  unsightly  and  unplausible 
than  many  errors,  even  as  the  person  is 
of  many  a  great  man  slight  and  con- 
temptible to  see  to.  And  what  do  they 
tell  us  vainly  of  new  opinions,  when  this 
very  opinion  of  theirs,  that  none  must 
be  heard  but  whom  they  like,  is  the  [550 
worst  and  newest  opinion  of  all  others, 
and  is  the  chief  cause  why  sects  and 
schisms  do  so  much  abound,  and  true 
knowledge  is  kept  at  distance  from  us, 
besides  yet  a  greater  danger  which  is  in 
it?  For  when  God  shakes  a  kingdom 
with  strong  and  healthful  commotions  to 
a  general  reforming,  'tis  not  untrue  that 
many  sectaries  and  false  teachers  are 
then  busiest  in  seducing;  but  yet  [560 
more  true  it  is,  that  God  then  raises  to 
His  own  work  men  of  rare  abilities,  and 
more  than  common  industry,  not  only  to 
look  back  and  revise  what  hath  been 
taught  heretofore,  but  to  gain  further 
and  go  on,  some  new  enlightened  steps 
in  the  discovery  of  truth.  For  such  is 
the  order  of  God's  enlightening  His  church, 
to  dispense  and  deal  out  by  degrees  His 
beam,  so  as  our  earthly  eyes  may  [570 
best  sustain  it.  Neither  is  God  appointed 
and  confined,  where  and  out  of  what 
place  these  His  chosen  shall  be  first 
heard  to  speak;  for  He  sees  not  as  man 
sees,  chooses  not  as  man  chooses,  lest  we 
should  devote  ourselves  again  to  set 
places,  and  assemblies,  and  outward  call- 
ings of  men;  planting  our  faith  one  while 
in  the  old  Convocation  House,  and  an- 
other while  in  the  Chapel  at  West-  [580 
minster;  when  all  the  faith  and  religion 
that  shall  be  there  canonized,  is  not  suf- 
ficient without  plain  convincement,  and 
the  charity  of  patient  instruction,  to 
supple  the  least  bruise  of  conscience,  to 
edify  the  meanest  Christian,  who  desires 
to  walk  in  the  Spirit,  and  not  in  the  letter 
of  human  trust,  for  all  the  number  of 
voices  that  can  be  there  made; — no, 
though  Harry  VII  himself  there,  with  [590 
all  his  liege  tombs  about  him,  should  lend 
them  voices  from  the  dead,  to  swell  their 
number.  .  .  . 

And  as  for  regulating  the  Press,  let  no 
man  think  to  have  the  honor  of  advising 


PEPYS 


187 


ye  better  than  yourselves  have  done  in 
that  order  published  next  before  this, 
"that  no  book  be  printed,  unless  the  print- 
er's and  the  author's  name,  or  at  least 
the  printer's,  be  registered."  Those  [600 
which  otherwise  come  forth,  if  they  be 
found  mischievous  and  libelous,  the  fire 
and  the  executioner  will  be  the  timeliest 
and  the  most  effectual  remedy  that  man's 
prevention  can  use.  For  this  authentic 
Spanish  policy  of  licensing  books,  if  I 
have  said  aught,  will  prove  the  most 
unlicensed  book  itself  within  a  short  while; 
and  was  the  immediate  image  of  a  Star 
Chamber  decree  to  that  purpose  made  [610 
in  those  very  times  when  that  court  did 
the  rest  of  those  her  pious  works,  for 
which  she  is  now  fallen  from  the  stars 
with  Lucifer.  Whereby  ye  may  guess 
what  kind  of  state  prudence,  what  love 
of  the  people,  what  care  of  religion  or  good 
manners,  there  was  at  the  contriving,  al- 
though with  singular  hypocrisy  it  pre- 
tended to  bind  books  to  their  good  be- 
havior. .  .  .  But  of  these  sophisms  [620 
and  elenchs  of  merchandise  I  skill  not. 
This  I  know,  that  errors  in  a  good  govern- 
ment and  in  a  bad  are  equally  almost 
incident;  for  what  magistrate  may  not 
be  misinformed,  and  much  the  sooner, 
if  liberty  of  printing  be  reduced  into  the 
power  of  a  few?  But  to  redress  willingly 
and  speedily  what  hath  been  erred,  and 
in  highest  authority  to  esteem  a  plain 
advertisement  more  than  others  have  [630 
done  a  sumptuous  bribe,  is  a  virtue 
(honored  Lords  and  Commons)  answer- 
able to  your  highest  actions,  and  whereof 
none  can  participate  but  greatest  and 
wisest  men. 


SAMUEL   PEPYS    (1633-1703) 

From  his  DIARY 

Jan.  1,  1660  (Lord's  day).  This  morn- 
I  ing  (we  living  lately  in  the  garret),  I  rose, 
;  put  on  my  suit  with  great  skirts,  having 
!  not  lately  worn  any  other  clothes  but 
them.  Went  to  Mr.  Gunning's  chapel  at 
Exeter  House,  where  he  made  a  very 
;  good  sermon.  Dined  at  home  in  the 
.  garret,   where   my   wife   dressed   the   re- 


mains of  a  turkey,  and  in  the  doing  of 
it  she  burned  her  hand.  I  stayed  at  [10 
home  all  the  afternoon,  looking  over  my 
accounts;  then  went  with  my  wife  to  my 
father's,  and  in  going  observed  the  great 
posts  which  the  City  have  set  up  at  the 
Conduit  in  Fleet  Street. 

Mar.  5th.  To  Westminster  by  water, 
only  seeing  Mr.  Pinkney  at  his  own 
house,  where  he  showed  me  how  he  had 
always  kept  the  lion  and  unicorn,  in  the 
back  of  his  chimney,  bright,  in  ex-  [20 
pectation  of  the  King's  coming  again. 
At  home  I  found  Mr.  Hunt,  who  told  me 
how  the  Parliament  had  voted  that  the 
Covenant  be  printed  and  hung  in  churches 
again.  Great  hopes  of  the  King's  coming 
again.    To  bed. 

6th.  Everybody  now  drinks  the  King's 
health  without  any  fear,  whereas  before 
it  was  very  private  that  a  man  dare  do  it. 

22nd.  To  Westminster,  and  re-  [30 
ceived  my  warrant  of  Mr.  Blackburne  to 
be  secretary  to  the  two  Generals  of  the 
Fleet. 

23rd.  My  Lord,  Captain  Isham,  Mr. 
Thomas,  John  Crewe,  W.  Howe,  and  I  in 
a  hackney  to  the  Tower,  where  the  barges 
stayed  for  us;  my  Lord  and  the  Captain 
in  one,  and  W.  Howe  and  I,  &c,  in  the 
other,  to  the  Long  Reach,  where  the 
Swiftsure  lay  at  anchor;  (in  our  way  we  [40 
saw  the  great  breach  which  the  late  high 
water  had  made,  to  the  loss  of  many 
£1,000  to  the  people  about  Limehouse). 
Soon  as  my  Lord  on  board,  the  guns  went 
off  bravely  from  the  ships.  And  a  little 
while  after  comes  the  Vice-Admiral  Law- 
son,  and  seemed  very  respectful  to  my 
Lord,  and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  com- 
manders of  the  frigates  that  were  there- 
abouts. I  to  the  cabin  allotted  for  [50 
me,  which  was  the  best  that  any  had  that 
belonged  to  my  Lord. 

May  1.  To-day  I  hear  they  were  very 
merry  at  Deal  setting  up  the  King's  flag 
upon  one  of  their  maypoles,  and  drink- 
ing his  health  upon  their  knees  in  the 
streets,  and  firing  the  guns,  which  the 
soldiers  of  the  castle  threatened,  but  durst 
not  oppose. 

2nd.  In  the  morning  at  a  breakfast  [60 
of  radishes  in  the  Purser's  cabin.  After 
that,   to   writing  till   dinner.     At  which 


i88 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


time  comes  Dunne  from  London,  with 
letters  that  tell  us  the  welcome  news  of 
the  Parliament's  votes  yesterday,  which 
will  be  remembered  for  the  happiest  May- 
day that  hath  been  many  a  year  to  Eng- 
land. The  King's  letter  was  read  in 
the  House,  wherein  he  submits  himself  and 
all  things  to  them,  as  to  an  Act  of  [70 
Oblivion  to  all,  unless  they  shall  please  to 
except  any. 

ijth  (Lord's  day).  Trimmed  in  the 
morning,  after  that  to  the  cook's  room 
with  Mr.  Sheply,  the  first  time  I  was  there 
this  voyage.  Then  to  the  quarter-deck, 
upon  which  the  tailors  and  painters  were 
at  work  cutting  out  some  pieces  of  yellow 
cloth  into  the  fashion  of  a  crown  and  C.  R. 
and  put  it  upon  a  fine  sheet,  and  that  [80 
into  the  flag  instead  of  the  State's  arms; 
which,  after  dinner,  was  finished  and  set 
up,  after  it  had  been  shown  to  my  Lord, 
who  liked  it  so  well  as  to  bid  me  give  the 
tailors  20s.  among  them  for  doing  of  it. 

23rd.  The  Doctor  and  I  waked  very 
merry,  only  my  eye  was  very  red  and  ill 
in  the  morning  from  yesterday's  hurt. 
In  the  morning  came  infinity  of  people 
on  board  from  the  King  to  go  along  [90 
with  him.  .  .  .  The  King,  with  the  two 
Dukes,  and  Queen  of  Bohemia,  Prin- 
cess Royal,  and  Prince  of  Orange,  came 
on  board,  where  I  in  their  coming  in 
kissed  the  King's,  Queen's,  and  Princess's 
hands.  .  .  .  Infinite  shooting  off  of  the 
guns,  and  that  in  a  disorder  on  purpose, 
which  was  better  than  if  it  had  been 
otherwise.  .  .  .  After  dinner  the  King 
and  duke  altered  the  names  of  some  [100 
of  the  ships;  viz.,  the  Naseby  into  Charles; 
the  Richard,  James;  the  Speaker,  Mary; 
the  Dunbar,  the  Henry.  ...  All  the 
afternoon  the  King  walked  here  and  there, 
up  and  down  (quite  contrary  to  what  I 
thought  him  to  have  been),  very  active 
and  stirring.  Upon  the  quarter-deck  he 
fell  into  discourse  of  his  escape  from 
Worcester,  where  it  made  me  ready  to 
weep  to  hear  the  stories  that  he  told  [no 
of  his  difficulties  that  he  had  passed 
through,  as  his  travelling  four  days  and 
three  nights  on  foot,  every  step  up  to 
his  knees  in  dirt,  with  nothing  but  a  green 
coat  and  a  pair  of  country  breeches  on, 
and  a  pair  of  country  shoes  that  made 


him  so  sore  all  over  his  feet  that  he  could 
scarce  stir.  Yet  he  was  forced  to  run 
away  from  a  miller  and  other  company 
that  took  them  for  rogues.  His  sitting  [120 
at  table  at  one  place,  where  the  master  of 
the  house,  that  had  not  seen  him  in  eight 
years,  did  know  him,  but  kept  it  private; 
when  at  the  same  table  there  was  one  that 
had  been  of  his  own  regiment  at  Wor- 
cester, could  not  know  him,  but  made  him 
drink  the  King's  health,  and  said  that  the 
King  was  at  least  four  fingers  higher  than 
he.  At  another  place  he  was  by  some 
servants  of  the  house  made  to  drink,  [130 
that  they  might  know  him  not  to  be  a 
Roundhead,  which  they  swore  he  was. 
In  another  place  at  his  inn,  the  master  of 
the  house,  as  the  King  was  standing  with 
his  hands  upon  the  back  of  a  chair  by  the 
fireside,  kneeled  down  and  kissed  his  hand, 
privately,  saying  that  he  would  not  ask 
him  who  he  was,  but  bid  God  bless  him 
whither  he  was  going.  .  .  .  Under  sail 
all  night,  and  most  glorious  weather.    [140 

24th.  Up,  and  make  myself  as  fine  as 
I  could,  with  the  linen  stockings  on  and 
wide  canons  that  I  bought  the  other  day 
at  Hague.  Extraordinary  press  of  noble 
company,  and  great  mirth  all  the  day. 

25th.  By  the  morning  we  were  come 
close  to  the  land,  and  everybody  made 
ready  to  get  on  shore.  The  King  and  the 
two  dukes  did  eat  their  breakfast  before 
they  went,  and  there  being  set  some  [150 
ship's  diet  before  them,  only  to  show  them 
the  manner  of  the  ship's  diet,  they  eat  of 
nothing  else  but  peas  and  pork  and  boiled 
beef.  I  had  Mr.  Darcy  in  my  cabin;  and 
Dr.  Clerke,  who  eat  with  me,  told  me  how 
the  King  had  given  £50  to  Mr.  Sheply 
for  my  Lord's  servants,  and  £500  among 
the  officers  and  common  men  of  the  ship. 
I  spoke  with  the  Duke  of  York  about 
business,  who  called  me  Pepys  by  [160 
name,  and  upon  my  desire  did  promise 
me  his  future  favor.  Great  expectation 
of  the  King's  making  some  knights,  but 
there  was  none.  About  noon  .  .  .  went 
in  a  boat  by  ourselves,  and  so  got  on  shore 
when  the  King  did,  who  was  received  by 
General  Monk  with  all  imaginable  love 
and  respect  at  his  entrance  upon  the  land 
of  Dover.  Infinite  the  crowd  of  people, 
and  the  horsemen,  citizens,  and  noble-  [170 


PEPYS 


189 


men  of  all  sorts.  The  Mayor  of  the  town 
came  and  gave  him  his  white  staff,  the 
badge  of  his  place,  which  the  King  did 
give  him  again.  The  Mayor  also  pre- 
sented him  from  the  town  a  very  rich 
Bible,  which  he  took,  and  said  it  was  the 
thing  that  he  loved  above  all  things  in  the 
world. 

September  2nd,  1666  (Lord's  day). 
Some  of  our  maids  sitting  up  late  [180 
last  night  to  get  things  ready  against  our 
feast  today,  Jane  called  us  up  about  three 
in  the  morning,  to  tell  us  of  a  great  fire 
they  saw  in  the  city.  So  I  rose  and  slipped 
on  my  night-gown,  and  went  to  her  win- 
dow, and  thought  it  to  be  on  the  back 
side  of  Mark  Lane  at  the  farthest;  but, 
being  unused  to  such  fires  as  followed,  I 
thought  it  far  enough  off;  and  so  went 
to  bed  again  and  to  sleep.  About  [190 
seven  rose  again  to  dress  myself,  and  there 
looked  out  at  the  window,  and  saw  the 
fire  not  so  much  as  it  was  and  further  off. 
So  to  my  closet  to  set  things  to  rights  after 
yesterday's  cleaning.  By  and  by  Jane 
comes  and  tells  me  that  she  hears  that 
above  three  hundred  houses  have  been 
burned  down  tonight  by  the  fire  we  saw, 
and  that  it  is  now  burning  down  all  Fish 
Street,  by  London  Bridge.  So  I  made  [200 
myself  ready  presently,  and  walked  to 
the  Tower,  and  there  got  up  upon  one 
of  the  high  places,  Sir  J.  Robinson's  little 
son  going  up  with  me ;  and  there  I  did  see 
the  houses  at  that  end  of  the  bridge  all  on 
fire,  and  an  infinite  great  fire  on  this  and 
the  other  side  the  end  of  the  bridge;  which, 
among  other  people,  did  trouble  me  for 
poor  little  Michell  and  our  Sarah  on  the 
bridge.  So  down,  with  my  heart  full  [210 
of  trouble,  to  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower, 
who  tells  me  that  it  begun  this  morning 
in  the  King's  baker's  house  in  Pudding 
Lane,  and  that  it  hath  burned  St.  Mag- 
nus's Church  and  most  part  of  Fish  Street 
already.  So  I  down  to  the  waterside,  and 
there  got  a  boat,  and  through  bridge, 
and  there  saw  a  lamentable  fire.  Poor 
Michell 's  house,  as  far  as  the  Old  Swan, 
already  burned  that  way,  and  the  [220 
fire  running  further,  that  in  a  very  little 
time  it  got  as  far  as  the  Steel-yard,  while 
I  was  there.     Everybody  endeavoring  to 


remove  their  goods,  and  flinging  into 
the  river,  or  bringing  them  into  lighters 
that  lay  off;  poor  people  staying  in  their 
houses  as  long  as  till  the  very  fire  touched 
them,  and  then  running  into  boats,  or 
clambering  from  one  pair  of  stairs  by  the 
waterside  to  another.  And  among  [230 
other  things,  the  poor  pigeons,  I  perceive, 
were  loth  to  leave  their  houses,  but 
hovered  about  the  windows  and  balconies 
till  they  were  some  of  them  burned,  their 
wings,  and  fell  down.  Having  stayed, 
and  in  an  hour's  time  seen  the  fire  rage 
every  way,  and  nobody,  to  my  sight,  en- 
deavoring to  quench  it,  but  to  remove 
their  goods,  and  leave  all  to  the  fire,  and 
having  seen  it  get  as  far  as  the  Steel-  [240 
yard,  and  the  wind  mighty  high  and  driv- 
ing it  into  the  city,  and  every  thing,  after 
so  long  a  drought,  proving  combustible, 
even  the  very  stones  of  the  churches,  and 
among  other  things  the  poor  steeple  by 

which  pretty  Mrs. lives,  and  whereof 

my  old  schoolfellow  Elborough  is  par- 
son, taken  fire  in  the  very  top,  and  there 
burned  till  it  fell  down:  I  to  Whitehall 
(with  a  gentleman  with  me  who  de-  [250 
sired  to  go  off  from  the  Tower,  to  see  the 
fire,  in  my  boat) ;  to  Whitehall,  and  there 
up  to  the  King's  closet  in  the  Chapel, 
where  people  come  about  me,  and  I  did 
give  them  an  account  dismayed  them  all, 
and  word  was  carried  in  to  the  King.  So 
I  was  called  for,  and  did  tell  the  King 
and  Duke  of  York  what  I  saw,  and  that 
unless  his  Majesty  did  command  houses 
to  be  pulled  down  nothing  could  stop  [260 
the  fire.  They  seemed  much  troubled, 
and  the  King  commanded  me  to  go  to 
my  Lord  Mayor  from  him,  and  command 
him  to  spare  no  houses,  but  to  pull  down 
before  the  fire  every  way.  .  .  .  Here 
meeting  with  Captain  Cock,  I  in  his 
coach,  which  he  lent  me,  and  Creed  with 
me,  to  Paul's,  and  there  walked  along 
Watling  Street,  as  well  as  I  could;  every 
creature  coming  away  loaden  with  [270 
goods  to  save,  and  here  and  there  sick 
people  carried  away  in  beds.  Extraor- 
dinary good  goods  carried  in  carts  and 
on  backs.  At  last  met  my  Lord  Mayor 
in  Canning  Street,  like  a  man  spent,  with 
a  handkercher  about  his  neck.  To  the 
King's  message  he  cried,  like  a  fainting 


190 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


woman,  "Lord!  what  can  I  do?  I  am 
spent:  people  will  not  obey  me.  I  have 
been  pulling  down  houses;  but  the  fire  [280 
overtakes  us  faster  than  we  can.  do  it." 
That  be  needed  no  more  soldiers;  and  that 
for  himself,  he  must  go  and  refresh  him- 
self, having  been  up  all  night.  So  he 
left  me,  and  I  him,  and  walked  home, 
seeing  people  all  almost  distracted,  and 
no  manner  of  means  used  to  quench  the 
fire.  The  houses,  too,  so  very  thick  there- 
abouts, and  full  of  matter  for  burning,  as 
pitch  and  tar,  in  Thames  Street;  and  [290 
warehouses  of  oil,  and  wines,  and  brandy, 
and  other  things.  .  .  . 

Met  with  the  King  and  Duke  of  York 
in  their  barge,  and  with  them  to  Queen- 
hithe,  and  there  called  Sir  Richard  Browne 
to  them.  Their  order  was  only  to  pull 
down  houses  apace,  and  so  below  bridge 
at  the  waterside;  but  little  was  or  could 
be  done,  the  fire  coming  upon  them  so 
fast.  Good  hopes  there  was  of  stop-  [300 
ping  it  at  the  Three  Cranes  above,  and 
at  Buttolph's  wharf  below  bridge,  if  care 
be  used;  but  the  wind  carries  it  into  the 
city,  so  as  we  know  not  by  the  waterside 
what  it  do  there.  River  full  of  lighters 
and  boats  taking  in  goods,  and  good 
goods  swimming  in  the  water.  ...  So 
near  the  fire  as  we  could  for  smoke;  and 
all  over  the  Thames,  with  one's  face  in 
the  wind,  you  were  almost  burned  [310 
with  a  shower  of  fire-drops.  This  is  very 
true;  so  as  houses  were  burned  by  these 
drops  and  flakes  of  fire, — three  or  four, 
nay,  five  or  six  houses,  one  from  another. 
When  we  could  endure  no  more  upon  the 
water,  we  to  a  little  ale-house  on  the 
Bankside,  over  against  the  Three  Cranes, 
and  there  stayed  till  it  was  dark  almost, 
and  saw  the  fire  grow;  and  as  it  grew 
darker,  appeared  more  and  more,  and  [320 
in  corners  and  upon  steeples,  and  between 
churches  and  houses,  as  far  as  we  could 
see  up  the  hill  of  the  city,  in  a  most  hor- 
rid, malicious,  bloody  flame,  not  like  the 
fine  flame  of  an  ordinary  fire.  .  .  .  We 
stayed  till,  it  being  darkish,  we  saw  the 
fire  as  only  one  entire  arch  of  fire  from 
this  to  the  other  side  the  bridge,  and  in 
a  bow  up  the  hill  for  an  arch  of  above 
a  mile  long:  it  made  me  weep  to  see  [330 
it.  .  .  .     So  home  with  a  sad  heart. 


3rd.  About  four  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, my  Lady  Batten  sent  me  a  cart  to 
carry  away  all  my  money,  and  plate,  and 
best  things,  to  Sir  W.  Rider's  at  Bednall 
Green.  Which  I  did,  riding  myself  in 
my  night-gown  in  the  cart;  and  Lord!  to 
see  how  the  streets  and  the  highways  are 
crowded  with  people  running  and  riding, 
and  getting  of  carts  at  any  rate  to  [340 
fetch  away  things.  ...  At  night  lay  down 
a  little  upon  a  quilt  of  W.  Hewer's 
in  the  office,  all  my  own  things  being 
packed  up  or  gone;  and  after  me  my  poor 
wife  did  the  like,  we  having  fed  upon  the 
remains  of  yesterday's  dinner,  having  no 
fire  nor  dishes,  nor  any  opportunity  of 
dressing  anything. 

4th.  Up  by  break  of  day  to  get  away 
the  remainder  of  my  things;  which  [350 
I  did  by  a  lighter  at  the  Iron  Gate;  and 
my  hands  so  few,  that  it  was  the  afternoon 
before  we  could  get  them  all  away.  .  .  . 
Sir  W.  Batten  not  knowing  how  to  remove 
his  wine,  did  dig  a  pit  in  the  garden,  and 
laid  it  in  there;  and  I  took  the  opportunity 
of  laying  all  the  papers  of  my  office  that 
I  could  not  otherwise  dispose  of.  And 
in  the  evening  Sir  W.  Penn  and  I  did  dig 
another,  and  put  our  wine  in  it,  and  [360 
I  my  Parmezan  cheese,  as  well  as  my  wine 
and  some  other  things.  .  .  .  Now  begins 
the  practise  of  blowing  up  of  houses 
in  Tower  Street,  those  next  the  Tower; 
which  at  first  did  frighten  people  more 
than  anything;  but  it  stopped  the  fire 
where  it  was  done,  it  bringing  down  the 
houses  to  the  ground  in  the  same  places 
they  stood;  and  then  it  was  easy  to  quench 
what  little  fire  was  in  it,  though  it  [370 
kindled  nothing  almost. 

January  2nd,  i66j.  Up,  I,  and  walked 
to  Whitehall  to  attend  the  Duke  of  York, 
as  usual.  My  wife  up,  and  with  Mrs. 
Penn  to  walk  in  the  fields  to  frost-bite 
themselves.  .  .  .  With  Sir  W.  Penn  by 
coach  to  the  Temple,  and  there  'light  and 
eat  a  bit  at  an  ordinary  by,  and  then  alone 
to  the  King's  House,  and  there  saw  The 
Custom  of  the  Cotmtry,  the  second  [380 
time  of  its  being  acted,  wherein  Knipp 
does  the  Widow  well;  but,  of  all  the  plays 
that  ever  I  did  see,  the  worst — having 
neither  plot,  language,  nor  anything  in 


PEPYS 


iqi 


the  earth  that  is  acceptable;  only  Knipp 
sings  a  little  song  admirably.  But  fully 
the  worst  play  that  ever  I  saw  or  I  believe 
shall  see.  So  away  home,  much  displeased 
for  the  loss  of  so  much  time,  and  dis- 
obliging my  wife  by  being  there  with-  [390 
out  her.  So,  by  link,  walked  home,  it 
being  mighty  cold  but  dry,  yet  bad  walk- 
ing because  very  slippery  with  the  frost 
and  treading.  Home  and  to  my  chamber 
to  set  down  my  journal,  and  then  to 
thinking  upon  establishing  my  vows 
against  the  next  year,  and  so  to  supper 
and  to  bed. 

August  19th.  Up,  and  at  the  office  all 
the  morning  very  busy.  Towards  [400 
noon  I  to  Westminster  about  some  tallies 
at  the  Exchequer,  and  then  straight  home 
again  and  dined,  and  then  to  sing  with 
my  wife  with  great  content,  and  then  I  to 
the  office  again,  where  busy,  and  then  out 
and  took  coach  and  to  the  Duke  of  York's 
House,  all  alone,  and  there  saw  Sir 
Martin  Mar -all  again,  though  I  saw  him 
but  two  days  since,  and  do  find  it  the  most 
comical  play  that  ever  I  saw  in  my  [410 
life. 

20th.  Up,  and  to  my  chamber  to  set 
down  my  journal  for  the  last  three  days, 
and  then  to  the  office,  where  busy  all  the 
morning.  At  noon  home  to  dinner,  and 
then  with  my  wife  abroad ;  set  her  down  at 
the  Exchange,  and  I  to  St.  James's.  .  .  . 
Thence  with  my  Lord  Bruncker  to  the 
Duke's  playhouse  (telling  my  wife  so  at 
the  'Change,  where  I  left  her),  and  [420 
there  saw  Sir  Martin  Mar -all  again,  which 
I  have  now  seen  three  times,  and  it  hath 
been  acted  but  four  times,  and  still  find 
it  a  very  ingenious  play,  and  full  of  va- 
riety. So  home,  and  to  the  office,  where 
my  eyes  would  not  suffer  me  to  do  any- 
thing by  candle-light,  and  so  called  my 
wife  and  walked  in  the  garden.  She 
mighty  pressing  for  a  new  pair  of  cuffs, 
which  I  am  against  the  laying  out  [430 
of  money  upon  yet,  which  makes  her 
angry.    So  home  to  supper  and  to  bed. 

21st.  Up,  and  my  wife  and  I  fell  out 
about  the  pair  of  cuffs,  which  she  hath  a 
mind  to  have  to  go  to  see  the  ladies  danc- 
ing tomorrow  at  Betty  Turner's  school; 
and  do  vex  me  so  that  I  am  resolved  to 
deny  them  her.     However,  by-and-by  a 


way  was  found  that  she  had  them,  and  I 
well  satisfied,  being  unwilling  to  let  [440 
our  difference  grow  higher  upon  so  small 
an  occasion  and  frowardness  of  mine. 

22nd.  After  dinner  with  my  Lord 
Bruncker  and  his  mistress  to  the  King's 
playhouse,  and  there  saw  The  Indian 
Emperor;  where  I  find  Nell  come  again, 
which  I  am  glad  of;  but  was  most  in- 
finitely displeased  with  her  being  put  to 
act  the  Emperor's  daughter,  which  is  a 
great  and  serious  part,  which  she  [450 
do  most  basely.  The  rest  of  the  play, 
though  pretty  good,  was  not  well  acted 
by  most  of  them,  methought;  so  that  I 
took  no  great  content  in  it. 

October  19th.  At  the  office  all  the  morn- 
ing, where  very  busy,  and  at  noon  home 
to  a  short  dinner,  being  full  of  my  desire 
of  seeing  my  Lord  Orrery's  new  play  this 
afternoon  at  the  King's  House,  The 
Black  Prince,  the  first  time  it  is  [460 
acted;  where,  though  we  come  by  two 
o'clock,  yet  there  was  no  room  in  the  pit, 
but  we  were  forced  to  go  into  one  of  the 
upper  boxes,  at  4s.  a  piece,  which  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  sat  in  a  box  in  my  life. 
And  in  the  same  box  come,  by  and  by, 
behind  me,  my  Lord  Berkeley  and  his 
lady;  but  I  did  not  turn  my  face  to  them 
to  be  known,  so  that  I  was  excused  from 
giving  them  my  seat;  and  this  pleas-  [470 
ure  I  had,  that  from  this  place  the  scenes 
do  appear  very  fine  indeed,  and  much 
better  than  in  the  pit.  The  house  infinite 
full,  and  the  King  and  Duke  of  York  was 
there.  .  .  .  So  after  having  done  business 
at  the  office,  I  home  to  supper  and  to  bed. 

LOYALIST  STALL  BALLADS 

TO  MAKE  CHARLES  A  GREAT 
KING 

To  make  Charles  a  great  King,  and  give 

him  no  power; 
To  honor  him  much,  and  not  obey  him  an 

hour; 
To  provide  for  his  safety,  and  take  away 

his  Tower; 
And  to  prove  all  is  sweet,  be  it  never  so 

sour: 
The  new  order  of  the  land,   and   the 

land's  new  order.  5 


192 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


To  secure  men  their  lives,  liberties,  and 

estates, 
By  arbitrary  power,   as  it  pleaseth  the 

fates ; 
To  take  away  taxes  by  imposing  great 

rates, 
And  to  make  us  a  plaster  by  breaking  our 

pates : 
The  new  order,  etc. 

To  sit  and  consult  for  ever  and  a  day;       10 
To  counterfeit  treason  by  a  Parliamentary 

way; 
To  quiet  the  land  by  a  tumultuous  sway; 
New  plots  to  devise,  then  them  to  betray: 
The  new  order,  etc. 

To  send  them  their  zealots  to  Heaven  in  a 

string, 
Who  else  to  confusion  religion  will  bring,  15 
Who  say  the  Lord's  Prayer  is  a  Popish 

thing, 
Who  pray  for  themselves,  but  leave  out 

their  King: 
The  new  order  of  the  land,  and  the 

land's  new  order. 


THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF  THE 
HOUSE  OF   COMMONS 

If,  Charles,  thou  wilt  but  be  so  kind 
To  give  us  leave  to  take  our  mind 

Of  all  thy  store, 
When  we,  thy  loyal  subjects,  find 
Thou  'ast  nothing  left  to  give  behind,         5 

We'll  ask  no  more. 

First,  for  religion,  it  is  meet 
We  make  it  go  upon  new  feet; 

'Twas  lame  before; 
One  from  Geneva  would  be  sweet:  10 

Let  Warwick  fetch't  home  with  his  fleet, 

We'll  ask  no  more. 

Let  us  a  consultation  call 

Of  honest  men,  but  Roundheads  all, 

God  knows  wherefore;  15 

Allow  them  but  a  place  to  bawl 
'Gainst  Bishops'  courts  canonical, 

We'll  ask  no  more. 

R.eform  each  University, 
And  in  them  let  no  learning  be,  20 

A  great  eye-sore; 


From  hence  make  Rome's  Arminians  flee, 
That  none  may  have  free-will  but  we, 
We'll  ask  no  more. 


In  this  we  will  not  be  denied, 
Because  in  you  we'll  not  confide, 

We  know  wherefore; 
The  citizens  their  plate  provide; 
Do  you  but  send  in  yours  beside, 

We'll  ask  no  more. 


25 


30 


THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  ROUND- 
HEAD 

What  creature's  this  with  his  short  hairs, 
His  little  band,  and  huge  long  ears, 

That  this  new  faith  hath  founded? 
The  Puritans  were  never  such; 
The  Saints  themselves  had  ne'er  so  much;s 

Oh,  such  a  knave's  a  Roundhead. 

What's  he  that  doth  the  Bishops  hate, 
And  count  their  calling  reprobate, 

Cause  by  the  Pope  propounded, 
And  say  a  zealous  cobbler's  better  10 

Than  he  that  studieth  every  letter? 

Oh,  such  a  knave's  a  Roundhead. 

What's  he  that  doth  high  treason  say 
As  often  as  his  yea  and  nay, 

And  wish  the  King  confounded;  15 

And  dare  maintain  that  Master  Pym 
Is  fitter  for  the  crown  than  him? 

Oh,  such  a  knave's  a  Roundhead. 


COME,  DRAWER,  SOME  WINE 

Come,  Drawer,  some  wine, 
Or  we'll  pull  down  the  sign, 

For  we  are  all  jovial  compounders: 
We'll  make  the  house  ring 
With  healths  to  our  King,  5 

And  confusion  light  on  his  confounders. 

And  next,  who  e'er  sees, 
We  drink  on  our  knees, 

To  the  King, — may  he  thirst  that  re- 
pines; 
A  fig  for  those  traitors  10 

That  look  to  our  waters, 

They    have   nothing   to   do   with   our 
wines. 


LOYALIST  STALL  BALLADS 


193 


And  next,  here's  a  cup 
To  the  Queen;  fill  it  up! 

Were  it  poison  we  would  make  an  end 
on't;  15 

May  Charles  and  she  meet, 
And  tread  under  feet 

Both  Presbyter  and  Independent. 

To  the  Prince,  and  all  others, 

His  sisters  and  brothers,  20 

As  low  in  condition  as  high-born, 
We'll  drink  this,  and  pray 
That  shortly  they  may 

See    all    them    that    wrongs    them    at 
Tyburn. 

And  next,  here's  three  bowls  25 

To  all  gallant  souls 

That  for  the  King  did,  and  will  venture; 
May  they  flourish  when  those 
That  are  his,  and  their  foes, 

Are  hanged,  and  rammed  down  to  the 
center.  30 

And  next,  let  a  glass 
To  our  undoers  pass, 

Attended  with  two  or  three  curses; 
May  plagues  sent  from  hell 
Stuff  their  bodies  as  well  35 

As  the  cavaliers'  coin  doth  their  purses ! 


THE  PROTECTING  BREWER 

A  brewer  may  be  a  burgess  grave, 
And  carry  the  matter  so  fine  and  so  brave, 
That  he  the  better  may  play  the  knave, 
Which  nobody  can  deny. 

A  brewer  may  be  a  Parliament-man,         5 
For  there  the  knavery  first  began ; 
And  brew  most  cunning  plots  he  can, 
Which  nobody  can  deny. 

A  brewer  may  put  on  a  Nabal  face, 
And  march  to  the  wars  with  so  much 
grace,  10 

That  he  may  get  a  Captain's  place, 
Which  nobody  can  deny. 

A  brewer  may  speak  so  wondrous  well 
That  he  may  rise  strange  things  to  tell, 
And  so  to  be  made  a  Colonel,  1 5 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 


A  brewer  may  make  his  foes  to  flee, 
And  raise  his  fortunes  so  that  he 
Lieutenant- General  may  be, 

Which  nobody  can  deny.  20 

A  brewer  he  may  be  all  in  all, 
And  raise  his  powers  both  great  and  small, 
That  he  may  be  a  Lord-General, 
Which  nobody  can  deny. 

A  brewer  may  be  as  bold  as  Hector,  25 

When  he  has  drunk  off  his  cup  of  nectar, 

And  a  brewer  may  be  a  Lord  Protector, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

Now  here  remains   the   strangest   thing, 
How   this   brewer   about   his   liquor   did 
bring,  30 

To  be  an  Emperor  or  a  King, 

Which  nobody  can  deny. 

A  brewer  may  do  what  he  will, 
And  rob  the  church  and  state,  to  sell 
His  soul  unto  the  devil  of  hell,  35 

Which  nobody  can  deny! 


THE  LAWYERS'  LAMENTATION 

FOR  THE  LOSS  OF  CHARING 

CROSS 

Undone!  undone!  the  lawyers  cry; 

They  ramble  up  and  down; 
We  know  not  the  way  to  Westminster 
Now  Charing  Cross  is  down. 
Then    fare    thee   well,    old    Charing 
Cross,  5 

Then  fare  thee  well,  old  stump; 
It  was  a  thing  set  up  by  the  King, 
And  so  pulled  down  by  the  Rump. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  bottom  of  the 
Strand, 
They  were  all  at  a  loss;  10 

This  is  not  the  way  to  Westminster, 
We  must  go  by  Charing  Cross. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  etc. 

The  Parliament  did  vote  it  down, 

As  a  thing  they  thought  most  fitting, 
For  fear  it  should  fall,  and  so  kill  'em 
all,  15 

In  the  House  as  they  were  sitting. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  etc. 


194 


PURITANS  AND  CAVALIERS 


The  Whigs  they  do  affirm  and  say, 

To  Popery  it  was  bent; 
For  what  I  know  it  might  be  so, 

For  to  church  it  never  went. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  etc. 

This  cursed  Rump  rebellious  crew 
They  were  so  damned  hard-hearted, 

They  passed  a  vote  that  Charing  Cross 
Should  be  taken  down  and  carted. 
Then  fare  thee  well,  etc. 


Now,  Whigs,  I  would  advise  you  all,       25 

'Tis  what  I'd  have  you  do; 
For  fear  the  King  should  come  again, 
Pray  pull  down  Tyburn  too! 

Then    fare    thee    well,   old    Charing 
Cross, 
Then  fare  thee  well,  old  stump;    30 
It    was    a    thing    set     up    by    the 
King, 
And    so     pulled     down     by     the 
Rump. 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


JOHN  DRYDEN  (1631-1700) 

ABSALOM   AND   ACHITOPHEL 

In  pious  times,  ere  priestcraft  did  begin, 
Before  polygamy  was  made  a  sin, 
When  man  on  many  multiplied  his  kind, 
Ere  one  to  one  was  cursedly  confined, —  4 
****** 

Then  Israel's  monarch,  .  .  . 

.  .  .  wide  as  his  command, 
Scattered  his  Maker's  image  through  the 
land.  10 

****** 

Of  all  this  numerous  progeny  was  none 
So  beautiful,  so  brave,  as  Absalon. 
****** 

Early  in  foreign  fields  he  won  renown 

With  kings  and  states  allied  to  Israel's 
crown; 

In  peace  the  thoughts  of  war  he  could  re- 
move, 25 

And  seemed  as  he  were  only  born  for 
love. 

Whate'er  he  did  was  done  with  so  much 
ease, 

In  him  alone  'twas  natural  to  please; 

His  motions  all  accompanied  with  grace, 

And  Paradise  was  opened  in  his  face.     30 

With  secret  joy  indulgent  David  viewed 

His  youthful  image  in  his  son  renewed; 

To  all  his  wishes  nothing  he  denied, 

And  made  the  charming  Annabel  his 
bride. 

What  faults  he  had  (for  who  from  faults  is 
free?)  35 

His  father  could  not,  or  he  would  not  see. 

Some  warm  excesses,  which  the  law  for- 
bore, 

Were  construed  youth  that  purged  by 
boiling  o'er; 

And  Amnon's  murder  by  a  specious  name 

Was  called  a  just  revenge  for  injured 
fame.  40 

Thus  praised  and  loved,  the  noble  youth 
remained, 


While  David  undisturbed  in  Sion  reigned. 
But  life  can  never  be  sincerely  blest; 
Heaven  punishes  the  bad,  and  proves  the 

best. 
The  Jews,  a  headstrong,  moody,  murmur- 
ing race  45 
As  ever  tried  the  extent  and  stretch  of 

grace; 
God's  pampered  people,  whom,  debauched 

with  ease, 
No  king  could  govern  nor  no  God  could 

please; 
Gods  they  had  tried  of  every  shape  and 

size 
That  godsmiths  could  produce  or  priests 

devise;  50 

These  Adam-wits,  too  fortunately  free, 
Began  to  dream  they  wanted  liberty; 
And   when   no    rule,  no   precedent,   was 

found 
Of  men  by  laws  less  circumscribed  and 

bound, 
They  led  their  wild  desires  to  woods  and 

caves,  55 

And  thought  that  all  but  savages  were 

slaves. 
They  who,  when  Saul  was  dead,  without  a 

blow 
Made  foolish  Ishbosheth  the  crown  forego; 
Who  banished  David  did  from  Hebron 

bring, 
And  with  a  general  shout  proclaimed  him 

King;  60 

Those  very  Jews  who  at  their  very  best 
Their  humor  more  than  loyalty  expressed, 
Now  wondered   why   so   long   they   had 

obeyed 
An  idol  monarch  whom  their  hands  had 

made; 
Thought  they  might  ruin  him  they  could 

create,  65 

Or  melt  him  to  that  golden  calf,  a  State. 
But  these  were  random  bolts;  no  formed 

design 
Nor  interest  made  the  factious  crowd  to 

join: 
The  sober  part  of  Israel,  free  from  stain, 
Well  knew  the  value  of  a  peaceful  reign;  70 


195 


196 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


And  looking  backward  with  a  wise  affright 
Saw  seams  of  wounds  dishonest  to  the 

sight, 
In  contemplation  of  whose  ugly  scars 
They  cursed  the  memory  of  civil  wars. 
The  moderate  sort  of  men,  thus  qualified, 
Inclined  the  balance  to  the  better  side;    76 
And  David's  mildness  managed  it  so  well, 
The  bad  found  no  occasion  to  rebel. 
But  when  to  sin  our  biassed  nature  leans, 
The  careful  Devil  is  still  at  hand  with 
means,  80 

And  providently  pimps  for  ill  desires: 
The  good  old  cause,  revived,  a  plot  re- 
quires ; 
Plots  true  or  false  are  necessary  things 
To    raise    up    commonwealths   and    ruin 
kings. 
The  inhabitants  of  old  Jerusalem         85 
Were  Jebusites;  the  town  so  called  from 

them, 
And  theirs  the  native  right. 
But  when  the  chosen  people  grew  more 

strong, 
The  rightful  cause  at  length  became  the 

wrong; 
And  every  loss  the  men  of  Jebus  bore,      90 
They  still  were  thought  God's  enemies  the 

more. 
Thus  worn  and  weakened,  well  or  ill  con- 
tent, 
Submit  they  must  to  David's  government: 
Impoverished  and  deprived  of  all  com- 
mand, 
Their  taxes  doubled  as  they  lost  their  land ; 
And,  what  was  harder  yet  to  flesh  and 
blood,  96 

Their  gods  disgraced,  and  burnt  like  com- 
mon wood. 
This  set  the  heathen  priesthood  in  a  flame, 
For  priests  of  all  religions  are  the  same. 
Of  whatsoe'er  descent  their  godhead  be, 
Stock,  stone,  or  other  homely  pedigree,  101 
In  his  defense  his  servants  are  as  bold, 
As  if  he  had  been  born  of  beaten  gold. 
The  Jewish  rabbins,  though  their  enemies, 
In  this  conclude  them  honest  men  and 
wise.  105 

For  'twas  their  duty,  all  the  learned  think, 
To  espouse  his  cause  by  whom  they  eat 

and  drink. 
From  hence  began  that  Plot,  the  nation's 

curse, 
Bad  in  itself,  but  represented  worse, 


Raised  in  extremes,  and  in  extremes  de- 
cried, no 

With  oaths  affirmed,  with  dying  vows  de- 
nied, 

Not  weighed  or  winnowed  by  the  multi- 
tude, 

But  swallowred  in  the  mass,  unchewed  and 
crude. 

Some  truth  there  was,  but  dashed  and 
brewed  with  lies 

To  please  the  fools  and  puzzle  all   the 
wise:  115 

Succeeding  times  did  equal  folly  call 

Believing  nothing  or  believing  all. 

The    Egyptian    rites    the    Jebusites    em- 
braced, 

Where  gods  were  recommended  by  their 
taste; 

Such  savory  deities  must  needs  be  good  120 

As  served  at  once  for  worship  and  for  food. 

By  force  they  could  not  introduce  these 
gods, 

For  ten  to  one  in  former  days  was  odds: 

So  fraud  was  used,  the  sacrificer's  trade; 

Fools  are  more  hard  to  conquer  then  per- 
suade. 125 

Their   busy    teachers    mingled   with   the 
Jews 

And  raked  for  converts  even  the  court  and 
stews: 

Which  Hebrew  priests  the  more  unkindly 
took, 

Because  the  fleece  accompanies  the  flock. 

Some  thought  they  God's  anointed  meant 
to  slay  130 

By  guns,  invented  since  full  many  a  day: 

Our  author  swears  it  not;  but  who  can 
know 

How  far  the  Devil  and  Jebusites  may  go? 

This  plot,  which  failed  for  want  of  com- 
mon sense, 

Had   yet   a  deep  and   dangerous   conse- 
quence; 13s 

For  as,  when  raging  fevers  boil  the  blood, 

The  standing  lake  soon  floats  into  a  flood, 

And  every  hostile  humor  which  before 

Slept  quiet  in  its  channels  bubbles  o'er; 

So  several  factions  from  this  first  ferment 

Work  up  to  foam  and  threat  the  govern- 
ment. 141 

Some  by  their  friends,  more  by  themselves 
thought  wise, 

Opposed  the  power  to  which  they  could 
not  rise. 


DRY DEN 


197 


Some  had  in  courts  been  great  and,  thrown 

from  thence, 
Like  fiends  were  hardened  in  impenitence. 
Some,  by  their   Monarch's   fatal    mercy 

grown  146 

From   pardoned    rebels   kinsmen    to    the 

throne, 
Were  raised  in  power  and  public  office 

high; 
Strong  bands,   if  bands  ungrateful   men 

could  tie. 
Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first, 150 
A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst: 
For  close  designs  and  crooked  counsels  fit ; 
Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit; 
Restless,  unfixed  in  principles  and  place; 
In   power   unpleased,   impatient   of   dis- 
grace: 155 
A  fiery  soul,  which,  working  out  its  way, 
Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay, 
And  o'er-informed  the  tenement  of  clay. 
A  daring  pilot  in  extremity; 
Pleased  with  the  danger  when  the  waves 

went  high,  160 

He  sought  the  storms;  but,  for  a  calm  un- 
fit, 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands,  to  boast 

his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide; 
Else  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honor 

blest,  165 

Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest? 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please, 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease? 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won 
To  that  unfeathered  two-legg'd  thing,  a 

son,  170 

Got,  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions 

try, 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 
In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate, 
Resolved  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  state; 
To  compass  this  the  triple  bond  he  broke, 
The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook,     1 76 
And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke; 
Then,  seized  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting 

fame, 
Usurped  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 
So  easy  still  it  proves  in  factious  times  180 
With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 
How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill, 
Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's 

will! 


Where  crowds  can  wink  and  no  offence  be 

known, 
Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their 

own!  185 

Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge; 
The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the 

judge. 
In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abbethdin 
With  more  discerning  eyes  or  hands  more 

clean, 
Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  re- 
dress, 190 
Swift  of  despatch  and  easy  of  access. 
Oh!  had  he  been  content  to  serve  the  crown 
With  virtues  only  proper  to  the  gown, 
Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 
From   cockle    that   oppressed   the   noble 

seed,  195 

David    for    him    his    tuneful    harp    had 

strung 
And  Heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal 

song. 
But   wild   Ambition   loves   to    slide,   not 

stand, 
And  Fortune's  ice  prefers  to  Virtue's  land. 
Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess       200 
A  lawful  fame  and  lazy  happiness, 
Disdained    the    golden    fruit    to    gather 

free, 
And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the 

tree. 
Now,  manifest1  of  crimes  contrived  long 

since, 
He  stood  at  bold  defiance  with  his  prince, 
Held    up    the    buckler    of    the    people's 

cause  206 

Against  the  crown,  and  skulked  behind  the 

laws. 
The  wished  occasion  of  the  plot  he  takes; 
Some  circumstances  finds,  but  more  he 

makes : 
By  buzzing  emissaries  fills  the  ears        210 
Of  listening  crowds  with  jealousies  and 

fears 
Of  arbitrary  counsels  brought  to  light, 
And  proves  the  king  himself  a  Jebusite. 
Weak  arguments!  which  yet  he  knew  full 

well 
Were  strong  with  people  easy  to  rebel.  215 
For,  governed  by  the  moon,   the  giddy 

Jews 
Tread  the  same  track  when  she  the  prime 

renews; 

1  evidently  guilty. 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


And  once  in  twenty  years,  their  scribes 

record, 
By  natural  instinct  they  change  their  lord. 
Achitophel  still  wants  a  chief,  and  none  220 
Was  found  so  fit  as  warlike  Absalon. 
Not  that  he  wished  his  greatness  to  create, 
(For  politicians  neither  love  nor  hate) 
But,  for  he  knew  his  title  not  allowed 
Would  keep  him  still  depending  on  the 
crowd,  225 

That    kingly    power,    thus    ebbing    out, 

might  be 
Drawn  to  the  dregs  of  a  democracy. 
Him  he  attempts  with   studied   arts  to 

please, 
And  sheds  his  venom  in  such  words  as 
these:  229 

"Auspicious  prince,  at  whose  nativity 
Some  royal  planet  ruled  the  southern  sky, 
Thy  longing  country's  darling  and  desire, 
Their  cloudy  pillar  and  their  guardian  fire, 
Their  second  Moses,  whose  extended  wand 
Divides  the  seas  and  shows  the  promised 
land,  235 

Whose  dawning  day  in  every  distant  age 
Has  exercised  the  sacred  prophet's  rage, 
The  people's  prayer,   the  glad  diviner's 

theme, 
The  young  men's  vision  and  the  old  men's 

dream, 
Thee  savior,  thee  the  nation's  vows  con- 
fess, 240 
And,  never  satisfied  with  seeing,  bless: 
Swift  unbespoken  pomps  thy  steps  pro- 
claim, 
And  stammering  babes  are  taught  to  lisp 

thy  name. 
How  long  wilt  thou  the  general  joy  detain, 
Starve   and   defraud   the   people   of   thy 
reign?  245 


Had  thus  old  David,  from  whose  loins  you 

spring, 
Not  dared,  when  Fortune  called  him  to  be 

King, 
At  Gath  an  exile  he  might  still  remain, 
And  Heaven's  anointing  oil  had  been  in 

vain.  265 

Let  his  successful  youth  your  hopes  engage, 
But  shun  the  example  of  declining  age. 
Behold  him  setting  in  his  western  skies, 
The  shadows  lengthening  as  the  vapors 

rise; 


He  is  not  now  as  when  on  Jordan's  sand  270 
The  joyful  people  thronged  to  see  him 

land, 
Covering  the  beach  and  blackening  all  the 

strand ; 


All  sorts  of  men,  by  my  successful  arts 
Abhorring   kings,   estrange   their   altered 
hearts  290 

From  David's  rule;  and  'tis  the  general 

cry: 
'Religion,  commonwealth,  and  liberty.' 
If  you,  as  champion  of  the  public  good, 
Add  to  their  arms  a  chief  of  royal  blood, 
What  may  not  Israel  hope,  and  what  ap- 
plause 295 
Might   such   a   general   gain  by   such  a 

cause? 
Not    barren    praise    alone,    that    gaudy 

flower, 
Fair  only  to  the  sight,  but  solid  power; 
And  nobler  is  a  limited1  command, 
Given  by  the  love  of  all  your  native  land, 
Than  a  successive  title,  long  and  dark,  301 
Drawn  from  the  mouldy  rolls  of  Noah's 
ark." 
What  cannot  praise  effect  in  mighty 
minds, 
When  flattery  soothes,  and  when  ambi- 
tion blinds?  304 
Desire  of  power,  on  earth  a  vicious  weed, 
Yet  sprung  from  high  is  of  celestial  seed; 
In  God  'tis  glory,  and  when  men  aspire, 
'Tis  but  a  spark  too  much  of  heavenly  fire. 
The  ambitious  youth,  too  covetous  of  fame, 
Too  full  of  angels'  metal  in  his  frame,     310 
Unwarily  was  led  from  virtue's  ways, 
Made  drunk  with  honor,  and  debauched 

with  praise. 
Half  loth,  and  half  consenting  to  the  ill, 
(For  loyal  blood  within  him  struggled  still,) 
He   thus   replied:    "And   what   pretence 
have  I  315 

To  take  up  arms  for  public  liberty? 
My    father    governs    with    unquestioned 

right, 
The  faith's  defender,  and  mankind's  de- 
light; 
Good,   gracious,    just,    observant   of   the 

laws; 
And  Heaven  by  wonders  has  espoused  his 
cause.  320 

!  appointed. 


DRY DEN 


199 


Whom  has  he  wronged  in  all  his  peaceful 

reign? 
Who  sues  for  justice  to  his  throne  in  vain? 
What  millions  has  he  pardoned  of  his  foes, 
Whom  just  revenge  did  to  his  wrath  ex- 
pose? 324 
Mild,  easy,  humble,  studious  of  our  good, 
Inclined  to  mercy  and  averse  from  blood. 
If  mildness  ill  with  stubborn  Israel  suit, 
His  crime  is  God's  beloved  attribute. 


Why  then  should  I,  encouraging  the  bad, 
Turn  rebel  and  run  popularly  mad?       336 
;  Were  he  a  tyrant,  who  by  lawless  might 
i  Oppressed  the  Jews  and  raised  the  Jebu- 

site, 
Well  might  I  mourn;  but  nature's  holy 

bands 
Would  curb  my  spirit  and  restrain  my 
hands;  340 

;  The  people  might  assert  their  liberty, 
But  what  was  right  in  them  were  crime  in 

me. 
His  favor  leaves  me  nothing  to  require, 
1  Prevents  my  wishes,  and  outruns  desire; 
What  more  can  I  expect  while  David  lives? 
All  but  his  kingly  diadem  he  gives:       346 
And  that" — But  here  he  paused,   then 

sighing  said, 
'  "Is  justly  destined  for  a  worthier  head; 
For  when  my  father  from  his  toils  shall 
rest,  349 

And  late  augment  the  number  of  the  blest, 
His  lawful  issue  shall  the  throne  ascend, 
Or  the  collateral  line,  where  that  shall 

end. 
\  His  brother,  though  oppressed  with  vulgar 

spite, 
:  Yet  dauntless  and  secure  of  native  right, 
!  Of  every  royal  virtue  stands  possessed,  355 
Still  dear  to  all  the  bravest  and  the  best. 
His  courage  goes,  his  friends  his  truth  pro- 
claim, 
;  His  loyalty  the  King,  the  world  his  fame. 
'His  mercy  even  the  offending  crowd  will 

find, 
For  sure  he  comes  of  a  forgiving  kind.    360 
l  Why  should  I  then  repine  at  Heaven's 

decree, 
Which  gives  me  no  pretence  to  royalty? 
,  Yet  oh  that  Fate,  propitiously  inclined, 
,  Had  raised  my  birth,  or  had  debased  my 
mind;  364 


To  my  large  soul  not  all  her  treasure  lent, 
And  then  betrayed  it  to  a  mean  descent! 
I  find,  I  find  my  mounting  spirits  bold, 
And  David's  part  disdains  my  mother's 

mould. 
Why  am  I  scanted  by  a  niggard  birth?  369 
My  soul  disdains  the  kindred  of  her  earth, 
And,  made  for  empire,  whispers  me  within, 
'Desire  of  greatness  is  a  god-like  sin.'" 
Him    staggering   so    when    Hell's    dire 
agent  found, 
While  fainting  virtue  scarce  maintained 

her  ground, 
He  pours  fresh  forces  in,   and   thus  re- 
plies: 375 
"The  eternal  God,  supremely  good  and 

wise, 
Imparts  not  these  prodigious  gifts  in  vain. 
What  wonders  are  reserved  to  bless  your 

reign ! 
Against  your  will  your  arguments  have 
shown  379 

Such  virtue's  only  given  to  guide  a  throne. 
Not  that  your  father's  mildness  I  contemn, 
But  manly  force  becomes  the  diadem. 
'Tis  true  he  grants  the  people  all  they 

crave, 
And  more,  perhaps,  than  subjects  ought 

to  have; 
For  lavish  grants  suppose  a  monarch  tame, 
And  more  his  goodness  than  his  wit  pro- 
claim. 386 


Doubt  not;  but,  when  he  most  affects  the 
frown, 

Commit  a  pleasing  rape  upon  the  crown. 

Secure  his  person  to  secure  your  cause:  475 

They  who  possess  the  Prince  possess  the 
laws." 
He  said,  and  this  advice  above  the  rest 

With  Absalom's  mild  nature  suited  best; 

Unblamed  of  life  (ambition  set  aside,) 

Not  stained  with  cruelty  nor  puffed  with 
pride,  480 

How  happy  had  he  been  if  Destiny 

Had  higher  placed  his  birth  or  not  so  high ! 

His  kingly  virtues  might  have  claimed  a 
throne 

And  blessed  all  other  countries  but  his 
own; 

But  charming  greatness  since  so  few  re- 
fuse, 485 

'Tis  juster  to  lament  him  than  accuse. 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Strong  were  his  hopes  a  rival  to  remove, 
With  blandishments  to  gain  the  public 

love, 
To  head  the  faction  while  their  zeal  was 

hot, 
And  popularly  prosecute  the  plot.         490 
To  further  this,  Achitophel  unites 
The  malcontents  of  all  the  Israelites, 
Whose  differing  parties  he  could  wisely 

join 
For  several  ends  to  serve  the  same  design; 
The  best,  (and  of  the  princes  some  were 

SUch,)  495 

Who  thought  the  power  of  monarchy  too 

much; 
Mistaken    men,    and    patriots    in    their 

hearts, 
Not  wicked,  but  seduced  by  impious  arts; 
By  these  the  springs  of  property  were  bent 
And   wound   so   high   they   cracked   the 

government.  500 

The  next  for  interest  sought  to  embroil 

the  state 
To  sell  their  duty  at  a  dearer  rate, 
And  make  their  Jewish  markets  of  the 

throne, 
Pretending  public  good  to  serve  their  own. 
Others  thought   kings  an  useless  heavy 

load,  505 

Who  cost  too  much  and  did  too  little  good. 
These  were  for  laying  honest  David  by 
On  principles  of  pure  good  husbandry. 
With  them  joined  all  the  haranguers  of  the 

throng, 
That  thought  to  get  preferment  by  the 

tongue.  510 


A  numerous  host  of  dreaming  saints  suc- 
ceed 

Of  the  true  old  enthusiastic  breed:  530 

'Gainst  form  and  order  they  their  power 
employ, 

Nothing  to  build,  and  all  things  to  de- 
stroy. 

But  far  more  numerous  was  the  herd  of 
such 

Who  think  too  little,  and  who  talk  too 
much. 

These  out  of  mere  instinct,  they  knew  not 
why,  535 

Adored  their  fathers'  God  and  property, 

And,  by  the  same  blind  benefit  of  Fate, 

The  Devil  and  the  Jebusite  did  hate: 


Born  to  be  saved,  even  in  their  own  de- 
spite, 
Because   they   could   not   help   believing 

right.  54o 

Such  were  the  tools;  but  a  whole  Hydra 

more 
Remains,  of  sprouting  heads  too  long  to 

score. 
Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the 

land: 
In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand; 
A  man  so  various  that  he  seemed  to  be  545 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome: 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong, 
Was   everything   by   starts   and   nothing 

long; 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon 
Was    chymist,    fiddler,    statesman,    and 

buffoon;  550 

Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming, 

drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in 

thinking. 
Blest   madman,    who   could    every   hour 

employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy! 
Railing    and    praising    were    his    usual 

themes,  555 

And  both  (to  show  his  judgment)  in  ex- 
tremes : 
So  over  violent,  or  over  civil, 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or 

Devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art: 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert.  560 
Beggared  by  fools  whom  still  he  found  too 

late, 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He    laughed    himself    from    Court;    then 

sought  relief 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be 

chief: 
For  spite  of  him,  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  and  wise  Achitophel:         566 
Thus  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left. 


Shimei ,  whose  youth  did  early  promise  bring 
Of  zeal  to  God,  and  hatred  to  his  King,  586 
Did  wisely  from  expensive  sins  refrain, 
And  never  broke  the  Sabbath  but  for  gain; 
Nor  ever  was  he  known  an  oath  to  vent, 
Or  curse,  unless  against  the  government. 


DRY DEN 


Thus  heaping  wealth  by  the  most  ready 
way  591 

Among  the  Jews,  which  was  to  cheat  and 
pray, 

The  city,  to  reward  his  pious  hate 

Against  his  master,  chose  him  magistrate. 

His  hand  a  vare1  of  justice  did  uphold,  595 

His  neck  was  loaded  with  a  chain  of  gold. 
1  During  his  office  treason  was  no  crime; 

The  sons  of  Belial  had  a  glorious  time; 

For  Shimei,  though  not  prodigal  of  pelf, 

Yet  loved  his  wicked  neighbor  as  himself. 

When  two  or  three  were  gathered  to  de- 
claim 601 
I  Against  the  monarch  of  Jerusalem, 
1  Shimei  was  always  in  the  midst  of  them: 
'  And,  if  they  cursed  the  King  when  he  was 

by, 

,  Would  rather  curse  than  break  good  com- 
pany. 605 
'  If  any  durst  his  factious  friends  accuse, 
i  He  packed  a  jury  of  dissenting  Jews; 
Whose  fellow-feeling  in  the  godly  cause 
Would  free  the  suffering  saint  from  human 

laws : 
1  For  laws  are  only  made  to  punish  those  610 
:  Who  serve  the  King,  and  to  protect  his  foes. 
i  If  any  leisure  time  he  had  from  power, 
1  Because  'tis  sin  to  misemploy  an  hour, 
,  His  business  was  by  writing  to  persuade 
That  kings  were  useless  and  a  clog  to 
trade:  615 

!  And  that  his  noble  style  he  might  refine, 
j  No  Rechabite  more  shunned  the  fumes  of 

wine. 
i  Chaste  were  his  cellars,  and  his  shrieval 

board 
1  The  grossness  of  a  city  feast  abhorred : 
I  His  cooks  with  long  disuse   their  trade 
forgot;  620 

i  Cool  was  his  kitchen,  though  his  brains 

were  hot. 
j  Such  frugal  virtue  malice  may  accuse, 
!  But  sure  'twas  necessary  to  the  Jews: 
j  For  towns  once  burnt  such  magistrates 

require 
1  As  dare  not  tempt  God's  providence  by 
fire.  625 


Surrounded  thus  with  friends  of  every 
sort, 
Deluded  Absalom  forsakes  the  court ; 

1  wand. 


Impatient  of  high  hopes,  urged  with  re- 
nown, 

And  fired  with  near  possession  of  a  crown. 

The  admiring  crowd  are  dazzled  with  sur- 
prise, 686 

And  on  his  goodly  person  feed  their  eyes. 

His  joy  concealed,  he  sets  himself  to  show, 

On  each  side  bowing  popularly  low; 

His  looks,  his  gestures,  and  his  words  he 
frames,  690 

And  with  familiar  ease  repeats  their  names. 

Thus  formed  by  nature,  furnished  out 
with  arts, 

He  glides  unfelt  into  their  secret  hearts. 

Youth,  beauty,  graceful  action,  seldom 

fail, 
But  common  interest  always  will  prevail; 
And  pity  never  ceases  to  be  shown         725 
To  him  who  makes  the  people's  wrongs  his 

own. 
The  crowd  that  still  believe  their  kings 

oppress, 
With  lifted  hands   their  young  Messiah 

bless; 
Who  now  begins  his  progress  to  ordain 
With  chariots,  horsemen,  and  a  numerous 

train;  730 

From  east  to  west  his  glories  he  displays, 
And,  like  the  sun,  the  promised  land  sur- 
veys. 
Fame  runs  before  him  like  the  morning 

star, 
And  shouts  of  joy  salute  him  from  afar; 
Each  house  receives  him  as  a  guardian  god, 
And  consecrates  the  place  of  his  abode.  736 

Oh  foolish  Israel!  never  warned  by  ill! 
Still  the  same  bait,  and  circumvented  still! 
Did  ever  men  forsake  their  present  ease, 
In  midst  of  health  imagine  a  disease,      756 
Take  pains  contingent  mischiefs  to  foresee, 
Make  heirs  for  monarchs,  and  for  God 

decree? 
What  shall  we  think?     Can  people  give 

away 
Both  for  themselves  and  sons  their  native 

sway?  760 

Then  they  are  left  defenceless  to  the  sword 
Of  each  unbounded,  arbitrary  lord; 
And  laws  are  vain  by  which  we  right  enjoy, 
If    kings    unquestioned    can    those    laws 

destroy. 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Yet  if  the  crowd  be  judge  of  fit  and  just, 
And  kings  are  only  officers  in  trust,       766 
Then  this  resuming  covenant  was  declared 
When   kings   were   made,    or   is   forever 

barred. 
If  those  who  gave  the  sceptre  could  not  tie 
By  their  own  deed  their  own  posterity,  770 
How  then  could  Adam  bind  his  future 

race? 
How  could  his  forfeit  on  mankind  take 

place? 
Or  how  could  heavenly  justice  damn  us  all 
Who  ne'er  consented  to  our  father's  fall? 
Then  kings  are  slaves  to  those  whom  they 

command,  775 

And   tenants   to   their   people's   pleasure 

stand. 
Add  that  the  power,  for  property  allowed, 
Is  mischievously  seated  in  the  crowd; 
For  who  can  be  secure  of  private  right, 
If  sovereign  sway  may  be  dissolved  by 

might?  780 

Nor  is  the  people's  judgment  always  true: 
The  most  may  err  as  grossly  as  the  few; 
And  faultless  kings  run  down  by  common 

cry 
For  vice,  oppression,  and  for  tyranny. 


Now  what  relief  can  righteous  David 
bring?  81 1 

How  fatal  'tis  to  be  too  good  a  king! 

Friends  he  has  few,  so  high  the  madness 
grows; 

Who  dare  be  such  must  be  the  people's 
foes. 

Yet  some  there  were  even  in  the  worst  of 
days;  .        815 

Some  let  me  name,  and  naming  is  to  praise. 
In  this  short  file  Barzillai  first  appears, 

Barzillai,  crowned  with  honor  and  with 
years. 

Long  since  the  rising  rebels  he  withstood 

In  regions  waste  beyond  the  Jordan's 
flood:  820 

Unfortunately  brave  to  buoy  the  state, 

But  sinking  underneath  his  master's  fate. 

In  exile  for  his  godlike  prince  he  mourned, 

For  him  he  suffered,  and  with  him  re- 
turned. 

The  court  he  practised,  not  the  courtier's 
art:  825 

Large  was  his  wealth,  but  larger  was  his 
heart, 


Which  well  the  noblest  objects  knew  to 
choose, 

The  fighting  warrior,  and  recording  Muse. 

His  bed  could  once  a  fruitful  issue  boast; 

Now  more  than  half  a  father's  name  is 
lost.  830 

His  eldest  hope,  with  every  grace  adorned, 

By  me,  so  Heaven  will  have  it,  always 
mourned 

And  always  honored,  snatched  in  man- 
hood's prime 

By  unequal  fates  and  Providence's  crime: 

Yet  not  before  the  goal  of  honor  won,     835 

All  parts  fulfilled  of  subject  and  of 
son; 

Swift  was  the  race,  but  short  the  time  to 
run. 


Indulge    one    labor    more,    my    weary 
Muse, 

For  Amiel :  who  can  Amiel's  praise  refuse? 

Of  ancient  race  by  birth,  but  nobler  yet  900 

In  his  own  worth,  and  without  title  great: 

The  Sanhedrin  long  time  as  chief  he  ruled, 

Their   reason  guided,   and  their  passion 
cooled : 

So  dexterous  was  he  in  the  Crown's  de- 
fence, 

So    formed    to    speak    a    loyal    nation's 
sense,  905 

That,  as  their  band  was  Israel's  tribes  in 
small, 

So  fit  was  he  to  represent  them  all. 

Now  rasher  charioteers  the  seat  ascend, 

Whose  loose  careers  his  steady  skill  com- 
mend: 

They,  like  unequal  ruler  of  the  day,       910 

Misguide   the   seasons   and   mistake  the 
way, 

While  he,  withdrawn,  at  their  mad  labor 
smiles, 

And  safe  enjoys  the  Sabbath  of  his  toils. 
These  were  the  chief,  a  small  but  faithful 
band 

Of  worthies  in  the  breach  who  dared  to 
stand  915 

And  tempt  the  united  fury  of  the  land. 

With   grief    they   viewed   such   powerful 
engines  bent 

To  batter  down  the  lawful  government. 

A    numerous    faction,     with    pretended 
frights, 

In  Sanhedrins  to  plume  the  regal  rights, 


DRY DEN 


203 


The  true*  successor  from  the  court  re- 
moved; 921 

The  plot  by  hireling  witnesses  improved. 

These  ills  they  saw,  and,  as  their  duty 
bound, 

They  showed  the  King  the  danger  of  the 
wound ; 

That  no  concessions  from  the  throne 
would  please,  925 

But  lenitives  fomented  the  disease; 

That  Absalom,  ambitious  of  the  crown, 

Was  made  the  lure  to  draw  the  people 
down; 

That  false  Achitophel's  pernicious  hate 

Had  turned  the  plot  to  ruin  Church  and 
State;  930 

The  council  violent,  the  rabble  worse; 

That  Shimei  taught  Jerusalem  to  curse. 
With  all  these  loads  of  injuries  op- 
pressed, 

And  long  revolving  in  his  careful  breast 

The  event  of  things,  at  last,  his  patience 
tired,  935 

Thus  from  his  royal  throne,  by  Heaven 
inspired, 

The  godlike  David  spoke;  with  awful  fear 

His  train  their  Maker  in  their  master  hear. 
"Thus  long  have  I,  by  native  mercy 
swayed, 

My  wrongs  dissembled,  my  revenge  de- 
layed; 940 

So  willing  to  forgive  the  offending  age, 

So  much  the  father  did  the  king  assuage. 

But  now  so  far  my  clemency  they  slight, 

The  offenders  question  my  forgiving  right. 

That  one  was  made  for  many,  they  con- 
tend; 945 

But  'tis  to  rule,  for  that's  a  monarch's  end. 

They  call  my  tenderness  of  blood  my  fear, 

Though  manly  tempers  can  the  longest 
bear. 

Yet  since  they  will  divert  my  native  course, 

'Tis  time  to  show  I  am  not  good  by  force. 

Those  heaped  affronts  that  haughty  sub- 
jects bring  951 

Are  burdens  for  a  camel,  not  a  king. 

Kings  are  the  public  pillars  of  the  State, 

Born  to  sustain  and  prop  the  nation's 
weight: 

If  my  young  Samson  will  pretend  a  call  955 

To  shake  the  column,  let  him  share  the 
fall. 

But  oh  that  yet  he  would  repent  and  live! 

How  easy  'tis  for  parents  to  forgive! 


With  how  few  tears  a  pardon  might  be  won 
From  nature,  pleading  for  a  darling  son! 
Poor  pitied  youth,  by  my  paternal  care  961 
Raised  up  to  all  the  height  his  frame  could 

bear! 
Had  God  ordained  his  fate  for  empire  born, 
He  would  have  given  his  soul  another  turn: 
Gulled    with    a    patriot's    name,    whose 

modern  sense  965 

Is  one  that  would  by  law  supplant  his 

prince; 
The  people's  brave,  the  politician's  tool, 
Never  was  patriot  yet  but  was  a  fool. 
Whence  comes  it  that  religion  and  the 

laws 
Should  more  be  Absalom's  than  David's 

cause?  970 

His  old  instructor,  ere  he  lost  his  place, 
Was  never  thought  endued  with  so  much 

grace. 
Good  heavens,  how  faction  can  a  patriot 

paint ! 
My  rebel  ever  proves  my  people's  saint. 
Would   they   impose   an   heir   upon   the 

throne?  975 

Let  Sanhedrins  be  taught  to  give  their 

own. 
A  king's  at  least  a  part  of  government, 
And  mine  as  requisite  as  their  consent. 
Without  my  leave  a  future  king  to  choose 
Infers  a  right  the  present  to  depose.      980 
True,  they  petition  me  to  approve  their 

choice; 
But  Esau's  hands  suit  ill  with  Jacob's 

voice". 
My  pious  subjects  for  my  safety  pray, 
Which  to  secure,  they  take  my  power  away. 
From  plots  and  treasons  Heaven  preserve 

my  years,  985 

But  save  me  most  from  my  petitioners, 
Unsatiate  as  the  barren  womb  or  grave; 
God  cannot  grant  so  much  as  they  can 

crave. 
What  then  is  left  but  with  a  jealous  eye 
To  guard  the  small  remains  of  royalty?  990 
The  law  shall  still  direct  my  peaceful  sway, 
And  the  same  law  teach  rebels  to  obey. 


By  their  own  arts,  'tis  righteously  decreed, 
Those  dire  artificers  of  death  shall  bleed. 
Against   themselves   their  witnesses  will 
swear  1012 

Till,  viper-like,  their  mother-plot  they  tear, 


204 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


And  suck  for  nutriment  that  bloody  gore 
Which  was  their  principle  of  life  before. 
Their   Belial   with   their   Beelzebub   will 

fight;  1016 

Thus  on  my  foes  my  foes  shall  do  me  right. 
Nor  doubt  the  event;  for  factious  crowds 

engage 
In  their  first  onset  all  their  brutal  rage. 
Then  let  them  take  an  unresisted  course; 
Retire  and  traverse,  and  delude  their  force : 
But  when  they  stand  all  breathless,  urge 

the  fight,  1022 

And  rise  upon  them  with  redoubled  might : 
For  lawful  power  is  still  superior  found, 
When  long  driven  back  at  length  it  stands 

the  ground."  1025 

He  said.    The  Almighty,  nodding,  gave 

consent ; 
And  peals  of  thunder  shook  the  firmament. 
Henceforth  a  series  of  new  time  began ; 
The  mighty  years  in  long  procession  ran ; 
Once  more  the  godlike  David  was  restored, 
And  willing  nations  knew  their  lawful  lord. 


MAC   FLECKNOE 

All  human  things  are  subject  to  decay, 
And,  when  Fate  summons,  monarchs  must 

obey. 
This  Flecknoe  found,  who,  like  Augustus, 

young 
Was  called  to  empire,  and  had  governed 

long; 
In  prose  and  verse,  was  owmed  without 
dispute,  5 

Through  all  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  ab- 
solute. 
This  aged  prince,  now  flourishing  in  peace, 
And  blest  with  issue  of  a  large  increase, 
Worn  out  with  business,  did  at  length  de- 
bate 
To  settle  the  succession  of  the  state;         10 
And,  pondering  which  of  all  his  sons  was 

fit 
To  reign  and  wage  immortal  war  with 

wit, 
Cried,  "'Tis  resolved,  for  Nature  pleads 

that  he 
Should  only  rule  who  most  resembles  me. 
Shadwell  alone  my  perfect  image  bears,  1 5 
Mature  in  dulness  from  his  tender  years; 
Shadwell  alone  of  all  my  sons  is  he 
Who  stands  confirmed  in  full  stupidity. 


The  rest  to  some  faint  meaning  make  pre- 
tence, 
But  Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense.  20 
Some  beams  of  wit  on  other  souls  may  fall, 
Strike  through,  and  make  a  lucid  interval; 
But  Shadwell's  genuine  night  admits  no 

ray, 
His  rising  fogs  prevail  upon  the  day. 
Besides,  his  goodly  fabric  fills  the  eye      25 
And  seems  designed  for  thoughtless  maj- 
esty, 
Thoughtless  as  monarch  oaks  that  shade 

the  plain, 
And,  spread  in  solemn  state,  supinely  reign. 
Heywood  and  Shirley  were  but  types  of 

thee, 
Thou  last  great  prophet  of  tautology.      30 
Even  I,  a  dunce  of  more  renown  than  they, 
Was  sent  before  but  to  prepare  thy  way, 
And  coarsely  clad  in  Norwich  drugget1 

came 
To  teach  the  nations  in  thy  greater  name. 
My    warbling   lute,    the   lute   I    whilom 

strung,  35 

When  to  King  John  of  Portugal  I  sung, 
Was  but  the  prelude  to  that  glorious  day 
When  thou  on  silver  Thames  didst  cut 

thy  way, 
With   well-timed   oars   before   the   royal 

barge, 
Swelled  with   the  pride  of  thy  celestial 

charge,  40 

And,  big  with  hymn,  commander  of  an 

host; 
The  like  was  ne'er  in   Epsom   blankets 

tossed. 
Methinks  I  see  the  new  Arion  sail, 
The  lute  still  trembling  underneath  thy  nail. 
At  thy  well-sharpened  thumb  from  shore 

to  shore  45 

The  treble  squeaks  for  fear,  the  basses  roar; 


About  thy  boat  the  little  fishes  throng, 
As  at  the  morning  toast  that  floats  along. 
Sometimes,  as  prince  of  thy  harmonious 

band,  51 

Thou  wield 'st  thy  papers  in  thy  threshing 

hand. 
St.  Andre's  feet  ne'er  kept  more  equal 

time, 
Not  even  the  feet  of  thy  own  Psyche's 

rhyme: 

1  coarse  cloth. 


DRY DEN 


2°5 


Though  they  in  number  as  in  sense  excel, 
So  just,  so  like  tautology,  they  fell  56 

That,  pale  with  envy,  Singleton  forswore, 
The  lute  and  sword  which  he  in  triumph 

bore, 
And  vowed  he  ne'er  would  act  Valerius 

more." 
Here  stopped  the  good  old  sire  and  wept 
for  joy,  60 

In  silent  raptures  of  the  hopeful  boy. 
All  arguments,  but  most  his  plays,  per- 
suade 
That  for  anointed  dulness  he  was  made. 
Close  to  the  walls  which  fair  Augusta 
bind,  64 

!  (The  fair  Augusta  much  to  fears  inclined,) 
■  An  ancient  fabric  raised  to  inform  the  sight 
There  stood  of  yore,  and  Barbican  it  hight; 
j  A  watch-tower  once,  but  now,  so  fate  or- 
dains, 
1  Of  all  the  pile  an  empty  name  remains;    69 


Near  these  a  Nursery  erects  its  head 
Where    queens    are    formed    and    future 

heroes  bred,  75 

Where  unfledged  actors  learn  to  laugh  and 

cry, 
Where  infant  trulls  their  tender  voices  try, 
And  little  Maximins  the  gods  defy. 
Great  Fletcher  never  treads  in  buskins  here, 
Nor  greater  Jonson  dares  in  socks  appear; 
But  gentle  Simkin  just  reception  finds  81 
Amidst  this  monument  of  vanished  minds; 
Pure  clinches1  the  suburbian  muse  affords, 
I  And  Panton  waging  harmless  war  with 

words. 
I  Here  Flecknoe,  as  a  place  to  fame  well 

known,  85 

j  Ambitiously     designed     his     Shadwell's 

throne. 
For  ancient  Dekker  prophesied  long  since 
;That  in  this  pile  should  reign  a  mighty 

prince, 
jBorn  for  a  scourge  of  wit  and  flail  of  sense, 
To    whom    true    dulness    should    some 

Psyches  owe,  90 

'  But  worlds  of  Misers  from  his  pen  should 

flow; 
!  Humorists  and  hypocrites  it  should  pro- 
duce, 
Whole  Raymond   families  and  tribes   of 

Bruce. 

1  puns. 


Now  Empress  Fame  had  published  the 

renown 
Of    Shadwell's    coronation    through    the 

town.  95 

Roused  by  report  of  fame,  the  nations 

meet 
From  near  Bunhill  and  distant  Watling- 

street. 
No  Persian  carpets  spread  the  imperial 

way, 
But  scattered  limbs  of  mangled  poets  lay; 


Much  Heywood,  Shirley,  Ogleby,  there 
lay;  102 

But  loads  of  Shadwell  almost  choked  the 
way. 

Bilked  stationers  for  yeomen  stood  pre- 
pared, 

And  Herringman  was  captain  of  the  guard. 

The  hoary  prince  in  majesty  appeared,  106 

High  on  a  throne  of  his  own  labors  reared. 

At  his  right  hand  our  young  Ascanius 
sate, 

Rome's  other  hope  and  pillar  of  the  state. 

His  brows  thick  fogs  instead  of  glories 
grace,  no 

And  lambent  dulness  played  around  his 
face. 

As  Hannibal  did  to  the  altars  come, 

Sworn  by  his  sire  a  mortal  foe  to  Rome; 

So  Shadwell  swore,  nor  should  his  vow  be 
vain, 

That  he  till  death  true  dulness  would 
maintain;  115 

And,  in  his  father's  right  and  realm's  de- 
fence, 

Ne'er  to  have  peace  with  wit  nor  truce 
with  sense. 

The  king  himself  the  sacred  unction  made, 

As  king  by  office  and  as  priest  by  trade. 

In  his  sinister  hand,  instead  of  ball,       120 

He  placed  a  mighty  mug  of  potent  ale; 

Love's  Kingdom  to  his  right  he  did  con- 
vey, 

At  once  his  sceptre  and  his  rule  of  sway; 

Whose  righteous  lore  the  prince  had  prac- 
tised young 

And  from  whose  loins  recorded  Psyche 
sprung.  125 

His  temples,  last,  with  poppies  were  o'er- 
spread, 

That  nodding  seemed  to  consecrate  his 
head. 


206 


THE  AGE  OE  CLASSICISM 


Just  at  that  point  of  time,  if  fame  not  lie, 
On  his  left  hand  twelve  reverend  owls  did 

fly. 
So  Romulus,  'tis  sung,  by  Tiber's  brook, 
Presage  of  sway  from  twice  six  vultures 
took.  131 

The  admiring  throng  loud  acclamations 

make, 
And  omens  of  his  future  empire  take. 
The  sire  then  shook  the   honors  of  his 

head, 
And  from  his  brows  damps  of  oblivion 
shed  135 

Full  on  the  filial  dulness:  long  he  stood, 
Repelling  from  his  breast  the  raging  god; 
At  length  burst  out  in  this  prophetic  mood : 
"Heavens  bless  my  son!  from  Ireland  let 

him  reign 
To  far  Barbadoes  on  the  western  main;  140 
Of  his  dominion  may  no  end  be  known, 
And  greater  than  his  father's  be  his  throne; 
Beyond  Love's  Kingdom  let  him  stretch  his 

pen!" 
He    paused,    and    all    the    people    cried 

"Amen." 
Then  thus  continued  he:  "My  son,  ad- 
vance 145 
Still  in  new  impudence,  new  ignorance. 
Success  let  others  teach;  learn  thou  from 

me 
Pangs  without  birth,  and  fruitless  indus- 
try. 
Let  Virtuosos  in  five  years  be  writ, 
Yet  not  one  thought  accuse  thy  toil  of  wit. 
Let  gentle  George  in  triumph  tread  the 
stage,  151 

Make  Dorimant  betray,  and  Loveit  rage; 
Let  Cully,  Cockwood,  Fopling,  charm  the 

pit, 
And  in  their  folly  show  the  writer's  wit. 
Yet  still  thy  fools  shall  stand  in  thy  de- 
fence, 15s 
And  justify  their  author's  want  of  sense. 
Let  them  be  all  by  thy  own  model  made 
Of  dulness,  and  desire  no  foreign  aid, 
That  they  to  future  ages  may  be  known, 
Not  copies  drawn,  but  issue  of  thy  own.  160 
Nay,  let  thy  men  of  wit  too  be  the  same, 
All  full  of  thee,  and  differing  but  in  name. 
But  let  no  alien  Sedley  interpose 
To  lard  with  wit  thy  hungry  Epsom  prose. 
And  when  false  flowers  of  rhetoric  thou 
wouldst  cull,  165 
Trust  nature;  do  not  labor  to  be  dull; 


But  write  thy  best,  and  top;  and  in  each 

line 
Sir  Formal's  oratory  -will  be  thine. 
Sir  Formal,  though  unsought,  attends  thy 

quill, 
And  does  thy  northern  dedications  fill.  170 
Nor  let  false  friends  seduce  thy  mind  to 

fame 
By  arrogating  Jonson's  hostile  name; 
Let  father  Flecknoe  fire  thy  mind  with 

praise, 
And  uncle  Ogleby  thy  envy  raise. 
Thou  art  my  blood,  where  Jonson  has  no 

part:  175 

What  share  have  we  in  nature  or  in  art? 
Where  did  his  wit  on  learning  fix  a  brand, 
And  rail  at  arts  he  did  not  understand? 
Where  made  he  love  in  Prince  Nicander's 

vein, 
Or  swept  the  dust  in  Psyche's  humble 

strain?  180 


When  did  his  muse  from  Fletcher  scenes 

purloin, 
As  thou  whole  Etheredge  dost  transfuse 

to  thine?  184 

But  so  transfused  as  oil  on  water's  flow, 
His  always  floats  above,  thine  sinks  below. 
This  is  thy  province,  this  thy  wondrous 

way, 
New  humors  to  invent  for  each  new  play: 
This  is  that  boasted  bias  of  thy  mind, 
By  which  one  way  to  dulness  'tis  inclined, 
Which  makes  thy  writings  lean  on  one 

side  still,  191 

And,  in  all  changes,  that  way  bends  thy 

will. 
Nor  let  thy  mountain  belly  make  pretence 
Of  likeness;  thine's  a  tympany  of  sense. 
A. tun  of  man  in  thy  large  bulk  is  writ,  195 
But  sure  thou  art  but  a  kilderkin  of  wit. 
Like   mine,    thy   gentle   numbers   feebly 

creep; 
Thy  tragic  muse  gives  smiles;  thy  comic, 

sleep. 
With  whate'er  gall  thou  set'st  thyself  to 

write, 
Thy  inoffensive  satires  never  bite;  200 

In  thy  felonious  heart  though  venom  lies, 
It  does  but  touch  thy  Irish  pen,  and  dies. 
Thy  genius  calls   thee   not   to  purchase 

fame 
In  keen  iambics,  but  mild  anagram. 


DRY DEN 


207 


Leave  writing  plays,  and  choose  for  thy 
command  205 

Some  peaceful  province  in  Acrostic  Land. 

There  thou  mayest  wings  display  and 
altars  raise, 

And  torture  one  poor  word  ten  thousand 
ways; 

Or,  if  thou  wouldst  thy  different  talents 
suit, 

Set  thy  own  songs,  and  sing  them  to  thy 
lute."  210 

He  said,  but  his  last  words  were  scarcely 
heard, 

For  Bruce  and  Longville  had  a  trap  pre- 
pared, 

And  down  they  sent  the  yet  declaiming 
bard. 

Sinking,  he  left  his  drugget  robe  behind, 

Borne  upwards  by  a  subterranean  wind. 

The  mantle  fell  to  the  young  prophet's 
part  216 

With  double  portion  of  his  father's  art. 


From  THE  HIND   AND   THE 
PANTHER 

A  milk-white  Hind,  immortal  and  un- 
changed, 

Fed  on  the  lawns,  and  in  the  forest  ranged ; 

Without  unspotted,  innocent  within, 

She  feared  no  danger,  for  she  knew  no 
sin. 

Yet  had  she  oft  been  chased  with  horns 
and  hounds  5 

And  Scythian  shafts,  and  many  winged 
wounds 

Aimed  at  her  heart;  was  often  forced  to 

And  doomed  to  death,  though  fated  not 
to  die. 
Not  so  her  young;  for  their  unequal  line 

Was  hero's  make,  half  human,  half  di- 
vine. 10 

Their  earthly  mold  obnoxious  was  to 
fate, 

The  immortal  part  assumed  immortal 
state. 

Of  these  a  slaughtered  army  lay  in  blood, 

Extended  o'er  the  Caledonian  wood, 

Their  native  walk;  whose  vocal  blood 
arose  1 5 

And  cried  for  pardon  on  their  perjured 
foes. 


Their  fate  was  fruitful,  and  the  sanguine 
seed, 

Endued  with  souls,  increased  the  sacred 
breed. 

So  captive  Israel  multiplied  in  chains, 

A  numerous  exile,  and  enjoyed  her  pains.  20 

With    grief    and    gladness    mixed,    their 
mother  viewed 

Her  martyred  offspring  and  their  race  re- 
newed; 

Their  corps  to  perish,  but  their  kind  to 
last, 

So  much  the  deathless  plant  the  dying  fruit 
surpassed. 
Panting  and  pensive  now  she  ranged 
alone,  25 

And  wandered  in  the  kingdoms  once  her 
own. 

The  common  hunt,  though  from  their  rage 
restrained 

By   sovereign  power,   her   company  dis- 
dained; 

Grinned  as  they  passed,  and  with  a  glaring 
eye 

Gave  gloomy  signs  of  secret  enmity.       30 

'Tis  true  she  bounded  by,  and  tripped  so 
light 

They  had  not  time  to  take  a  steady  sight ; 

For  truth  has  such  a  face  and  such  a  mien  | 

As  to  be  loved  needs  only  to  be  seen. 
The    bloody     Bear,     an     Independent 
beast  35 

Unlicked  to  form,  in  groans  her  hate  ex- 
pressed. 

Among   the   timorous  kind   the    quaking 
Hare 

Professed  neutrality,  but  would  not  swear. 

Next   her   the   buffoon   Ape,  as   atheists 
use, 

Mimicked  all  sects,  and  had  his  own  to 
choose;  40 

Still  when  the  Lion  looked,  his  knees  he 
bent, 

And  paid  at  church  a  courtier's  compli- 
ment. 

The  bristled  Baptist  Boar,  impure  as  he, 

But  whitened  with  the  foam  of  sanctity, 

With    fat    pollutions    filled    the    sacred 
place,  45 

And  mountains  levelled  in  his  furious  race: 

So  first  rebellion  founded  was  in  grace. 

But  since  the  mighty  ravage  which  he 
made 

In  German  forests  had  his  guilt  betrayed, 


20S 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


With  broken  tusks  and  with  a  borrowed 
name,  5° 

He  shunned  the  vengeance  and  concealed 
the  shame, 

So  lurked  in  sects  unseen.  With  greater 
guile 

False  Reynard  fed  on  consecrated  spoil; 

The  graceless  beast  by  Athanasius  first 

Was  chased  from  Nice;  then,  by  Socinus 
nursed,  55 

His  impious  race  their  blasphemy  re- 
newed, 

And  nature's  king  through  nature's  optics 
viewed. 

Reversed,  they  viewed  him  lessened  to 
their  eye, 

Nor  in  an  infant  could  a  God  descry. 

New  swarming  sects  to  this  obliquely 
tend;  60 

Hence  they  began,  and  here  they  all  will 
end. 


The  Panther,  sure  the  noblest  next  the 

Hind, 
And  fairest  creature  of  the  spotted  kind; 
Oh,  could  her  inborn  stains  be  washed 

away, 
She  were  too  good  to  be  a  beast  of  prey!  330 
How  can  I  praise  or  blame,  and  not  of- 
fend, 
Or  how  divide  the  frailty  from  the  friend? 
Her  faults  and  virtues  lie  so  mixed,  that 

she 
Nor  wholly  stands  condemned,  nor  wholly 

free. 
Then,  like  her  injured  Lion,  let  me  speak; 
He  cannot  bend  her  and  he  would  not 

break.  336 

Unkind  already,  and  estranged  in  part, 
The  Wolf  begins  to  share  her  wandering 

heart. 
Though  unpolluted  yet  with  actual  ill, 
She  half  commits  who   sins  but  in  her 

will.  34° 

If,  as  our  dreaming  Platonists  report, 
There  could  be  spirits  of  a  middle  sort, 
Too  black  for  heaven  and  yet  too  white 

for  hell, 
Who  just   dropped   half-way  down,   nor 

lower  fell; 
So  poised,  so  gently  she  descends  from 

high,  345 

It  seems  a  soft  dismission  from  the  sky. 


Her  house  not  ancient,  whatsoe'er  pre 

tence 
Her  clergy  heralds  make  in  her  defence; 
A  second  century  not  half-way  run, 
Since  the  new  honors  of  her  blood  be 

gun. 


350 


A  SONG  FOR  ST.   CECILIA'S  DAY, 
NOVEMBER  22,  1687 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began : 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 
And  could  not  heave  her  head,  5 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high: 
"Arise,  ye  more  than  dead." 

Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 
And  Music's  power  obey.  10 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began: 
From  harmony  to  harmony 

Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it 


ran, 


The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 


15 


What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell ! 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound.  20 

Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could 
not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell ! 


The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries:  "Hark!  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat!" 


25 


SO 


The  soft  complaining  flute 

In  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers,  35 

Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling 
lute. 


DRYDEX 


20Q 


Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion,    40 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  oh!  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 
The  sacred  organ's  praise? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love,  45 

Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 
Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race ; 
And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre;  50 

But    bright    Cecilia    raised    the    wonder 

higher: 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared, 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

Grand  Chorus 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays  55 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour,     60 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST;    OR,    THE 
POWER  OF  MUSIC 

A  Song  in  Honor  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day, 
1697 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne:  5 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around; 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles 
bound : 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride,         10 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair.   15 


Chorus 


Happy,  happy,  happy  pair! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high  20 

Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove,  25 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed,    30 
And    while    he    sought    her    snowy 
breast; 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 
And    stamped    an    image    of    himself,    a 
sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty 

sound, 
"A  present  deity,"  they  shout  around; 
"A  present  deity,"   the  vaulted  roofs 
rebound:  36 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod,  40 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

Chorus 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod,  45 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musi- 
cian sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes; 
Sound    the    trumpets,    beat    the 
drums;  50 

Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face: 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath;  he  comes, 
he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain;  55 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 


2IO 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.       60 

Chorus 

Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure; 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain.     65 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew 
vain; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice 
he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes;    70 
And,  while  he  heaven   and  earth  de- 
fied, 
Changed   his   hand,   and   checked   his 
pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good,  75 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need  80 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor 
sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul        85 
The  various  turns  of  chance  be- 
low; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

Chorus 

Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  be- 
low ;  90 

And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move,  95 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 


Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleas- 
ures. 
"War,"  he  sung,  "is  toil  and  trouble; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble;  100 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying: 
If   the  world   be  worth  thy  win- 
ning, 
Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying; 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee,     105 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide 
thee." 

The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  ap- 
plause: 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the 
cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair  no 

Who  caused  his  care, 
And   sighed   and   looked,    sighed   and 

looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again: 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed, 
The   vanquished   victor   sunk   upon   her 
breast.  115 

Chorus 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And    sighed    and    looked,    sighed    and 

looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again:  120 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed, 
The   vanquished   victor   sunk   upon   her 
breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder,  125 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of 
thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head; 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And,  amazed,  he  stares  around.  130 
* '  Revenge ,  revenge ! ' '  Timotheus  cries , 
"See  the  Furies  arise! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 


\ 


DRY DEN 


211 


And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their 
eyes!  135 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle 
were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain:        140 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How    they   point   to    the   Persian 
abodes, 
And   glittering   temples   of   their   hostile 
gods!"  145 

The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal 
to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,   like  another  Helen,   fired  another 
Troy.  ■  .      150 

Chorus 

And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal 
to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,   like  another  Helen,  fired  another 
Troy. 

Thus,  long  ago,  155 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire.  160 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The   sweet   enthusiast,   from   her   sacred 
store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds,  165 
With  Nature's  mother- wit,  and  arts  un- 
known before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down.  170 

Grand  Chorus 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 


The   sweet   enthusiast,   from   her   sacred 
store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  un- 
known before.  176 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down.  180 


LINES  PRINTED  UNDER  THE  EN- 
GRAVED PORTRAIT  OF  MILTON 

(In   Tonson's   folio    edition    of   Paradise 
Lost,  1688) 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  born, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed, 
The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last: 
The  force  of  Nature  could  no  farther  go; 
To  make  a  third  she  joined  the  former  two. 


From   AN   ESSAY  OF   DRAMATIC 
POESY 

As  Neander  was  beginning  to  examine 
The  Silent  Woman,  Eugenius,  earnestly 
regarding  him:  I  beseech  you,  Neander, 
said  he,  gratify  the  company,  and  me  in 
particular,  so  far  as,  before  you  speak 
of  the  play,  to  give  us  a  character  of  the 
author;  and  tell  us  frankly  your  opinion, 
whether  you  do  not  think  all  writers, 
both  French  and  English,  ought  to  give 
place  to  him?  [10 

I  fear,  replied  Neander,  that,  in  obey- 
ing your  commands,  I  shall  draw  some 
envy  on  myself.  Besides,  in  performing 
them,  it  will  be  first  necessary  to  speak 
somewhat  of  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher,  his 
rivals  in  poesy;  and  one  of  them,  in  my 
opinion,  at  least  his  equal,  perhaps  his 
superior. 

To  begin  then  with  Shakespeare.  He 
was  the  man  who  of  all  modern,  and  [20 
perhaps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and 
most  comprehensive  soul.  All  the  images 
of  nature  were  still  present  to  him,  and 
he  drew  them  not  laboriously,  but  luckily: 
when  he  describes  anything,   you   more 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


than  see  it,  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who 
accuse  him  to  have  wanted  learning,  give 
him  the  greater  commendation:  he  was 
naturally  learned;  he  needed  not  the 
spectacles  of  books  to  read  nature;  he  [30 
looked  inwards,  and  found  her  there.  I 
cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike;  were 
he  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare 
him  with  the  greatest  of  mankind.  He 
is  many  times  flat,  insipid;  his  comic  wit 
degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious 
swelling  into  bombast.  But  he  is  always 
great,  when  some  great  occasion  is  pre- 
sented to  him:  no  man  can  say,  he  ever 
had  a  fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did  [40 
not  then  raise  himself  as  high  above  the 
rest  of  poets, 

Quantum  lenta  solvent  inter  viburna  cu- 
pressi. 

The  consideration  of  this  made  Mr. 
Hales  of  Eton  say,  that  there  was  no 
subject  of  which  any  poet  ever  writ,  but 
he  would  produce  it  much  better  done  in 
Shakespeare;  and  however  others  are  now 
generally  preferred  before  him,  yet  the  [50 
age  wherein  he  lived,  which  had  contem- 
poraries with  him,  Fletcher  and  Jonson, 
never  equaled  them  to  him  in  their  es- 
teem: and  in  the  last  king's  court,  when 
Ben's  reputation  was  at  highest,  Sir 
John  Suckling,  and  with  him  the  greater 
part  of  the  courtiers,  set  our  Shakespeare 
far  above  him. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  of  whom  I  am 
next  to  speak,  had,  with  the  advantage  [60 
of  Shakespeare's  wit,  which  was  their  pre- 
cedent, great  natural  gifts,  improved  by 
study;  Beaumont  especially  being  so 
accurate  a  judge  of  plays,  that  Ben  Jon- 
son, while  he  lived,  submitted  all  his  writ- 
ings to  his  censure,  and  'tis  thought, 
used  his  judgment  in  correcting,  if  not 
contriving  all  his  plots.  What  value  he 
had  for  him,  appears  by  the  verses  he 
writ  to  him;  and  therefore  I  need  speak  [70 
no  further  of  it.  The  first  play  that 
brought  Fletcher  and  him  in  esteem,  was 
their  Philaster;  for  before  that,  they  had 
written  two  or  three  very  unsuccessfully: 
as  the  like  is  reported  of  Ben  Jonson, 
before  he  writ  Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 
Their  plots  were  generally  more  regular 
than  Shakespeare's,  especially  those  which 


were  made  before  Beaumont's  death; 
and  they  understood  and  imitated  the  [80 
conversation  of  gentlemen  much  better; 
whose  wild  debaucheries,  and  quickness 
of  wit  in  repartees,  no  poet  before  them 
could  paint  as  they  have  done.  Humor, 
which  Ben  Jonson  derived  from  particu- 
lar persons,  they  made  it  not  their  busi- 
ness to  describe;  they  represented  all 
the  passions  very  lively,  but  above  all, 
love.  I  am  apt  to  believe  the  English 
language  in  them  arrived  to  its  high-  [90 
est  perfection ;  what  words  have  since  been 
taken  in,  are  rather  superfluous  than 
ornamental.  Their  plays  are  now  the 
most  pleasant  and  frequent  entertain- 
ments of  the  stage;  two  of  theirs  being 
acted  through  the  year  for  one  of  Shake- 
speare's or  Jonson's:  the  reason  is,  because 
there  is  a  certain  gaiety  in  their  come- 
dies, and  pathos  in  their  more  serious 
plays,  which  suits  generally  with  all  [100 
men's  humors.  Shakespeare's  language  is 
likewise  a  little  obsolete,  and  Ben  Jon- 
son's wit  comes  short  of  theirs. 

As  for  Jonson,  to  whose  character  I J 
am  now  arrived,  if  we  look  upon  him/ 
while  he  was  himself  (for  his  last  plays" 
were  but  his  dotages),  I  think  him  the 
most  learned  and  judicious  writer  which 
any  theater  ever  had.  He  was  a  most 
severe  judge  of  himself,  as  well  as  [no 
others.  One  cannot  say  he  wanted  wit, 
but  rather  that  he  was  frugal  of  it.  In  his 
works  you  find  little  to  retrench  or  alter. 
Wit  and  language,  and  humor  also  in 
some  measure,  we  had  before  him;  but 
something  of  art  was  wanting  to  the 
drama,  till  he  came.  He  managed  his 
strength  to  more  advantage  than  any 
who  preceded  him.  You  seldom  find  him 
making  love  in  any  of  his  scenes,  or  [120  I 
endeavoring  to  move  the  passions;  his 
genius  was  too  sullen  and  saturnine  to  do 
it  gracefully,  especially  when  he  knew  he/ 
came  after  those  who  had  performed  both 
to  such  an  height.  Hunior  was  his  proper 
sphere;  and  in  that  he  delighted  most 
to  represent  mechanic  people.  He  was 
deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients,  both 
Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly 
from  them:  there  is  scarce  a  poet  [130 
or  historian  among  the  Roman  authors 
of  those  times,  whom  he  has  not  trans- 


DRYDEN 


213 


lated  in  Sejanus  and  Catiline.  But  hq.-j 
has  done  his  robberies  so  openly,  that  I 
one  may  see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by  ' 
any  law.  He  invades  authors  like  a 
monarch;  and  what  would  be  theft  in 
other  poets,  is  only  victory  in  him.  With 
the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  repre- 
sents old  Rome  to  us,  in  its  rites,  [140 
ceremonies,  and  customs,  that  if  one  of 
their  poets  had  written  either  of  his 
tragedies,  we  had  seen  less  of  it  than  in 
him.  If  there  was  any  fault  in  his  lan-J 
guage,  it  was,  that  he  weaved  it  too.j 
closely  and  laboriously,  in  his  comedies1 
especially:  perhaps,  too,  he  did  a  little 
too  much  Romanize  our  tongue,  leaving 
the  words  which  he  translated  almost 
as  much  Latin  as  he  found  them:  [150 
wherein,  though  he  learnedly  followed  their 
language,  he  did  not  enough  comply  with 
the  idiom  of  ours.  If  I  would  compare 
him  with  Shakespeare,  I  must  acknowledge 
him  the  more  correct  poet,  but  Shake- 
speare the  greater  wit.  Shakespeare  wai 
the  Homer,  of  father  of  our  dramatic  poets } 
Jonson  was  the  Virgil,  the  pattern  of  elabo-. 
rate  writing;  I  admire  him,  but  I  love* 
Shakespeare.  To  conclude  of  him ;  as  J160 
he  has  given  us  the  most  correct  plays,  so 
in  the  precepts  which  he  has  laid  down 
in  his  Discoveries,  we  have  as  many  and 
profitable  rules  for  perfecting  the  stage, 
as  any  wherewith  the  French  can  furnish 
us. 


From  the  PREFACE  TO  THE  FABLES 

It  remains  that  I  say  somewhat  of 
Chaucer  in  particular. 

In  the  first  place,  as  he  is  the  father  of 
English  poetry,  so  I  hold  him  in  the  same 
degree  of  veneration  as  the  Grecians 
held  Homer,  or  the  Romans  Virgil.  He 
is  a  perpetual  fountain  of  good  sense, 
learned  .in  all  sciences,  and  therefore 
speaks  properly  on  all  subjects.  As  he 
knew  what  to  say,  so  he  knows  also  [10 
when  to  leave  off;  a  continence  which  is 
practised  by  few  writers,  and  scarcely  by 
any  of  the  ancients,  excepting  Virgil  and 
Horace.  One  of  our  late  great  poets  is 
sunk  in  his  reputation  bee;, use  he  could 
never  forgive  any  conceit  \^hich  came  in 


his  way,  but  swept,  like  a  drag-net,  great 
and  small.  There  was  plenty  enough, 
but  the  dishes  were  ill  sorted;  whole 
pyramids  of  sweetmeats  for  boys  and  [20 
women,  but  little  of  solid  meat  for  men. 
All  this  proceeded,  not  from  any  want  of 
knowledge,  but  of  judgment.  Neither 
did  he  want  that  in  discerning  the  beau- 
ties and  faults  of  other  poets,  but  only 
indulged  himself  in  the  luxury  of  writing; 
and  perhaps  knew  it  was  a  fault  but  hoped 
the  reader  would  not  find  it.  For  this 
reason,  though  he  must  always  be  thought 
a  great  poet,  he  is  no  longer  esteemed  [30 
a  good  writer;  and  for  ten  impressions, 
which  his  works  have  had  in  so  many 
successive  years,  yet  at  present  a  hundred 
books  are  scarcely  purchased  once  a 
twelvemonth;  for,  as  my  last  Lord  Roches- 
ter said,  though  somewhat  profanely, 
"Not  being  of  God,  he  could  not  stand." 

Chaucer  followed  nature  everywhere, 
but  was  never  so  bold  to  go  beyond  her; 
and  there  is  a  great  difference  of  being  [40 
poeta  and  nitnis  poeta,  if  we  believe  Catul- 
lus, as  much  as  betwixt  a  modest  behavior 
and  affectation.  The  verse  of  Chaucer, 
I  confess,  is  not  harmonious  to  us;  but 
'tis  like  the  eloquence  of  one  whom  Taci- 
tus commends,  it  was  auribus  istius  tem- 
poris  accommodata;  they  who  lived  with 
him,  and  some  time  after  him,  thought  it 
musical;  and  it  continues  so  even  in  our 
judgment,  if  compared  with  the  num-  [50 
bers  of  Lydgate  and  Gower,  his  contem- 
poraries; there  is  the  rude  sweetness  of  a 
Scotch  tune  in  it,  which  is  natural  and 
pleasing  though  not  perfect.  'Tis  true  I 
cannot  go  so  far  as  he  who  published 
the  last  edition  of  him,  for  he  would  make 
us  believe  the  fault  is  in  our  ears,  and 
that  there  were  really  ten  syllables  in  a 
verse  where  we  find  but  nine;  but  this 
opinion  is  not  worth  confuting;  'tis  so  [60 
gross  and  obvious  an  error  that  common 
sense  (which  is  a  rule  in  everything  but 
matters  of  faith  and  revelation)  must 
convince  the  reader  that  equality  of 
numbers,  in  every  verse  which  we  call 
heroic,  was  either  not  known  or  not  always 
practised  in  Chaucer!s  age.  It  were  an 
easy  matter  to  produce  some  thousands 
of  his  verses  which  are  lame  for  want  of 
half  a  foot,  and  sometimes  a  whole  [70 


«Eft 


214 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


one,  and  which  no  pronunciation  can 
make  otherwise.  We  can  only  say  that 
he  lived  in  the  infancy  of  our  poetry, 
and  that  nothing  is  brought  to  perfec- 
tion at  the  first.  We  must  be  children 
before  we  grow  men. 


He  must  have  been  a  man  of  a  most 
wonderful  comprehensive  nature,  because, 
as  it  has  been  truly  observed  of  him,  he 
has  taken  into  the  compass  of  his  [80 
Canterbury  Tales  the  various  manners 
and  humors  (as  we  now  call  them)  of  the 
whole  English  nation  in  his  age.  Not  a 
single  character  has  escaped  him.  All 
his  pilgrims  are  severally  distinguished 
from  each  other,  and  not  only  in  their 
inclinations  but  in  their  very  physiog- 
nomies and  persons.  Baptista  Porta 
could  not  have  described  their  natures 
better  than  by  the  marks  which  the  [90 
poet  gives  them.  The  matter  and  manner 
of  their  tales  and  of  their  telling  are  so 
suited  to  their  different  educations,  hu- 
mors, and  callings  that  each  of  them  would 
be  improper  in  any  other  mouth.  Even 
the  grave  and  serious  characters  are  dis- 
tinguished by  their  several  sorts  of  gravity : 
their  discourses  are  such  as  belong  to 
their  age,  their  calling,  and  their  breed- 
ing; such  as  are  becoming  of  them,  [100 
and  of  them  only.  Some  of  his  persons 
are  vicious  and  some  virtuous;  some  are 
unlearned,  or  (as  Chaucer  calls  them) 
lewd,  and  some  are  learned.  Even  the 
ribaldry  of  the  low  characters  is  different: 
the  Reeve,  the  Miller,  and  the  Cook  are 
several  men,  and  distinguished  from  each 
other  as  much  as  the  mincing  Lady 
Prioress  and  the  broad-speaking,  gap- 
toothed  Wife  of  Bath.  But  enough  [no 
of  this;  there  is  such  a  variety  of  game 
springing  up  before  me  that  I  am  dis- 
tracted in  my  choice  and  know  not  which 
to  follow.  It  is  sufficient  to  say,  accord- 
ing to  the  proverb,  that  here  is  God's 
plenty.  We  have  our  forefathers  and 
great-grand-dames  all  before  us  as  they 
were  in  Chaucer's  days:  their  general 
characters  are  still  remaining  in  man- 
kind, and  even  in  England,  though  [120 
they  are  called  by  other  names  than  those 
of   monks,   and    friars,   and   canons,   and 


lady  abbesses,  and  nuns;  for  mankind  is 
ever  the  same,  and  nothing  lost  out  of 
nature  though  everything  is  altered. 


DANIEL   DEFOE    (1660?-1731) 

From  THE  TRUE-BORN  ENGLISH- 
MAN 

Satire,  be  kind,  and  draw  a  silent  veil, 
Thy  native  England's  vices  to  conceal; 
Or,  if  that  task's  impossible  to  do, 
At  least  be  just,  and  show  her  virtues  too; 
Too  great  the  first,  alas!  the  last  too  few.  5 


Ingratitude,  a  devil  of  black  renown, 
Possessed  her  very  early  for  his  own: 
An  ugly,  surly,  sullen,  selfish  spirit, 
Who  Satan's  worst  perfections  does  in- 
herit ; 
Second  to  him  in  malice  and  in  force,         10 
All   devil   without,   and   all   within    him 

worse. 
He  made  her  first-born  race  to  be  so 

rude, 
And  suffered  her  to  be  so  oft  subdued, 
By  several  crowds  of  wandering  thieves 

o'er-run, 
Often  unpeopled,  and  as  oft  undone;         15 
While  every  nation  that  her  powers  re- 
duced 
Their  languages  and  manners  introduced; 
From  whose  mixed  relics  our  compounded 

breed 
By  spurious  generation  does  succeed, 
Making  a  race  uncertain  and  uneven,     20 
Derived    from    all    the    nations    under 

heaven. 
The  Romans  first  with  Julius   Caesar 

came, 
Including  all  the  nations  of  that  name, 
Gauls,   Greeks,   and  Lombards;   and  by 

computation 
Auxiliaries  or  slaves  of  every  nation.       25 
With  Hengist,  Saxons;  Danes  with  Sweno 

came, 
In  search  of  plunder,   not  in   search  of 

fame. 
Scots,  Picts,  and  Irish  from  the  Hibernian 

shore ; 
And    conquering    William  •  brought    the 

Norman^  o'er. 


DEFOE 


215 


All  these  their  barbarous  offspring  left 
behind,  30 

The  dregs  of  armies,   they  of  all  man- 
kind, 

Blended  with  Britons,  who  before  were 
here, 

Of  whom  the  Welsh  have  blest  the  char- 
acter. 
From    this    amphibious,    ill-born    mob 
began 

That  vain,  ill-natured  thing,  an  English- 
man. 35 

The   customs,   sir-names,   languages   and 
manners, 

Of  all  these  nations,  are  their  own  ex- 
plainers; 

Whose  relics  are  so  lasting  and  so  strong, 

They've  left  a  shibboleth  upon  our  tongue; 

By  which,   with   easy  search,   you  may 
distinguish  40 

Your  Roman,   Saxon,   Danish,   Norman, 
English. 


And  here  begins  the  ancient  pedigree 
That  so  exalts  our  poor  nobility: — 
'Tis  that  from  some  French  trooper  they 

derive, 
Who  with  the  Norman  bastard  did  arrive: 
The  trophies  of  the  families  appear;        46 
Some  show  the  sword,  the  bow,  and  some 

the  spear, 
Which  their  great  ancestor,  forsooth,  did 

wear. 
These  in  the  herald's  register  remain, 
Their  noble  mean  extraction  to  explain;  50 
Yet  who  the  hero  was,  no  man  can  tell, 
Whether  a  drummer,  or  a  colonel; 
The  silent  record  blushes  to  reveal 
Their  undescended  dark  original. 

But  grant  the  best.     How  came  the 

change  to  pass,  55 

A  true-born  Englishman  of  Norman  race? 
A  Turkish  horse  can  show  more  history 
To  prove  his  well-descended  family. 
Conquest,  as  by  the  moderns  'tis  expressed, 
May  give  a  title  to  the  lands  possessed;   60 
But  that  the  longest  sword  should  be  so 

civil 
To  make  a  Frenchman  English,  that's  the 

devil. 
These  are  the  heroes  that  despise  the 

Dutch, 
And  rail  at  new-come  foreigners  so  much; 


Forgetting  that  themselves  are  all  derived 

From  the  most  scoundrel  race  that  ever 
lived,  66 

A  horrid  crowd  of  rambling  thieves  and 
drones 

Who  ransacked  kingdoms  and  dispeopled 
towns; 

The  Pict  and  painted  Briton,  treacherous 
Scot, 

By  hunger,  theft,  and  rapine,  hither 
brought;  70 

Norwegian  pirates,  buccaneering  Danes, 

Whose  red-haired  offspring  everywhere  re- 
mains; 

Who,  joined  with  Norman  French,  com- 
pound the  breed 

From  whence  your  true-born  Englishmen 
proceed. 


But  England,  modern  to  the  last  de- 
gree, 
Borrows  or  makes  her  own  nobility,  76 

And  yet  she  boldly  boasts  of  pedigree; 
Repines    that    foreigners    are    put    upon 

her, 
And  talks  of  her  antiquity  and  honor. 
Her  Sackvills,  Savils,  Cecils,  Delameres,  80 
Mohuns,  Montagues,  Duras  and  Veeres, 
Not  one  have  English  names,  yet  all  are 

English  peers. 
Your  Houblons,  Papillons,  and  Lethuliers, 
Pass  now  for  true-born  English  knights 

and  squires, 
And  make  good  senate-members,  or  lord 

mayors.  85 

Wealth,  howsoever  got,  in  England  makes 
Lords  of  mechanics,  gentlemen  of  rakes. 
Antiquity  and  birth  are  needless  here; 
'Tis  impudence  and  money  makes  a  peer. 
Innumerable  city  knights  we  know,  90 
From  Blue-coat  Hospitals,  and  Bridewell 

flow. 
Draymen  and  porters  fill  the  city  chair, 
And  foot-boys  magisterial  purple  wear. 
Fate  has  but  very  small  distinction  set 
Betwixt  the  Counter  and  the  coronet.  95 
Tarpaulin  lords,  pages  of  high  renown, 
Rise  up  by  poor  men's  valor,  not  their 

own ; 
Great  families  of  yesterday  we  show, 
And  lords,  whose  parents  were  the  Lord 

knows  who. 


2l6 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Then  let  us  boast  of  ancestors  no  more, 
Or  deeds  of  heroes  done  in  days  of  yore, 
In  latent  records  of  the  ages  past,  102 

Behind  the  rear  of  time,  in  long  oblivion 

placed ; 
For  if  our  virtues  must  in  lines  descend, 
The  merit  with  the  families  would  end,  105 
And  intermixture  would  most  fatal  grow, 
For  vice  would  be  hereditary  too; 
The  tainted  blood  would  of  necessity 
Involuntary  wickedness  convey. 

Vice,  like  ill-nature,  for  an  age  or  two 
May  seem  a  generation  to  pursue;  in 

But  virtue  seldom  does  regard  the  breed; 
Fools  do  the  wise,  and  wise  men  fools 

succeed. 
What's  it  to  us  what  ancestors  we  had? 
If  good,  what  better?  or  what  worse,  if 

bad?  115 

Examples  are  for  imitation  set, 
Yet  all  men  follow  virtue  with  regret. 
Could  but  our  ancestors  retrieve  their 

fate, 
And  see  their  offspring  thus  degenerate, — 
How  we  contend  for  birth  and  names  un- 
known, 120 
And  build  on  their  past  actions,  not  our 

own, — 
They'd  cancel  records,  and  their  tombs 

deface, 
And  openly  disown  the  vile  degenerate 

race; 
For  fame  of  families  is  all  a  cheat; 
It's  personal  virtue  only  makes  us  great.125 


THE   SHORTEST  WAY   WITH  THE 
DISSENTERS 

Sir  Roger  L'Estrange  tells  us  a  story  in 
his  collection  of  fables,  of  the  cock  and 
the  horses.  The  cock  was  gotten  to  roost 
in  the  stable  among  the  horses;  and  there 
being  no  racks  or  other  conveniences  for 
him,  it  seems  he  was  forced  to  roost  upon 
the  ground.  The  horses  jostling  about  for 
room  and  putting  the  cock  in  danger  of 
his  life,  he  gives  them  this  grave  advice, 
"Pray,  gentlefolks,  let  us  stand  still,  [10 
for  fear  we  should  tread  upon  one  an- 
other." 

There  are  some  people  in  the  world, 
who,  now  they  are  unperched,  and  re- 
duced to  an  equality  with  other  people, 


and  under  strong  and  very  just  appre- 
hensions of  being  further  treated  as  they 
deserve,  begin,  with  Esop's  cock,  to  preach 
up  peace  and  union  and  the  Christian 
duties  of  moderation;  forgetting  that  [20 
when  they  had  the  power  in  their  hands, 
those  graces  were  strangers  in  their  gates! 

It  is  now  near  fourteen  years,  that  the 
glory  and  peace  of  the  purest  and  most 
flourishing  Church  in  the  world  has  been 
eclipsed,  buffeted,  and  disturbed  by  a 
sort  of  men  whom  God  in  his  providence 
has  suffered  to  insult  over  her,  and  bring 
her  down.  These  have  been  the  days 
I  of  her  humiliation  and  tribulation.  She  [30 
has  borne  with  an  invincible  patience  the 
reproach  of  the  wicked;  and  God  has  at 
last  heard  her  prayers,  and  delivered  her 
from  the  oppression  of  the  stranger. 

And  now,  they  find  their  day  is  over, 
their  power  gone,  and  the  throne  of  this 
nation  possessed  by  a  royal,  English, 
true,  and  ever  constant  member  of,  and 
friend  to,  the  Church  of  England.  Now 
they  find  that  they  are  in  danger  of  [40 
i  the  Church  of  England's  just  resentments. 
j  Now,  they  cry  out,  "Peace!"  "Union!" 
"Forbearance!"  and  "Charity!":  as  if 
the  Church  had  not  too  long  harbored  her 
enemies  under  her  wing,  and  nourished 
the  viperous  brood,  till  they  hiss  and  fly 
in  the  face  of  the  mother  that  cherished 
them! 

No,  gentlemen,  the  time  of  mercy  is 
past,  your  day  of  grace  is  over,  you  [50 
should  have  practised  peace,  and  modera- 
tion, and  charity,  if  you  expected  any 
yourselves. 

We  have  heard  none  of  this  lesson  for 
fourteen  years  past.  We  have  been  huffed 
and  bullied  with  your  Act  of  Toleration. 
You  have  told  us  that  you  are  the  Church 
established  by  law,  as  well  as  others;  have 
set  up  your  canting  synagogues  at  our 
church  doors;  and  the  Church  and  her  [60 
members  have  been  loaded  with  re- 
proaches, with  oaths,  associations,  ab- 
jurations, and  what  not!  Where  has  been 
the  mercy,  the  forbearance,  the  charity 
you  have  shown  to  tender  consciences  of 
the  Church  of  England  that  could  not 
take  oaths  as  fast  as  you  made  them;  that, 
having  sworn  allegiance  to  their  lawful 
and  rightful  king,  could  not  dispense  with 


DEFOE 


217 


their  oath,  their  king  being  still  alive,  [70 
and  swear  to  your  new  hodge-podge  of  a 
Dutch  government?  These  have  been 
turned  out  of  their  livings,  and  they  and 
their  families  left  to  starve;  their  estates 
double  taxed  to  carry  on  a  war  they  had 
no  hand  in,  and  you  got  nothing  by! 
What  account  can  you  give  of  the  multi- 
tudes you  have  forced  to  comply,  against 
their  consciences,  with  your  new  sophis- 
tical politics,  who,  like  new  converts  [80 
in  France,  sin  because  they  cannot  starve? 
And  now  the  tables  are  turned  upon  you, 
you  must  not  be  persecuted!  It  is  not  a 
Christian  spirit! 

You  have  butchered  one  king,  deposed 
another  king,  and  made  a  mock  king  of 
a  third,  and  yet,  you  could  have  the  face 
to  expect  to  be  employed  and  trusted  by 
the  fourth!  Anybody  that  did  not  know 
the  temper  of  your  party,  would  stand  [90 
amazed  at  the  impudence  as  well  as  folly 
to  think  of  it! 

Your  management  of  your  Dutch  mon- 
arch, whom  you  reduced  to  a  mere  King 
of  Clubs,  is  enough  to  give  any  future 
princes  such  an  idea  of  your  principles 
as  to  warn  them  sufficiently  from  coming 
into  your  clutches;  and,  God  be  thanked, 
the  Queen  is  out  of  your  hands,  knows 
you,  and  will  have  a  care  of  you !  [100 

There  is  no  doubt  but  the  supreme  au- 
thority of  a  nation  has  in  itself  a  power, 
and  a  right  to  that  power,  to  execute  the 
laws  upon  any  part  of  that  nation  it 
governs.  The  execution  of  the  known  laws 
of  the  land,  and  that  with  but  a  gentle 
hand  neither,  was  all  that  the  fanatical 
party  of  this  land  have  ever  called  perse- 
cution. This  they  have  magnified  to 
a  height  that  the  sufferings  of  the  [no 
Huguenots  in  France  were  not  to  be  com- 
pared with.  Now  to  execute  the  known 
laws  of  a  nation  upon  those  who  trans- 
gress them,  after  voluntarily  consenting 
to  the  making  of  those  laws,  can  never 
be  called  persecution,  but  justice.  But 
justice  is  always  violence  to  the  party 
offending,  for  every  man  is  innocent  in 
his  own  eyes.  The  first  execution  of  the 
laws  against  Dissenters  in  England  [120 
was  in  the  days  of  King  James  I;  and 
what  did  it  amount  to?  Truly,  the  worst 
they  suffered  was,  at  their  own  request, 


to  let  them  go  to  New  England,  and  erect 
a  new  colony;  and  give  them  great  privi- 
leges, grants,  and  suitable  powers;  keep 
them  under  protection,  and  defend  them 
against  all  invaders;  and  receive  no  taxes 
or  revenue  from  them!  This  was  the 
cruelty  of  the  Church  of  England.  [130 
Fatal  lenity!  It  was  the  ruin  of  that 
excellent  prince,  King  Charles  I.  Had 
King  James  sent  all  the  Puritans  in  Eng- 
land away  to  the  West  Indies,  we  had 
been  a  national  unmixed  Church.  The 
Church  of  England  had  been  kept  undi- 
vided and  entire! 

To  requite  the  lenity  of  the  father,  they 
take  up  arms  against  the  son,  conquer, 
pursue,  take,  imprison,  and  at  last  [140 
put  to  death  the  anointed  of  God,  and 
destroy  the  very  being  and  nature  of 
government :  setting  up  a  sordid  impostor, 
who  had  neither  title  to  govern,  nor  under- 
standing to  manage,  but  supplied  that 
want,  with  power,  bloody  and  desperate 
counsels   and   craft,    without   conscience. 

Had  not  King  James  I  withheld  the 
full  execution  of  the  laws,  had  he  given 
them  strict  justice,  he  had  cleared  [150 
the  nation  of  them,  and  the  consequences 
had  been  plain:  his  son  had  never  been 
murdered  by  them,  nor  the  monarchy 
overwhelmed.  It  was  too  much  mercy 
shown  them  that  was  the  ruin  of  his  pos- 
terity, and  the  ruin  of  the  nation's  peace. 
One  would  think  the  Dissenters  should 
not  have  the  face  to  believe  that  we  are 
to  be  wheedled  and  canted  into  peace 
and  toleration,  when  they  know  that  [160 
they  have  once  requited  us  with  a  civil 
war,  and  once  with  an  intolerable  and 
unrighteous  persecution,  for  our  former 
civility. 

Nay,  to  encourage  us  to  be  easy  with 
them,  it  is  apparent  that  they  never  had 
the  upper  hand  of  the  Church  but  they 
treated  her  with  all  the  severity,  with  all 
the  reproach  and  contempt  as  was  pos- 
sible! What  peace  and  what  mercy  [170 
did  they  show  the  loyal  gentry  of  the 
Church  of  England,  in  the  time  of  their 
triumphant  Commonwealth?  How  did 
they  put  all  the  gentry  of  England  to 
ransom,  whether  they  were  actually  in 
arms  for  the  king  or  not,  making  people 
compound  for  their  estates,   and  starve 


2l8 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


their  families!  How  did  they  treat  the 
clergy  of  the  Church  of  England,  sequester 
the  ministers,  devour  the  patrimony  [180 
of  the  Church  and  divide  the  spoil,  by 
sharing  the  Church  lands  among  their 
soldiers,  and  turning  her  clergy  out  to 
starve!  Just  such  measure  as  they  have 
meted,  should  be  measured  them  again! 

Charity  and  love  is  the  known  doctrine 
of  the  Church  of  England,  and  it  is  plain 
she  has  put  it  in  practise  towards  the 
Dissenters,  even  beyond  what  they  ought, 
till  she  has  been  wanting  to  herself,  [190 
and  in  effect  unkind  to  her  own  sons;  par- 
ticularly, in  the  too  much  lenity  of  King 
James  I,  mentioned  before.  Had  he  so 
rooted  the  Puritans  from  the  face  of  the 
land,  which  he  had  an  opportunity  early 
to  have  done,  they  had  not  had  the  power 
to  vex  the  Church,  as  since  they  have 
done. 

In  the  days  of  King  Charles  II,  how 
did  the  Church  reward  their  bloody  [200 
doings  with  lenity  and  mercy!  Except 
the  barbarous  regicides  of  the  pretended 
court  of  justice,  not  a  soul  suffered  for  all 
the  blood  in  an  unnatural  war.  King 
Charles  came  in  all  mercy  and  love, 
cherished  them,  preferred  them,  employed 
them,  withheld  the  rigor  of  the  law  and 
oftentimes,  even  against  the  advice  of  his 
Parliament,  gave  them  liberty  of  con- 
science; and  how  did  they  requite  [210 
him?  With  the  villainous  contrivance  to 
depose  and  murder  him  and  his  successor, 
at  the  Rye  House  Plot! 

King  James  II,  as  if  mercy  was  the 
inherent  quality  of  the  family,  began 
his  reign  with  unusual  favor  to  them. 
Nor  could  their  joining  with  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth  against  him,  move  him  to  do 
himself  justice  upon  them.  But  that 
mistaken  prince,  thinking  to  win  [220 
them  by  gentleness  and  love,  proclaimed 
a  universal  liberty  to  them,  and  rather 
discountenanced  the  Church  of  England 
than  them.  How  they  requited  him,  all 
the  world  knows! 

The  late  reign  is  too  fresh  in  the  memory 
of  all  the  world  to  need  a  comment.  How 
under  pretense  of  joining  with  the  Church 
in  redressing  some  grievances,  they  pushed 
things  to  that  extremity,  in  conjunc-  [230 
tion  with  some  mistaken  gentlemen,  as  to 


depose  the  late  king;  as  if  the  grievance 
of  the  nation  could  not  have  been  re- 
dressed but  by  the  absolute  ruin  of  the 
prince.  Here  is  an  instance  of  their 
temper,  their  peace,  and  charity!  To 
what  height  they  carried  themselves  dur- 
ing the  reign  of  a  king  of  their  own,  how 
they  crept  into  all  places  of  trust  and 
profit;  how  they  insinuated  them-  [240 
selves  into  the  favor  of  the  king,  and 
were  at  first  preferred  to  the  highest 
places  in  the  nation,  how  they  engrossed 
the  ministry;  and,  above  all,  how  pitifully 
they  managed,  is  too  plain  to  need  any 
remarks.  .  .  . 

These  are  the  gentlemen!  these,  their 
ways  of  treating  the  Church,  both  at 
home  and  abroad!  Now  let  us  examine 
the  reasons  they  pretend  to  give,  why  [250 
we  should  be  favorable  to  them;  why  we 
should  continue  and  tolerate  them  among 
us. 

First.  They  are  very  numerous,  they 
say.  They  are  a  great  part  of  the  nation, 
and  we  cannot  suppress  them. 

To  this,  may  be  answered: 

First.  They  are  not  so  numerous  as 
the  Protestants  in  France:  and  yet  the 
French  king  effectually  cleared  the  [260 
nation  of  them  at  once;  and  we  don't  find 
he  misses  them  at  home!  But  I  am  not 
of  the  opinion  they  are  so  numerous  as  is 
pretended.  Their  party  is  more  numerous 
than  their  persons;  and  those  mistaken 
people  of  the  Church  who  are  misled 
and  deluded  by  their  wheedling  artifices 
to  join  with  them,  make  their  party  the 
greater:  but  those  will  open  their  eyes 
when  the  government  shall  set  heartily  [270 
about  the  work,  and  come  off  from  them, 
as  some  animals,  which  they  say,  always 
desert  a  house  when  it  is  likely  to  fall. 

Secondly.  The  more  numerous,  the 
more  dangerous;  and  therefore  the  more 
need  to  suppress  them;  and  God  has 
suffered  us  to  bear  them  as  goads  in  our 
sides,  for  not  utterly  extinguishing  them 
long  ago. 

Thirdly.  If  we  are  to  allow  them,  [280 
only  because  we  cannot  suppress  them; 
then  it  ought  to  be  tried,  whether  we  can 
or  no.  And  I  am  of  opinion  it  is  easy  to 
be  done,  and  could  prescribe  ways  and 
means,  if  it  were  proper:  but  I  doubt  not 


DEFOE 


219 


the  government  will  find  effectual  methods 
for  the  rooting  of  the  contagion  from  the 
face  of  this  land. 

Another  argument  they  use,  which  is 
this:  that  it  is  a  time  of  war,  and  we  [290 
have  need  to  unite  against  the  common 
enemy. 

We  answer,  this  common  enemy  had 
been  no  enemy,  if  they  had  not  made  him 
so.  He  was  quiet,  in  peace,  and  no  way 
disturbed  or  encroached  upon  us;  and  we 
know  no  reason  we  had  to  quarrel  with 
him. 

But,  further,  we  make  no  question  but 
we  are  able  to  deal  with  this  common  [300 
enemy  without  their  help:  but  why  must 
we  unite  with  them,  because  of  the 
enemy?  Will  they  go  over  to  the  enemy, 
if  we  do  not  prevent  it,  by  a  union  with 
them?  We  are  very  well  contented  they 
should,  and  make  no  question  we  shall 
be  ready  to  deal  with  them  and  the  com- 
mon enemy  too;  and  better  without  them 
than  with  them.  Besides,  if  we  have  a 
common  enemy,  there  is  the  more  [310 
need  to  be  secure  against  our  private 
enemies.  If  there  is  one  common  enemy, 
we  have  the  less  need  to  have  an  enemy 
in  our  bowels ! 

It  was  a  great  argument  some  people 
used  against  suppressing  the  old  money, 
that  "it  was  a  time  of  war,  and  it  was 
too  great  a  risk  for  the  nation  to  run.  If 
we  should  not  master  it,  we  should  be 
undone!"  And  yet  the  sequel  proved  [320 
the  hazard  was  not  so  great,  but  it  might 
be  mastered,  and  the  success  was  answer- 
able. The  suppressing  the  Dissenters  is 
not  a  harder  work,  nor  a  work  of  less 
necessity  to  the  public.  We  can  never 
enjoy  a  settled,  uninterrupted  union  and 
tranquillity  in  this  nation,  till  the  spirit 
of  Whiggism,  faction,  and  schism  is  melted 
down  like  the  old  money!  .... 

The  representatives  of  the  nation  [330 
have  now  an  opportunity.  The  time  is 
come  which  all  good  men  have  wished 
for,  that  the  gentlemen  of  England  may 
serve  the  Church  of  England,  now  they 
are  protected  and  encouraged  by  a  Church 
of  England  queen!  .  .  . 

If  ever  you  will  establish  the  best  Chris- 
tian Church  in  the  world;  if  ever  you  will 
suppress  the  spirit  of  enthusiasm;  if  ever 


you  will  free  the  nation  from  the  [340 
viperous  brood  that  have  so  long  sucked 
the  blood  of  their  mother;  if  ever  you  will 
leave  your  posterity  free  from  faction 
and  rebellion,  this  is  the  time!  This  is 
the  time  to  pull  up  this  heretical  weed  of 
sedition,  that  has  so  long  disturbed  the 
peace  of  our  Church,  and  poisoned  the 
good  corn! 

But,  says  another  hot  and  cold  objec- 
tor, this  is  renewing  fire  and  faggot,  [350 
reviving  the  Act  De  heretico  comburendo. 
This  will  be  cruelty  in  its  nature,  and 
barbarous  to  all  the  world. 

I  answer,  it  is  cruelty  to  kill  a  snake  or 
a  toad  in  cold  blood,  but  the  poison  of 
their  nature  makes  it  a  charity  to  our 
neighbors  to  destroy  those  creatures,  not 
for  any  personal  injury  received,  but  for 
prevention;  not  for  the  evil  they  have 
done,  but  the  evil  they  may  do.  Ser-  [360 
pents,  toads,  vipers,  etc.,  are  noxious  to  the 
body,  and  poison  the  sensitive  life:  these 
poison  the  soul,  corrupt  our  posterity, 
ensnare  our  children,  destroy  the  vitals 
of  our  happiness,  our  future  felicity,  and 
contaminate  the  whole  mass! 

Shall  any  law  be  given  to  such  wild 
creatures?  Some  beasts  are  for  sport, 
and  the  huntsmen  give  them  advantages 
of  ground,  but  some  are  knocked  on  [370 
the  head  by  all  possible  ways  of  violence 
and  surprise. 

I  do  not  prescribe  fire  and  faggot;  but 
as  Scipio  said  of  Carthage,  Delenda  est 
Carthago!  they  are  to  be  rooted  out  of 
this  nation,  if  ever  we  will  live  in  peace, 
serve  God,  or  enjoy  our  own.  As  for  the 
manner,  I  leave  it  to  those  hands  who 
have  a  right  to  execute  God's  justice  on 
the  nation's  and  the  Church's  enemies.  [382 

But  if  we  must  be  frighted  from  this 
justice,  under  these  specious  pretenses, 
and  odious  sense  of  cruelty,  nothing  will 
be  effected.  It  will  be  more  barbarous  to 
our  own  children  and  dear  posterity,  when 
they  shall  reproach  their  fathers,  as  we 
do  ours,  and  tell  us,  "You  had  an  op- 
portunity to  root  out  this  cursed  race 
from  the  world  under  the  favor  and  pro- 
tection of  a  true  Church  of  England  [390 
queen,  and  out  of  your  foolish  pity,  you 
spared  them,  because,  forsooth,  you  would 
not  be  cruel!     And  now  our  Church  is 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


suppressed  and  persecuted,  our  religion 
trampled  under  foot,  our  estates  plun- 
dered, our  persons  imprisoned,  and  dragged 
to  gaols,  gibbets,  and  scaffolds!  Your 
sparing  this  Amalekite  race  is  our  de- 
struction! Your  mercy  to  them  proves 
cruelty  to  your  poor  posterity! "  [400 

How  just  will  such  reflections  be  when 
our  posterity  shall  fall  under  the  merci- 
less clutches  of  this  uncharitable  genera- 
tion; when  our  Church  shall  be  swallowed 
up  in  schism,  faction,  enthusiasm,  and 
confusion;  when  our  government  shall 
be  devolved  upon  foreigners,  and  our 
monarchy  dwindled  into  a  republic! 

It  would  be  more  rational  for  us,  if  we 
must  spare  this  generation,  to  sum-  [410 
mon  our  own  to  a  general  massacre;  and 
as  we  have  brought  them  into  the  world 
free,  to  send  them  out  so;  and  not  betray 
them  to  destruction  by  our  supine  negli- 
gence, and  then  cry,  "It  is  mercy!" 

Moses  was  a  merciful  meek  man;  and 
yet  with  what  fury  did  he  run  through 
the  camp,  and  cut  the  throats  of  three 
and  thirty  thousand  of  his  dear  Israelites 
that  were  fallen  into  idolatry.  What  [420 
was  the  reason?  It  was  mercy  to  the 
rest,  to  make  these  examples,  to  prevent 
the  destruction  of  the  whole  army. 

How  many  millions  of  future  souls  we 
save  from  infection  and  delusion,  if  the 
present  race  of  poisoned  spirits  were 
purged  from  the  face  of  the  land! 

It  is  vain  to  trifle  in  this  matter.  The 
light  foolish  handling  of  them  by  mulcts, 
fines,  etc., — 'tis  their  glory  and  their  [430 
advantage!  If  the  gallows  instead  of  the 
Counter,  and  the  galleys  instead  of  the 
fines  were  the  reward  of  going  to  a  con- 
venticle to  preach  or  hear,  there  would 
not  be  so  many  sufferers.  The  spirit  of 
martyrdom  is  over.  They  that  will  go 
to  church  to  be  chosen  sheriffs  and  mayors, 
would  go  to  forty  churches  rather  than 
be  hanged! 

If  one  severe  law  were  made  and  [440 
punctually  executed  that  whoever  was 
found  at  a  conventicle  should  be  banished 
the  nation,  and  the  preacher  be  hanged, 
we  should  soon  see  an  end  of  the  tale. 
They  would  all  come  to  church,  and  one 
age  would  make  us  all  one  again. 

To  talk  of  five  shillings  a  month  for  not 


coming  to  the  sacrament,  and  one  shilling 
per  week,  for  not  coming  to  church: 
this  is  such  a  way  of  converting  [450 
people  as  was  never  known.  This  is 
selling  them  a  liberty  to  transgress,  for 
so  much  money.  If  it  be  not  a  crime, 
why  don't  we  give  them  full  license?  And 
if  it  be,  no  price  ought  to  compound  for 
the  committing  it,  for  that  is  selling  a 
liberty  to  people  to  sin  against  God  and 
the  government. 

If  it  be  a  crime  of  the  highest  conse- 
quence, both  against  the  peace  and  [460 
welfare  of  the  nation,  the  glory  of  God, 
the  good  of  the  Church,  and  the  happiness 
of  the. soul,  let  us  rank  it  among  capital 
offenses,  and  let  it  receive  a  punishment 
in  proportion  to  it. 

We  hang  men  for  trifles,  and  banish 
them  for  things  not  worth  naming;  but 
that  an  offense  against  God  and  the 
Church,  against  the  welfare  of  the  world, 
and  the  dignity  of  religion  shall  be  [470 
bought  off  for  five  shillings:  this  is  such 
a  shame  to  a  Christian  government  that 
it  is  with  regret  I  transmit  it  to  posterity. 

If  men  sin  against  God,  affront  his 
ordinances,  .  rebel  against  his  Church, 
and  disobey  the  precepts  of  their  su- 
periors; let  them  suffer,  as  such  capital 
crimes  deserve.  So  will  religion  flourish, 
and  this  divided  nation  be  once  again 
united.  .  .  .  [480 

How  can  we  answer  it  to  God,  to  the 
Church,  and  to  our  posterity,  to  leave 
them  entangled  with  fanaticism,  error, 
and  obstinacy,  in  the  bowels  of  the  nation; 
to  leave  them  an  enemy  in  their  streets, 
that,  in  time,  may  involve  them  in  the 
same  crimes,  and  endanger  the  utter  ex- 
tirpation of  the  religion  of  the  nation. 

What  is  the  difference  betwixt  this,  and 
being  subject  to  the  power  of  the  [490 
Church  of  Rome,  from  whence  we  have 
reformed?  If  one  be  an  extreme  on  one 
hand,  and  one  on  another,  it  is  equally 
destructive  to  the  truth  to  have  errors 
settled  among  us,  let  them  be  of  what 
nature  they  will.  Both  are  enemies  of 
our  Church,  and  of  our  peace;  and  why 
should  it  not  be  as  criminal  to  admit  an 
enthusiast  as  a  Jesuit?  Why  should  the 
Papist  with  his  seven  sacraments  be  [500 
worse  than  the  Quaker  with  no  sacraments 


DEFOE 


221 


at  all?  Why  should  religious  houses  be 
more  intolerable  than  meeting  houses? 
Alas,  the  Church  of  England!  What 
with  popery  on  one  hand,  and  schismatics 
on  the  other,  how  has  she  been  crucified 
between  two  thieves.  Now,  let  us  crucify 
the  thieves! 

Let  her  foundations  be  established  upon 
the  destruction  of  her  enemies!  The  [510 
doors  of  mercy  being  always  open  to  the 
returning  part  of  the  deluded  people,  let 
the  obstinate  be  ruled  with  the  rod  of 
iron! 

Let  all  true  sons  of  so  holy  and  op- 
pressed a  mother,  exasperated  by  her 
afflictions,  harden  their  hearts  against 
those  who  have  oppressed  her. 

And  may  God  Almighty  put  it  into  the 
hearts  of  all  the  friends  of  truth,  to  [520 
lift  up  a  standard  against  pride  and  x<\nti- 
christ,  that  the  posterity  of  the  sons  of 
error  may  be  rooted  out  from  the  face  of 
this  land,  for  ever! 

A  TRUE  RELATION 

OF 

THE  APPARITION  OF  MRS.   VEAL 

The  next  day  after  her  death,  to  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  at  Canterbury,  the  eighth 
of  September,  1705 

The  Preface 

This  relation  is  matter  of  fact,  and  at- 
tended with  such  circumstances  as  may 
induce  any  reasonable  man  to  believe  it. 
It  was  sent  by  a  gentleman,  a  justice  of 
peace  at  Maidstone,  in  Kent,  and  a  very 
intelligent  person,  to  his  friend  in  London, 
as  it  is  here  worded;  which  discourse  is  at- 
tested by  a  very  sober  and  understanding 
gentlewoman  and  kinswoman  (of  the  said 
gentleman's)  who  lives  in  Canterbury,  [10 
within  a  few  doors  of  the  house  in  which 
the  within-named  Mrs.  Bargrave  lives; 
who  believes  his  kinswoman  to  be  of  so  dis- 
cerning a  spirit,  as  not  to  be  put  upon  by 
any  fallacy,  and  who  positively  assured 
him  that  the  whole  matter  as  it  is  here  re- 
lated and  laid  down  is  what  is  really  true, 
and  what  she  herself  had  in  the  same  words, 
as  near  as  may  be,  from  Mrs.  Bargrave's 
own  mouth,  who  she  knows,  had  no  [20 


reason  to  invent  and  publish  such  a  story, 
or  any  design  to  forge  and  tell  a  lie,  being  a 
woman  of  much  honesty  and  virtue,  and 
her  whole  life  a  course,  as  it  were,  of 
piety.  The  use  which  we  ought  to  make 
of  it  is  to  consider  that  there  is  a  life  to 
come  after  this,  and  a  just  God  who  will 
retribute  to  every  one  according  to  the 
deeds  done  in  the  body,  and  therefore  to 
reflect  upon  our  past  course  of  life  we  [30 
have  led  in  the  world;  that  our  time  is 
short  and  uncertain ;  and  that  if  we  would 
escape  the  punishment  of  the  ungodly 
and  receive  the  reward  of  the  righteous, 
which  is  the  laying  hold  of  eternal  life, 
we  ought,  for  the  time  to  come,  to  return 
to  God  by  a  speedy  repentance,  ceasing 
to  do  evil,  and  learning  to  do  well;  to 
seek  after  God  early,  if  haply  He  may 
be  found  of  us,  and  lead  such  lives  [40 
for  the  future  as  may  be  well  pleasing  in 
His  sight. 

A  Relation  of  the  Apparition  of 
Mrs.  Veal 

This  thing  is  so  rare  in  all  its  circum- 
stances, and  on  so  good  authority,  that 
my  reading  and  conversation  has  not 
given  me  anything  like  it.  It  is  fit  to 
gratify  the  most  ingenious  and  serious 
inquirer.  Mrs.  Bargrave  is  the  person 
to  whom  Mrs.  Veal  appeared  after  her 
death;  she  is  my  intimate  friend,  and  I 
can  avouch  for  her  reputation  for  these 
last  fifteen  or  sixteen  years,  on  my  [10 
own  knowledge;  and  I  can  confirm  the 
good  character  she  had  from  her  youth 
to  the  time  of  my  acquaintance;  though 
since  this  relation  she  is  calumniated  by 
some  people  that  are  friends  to  the 
brother  of  Mrs.  Veal  who  appeared,  who 
think  the  relation  of  this  appearance  to 
be  a  reflection,  and  endeavor  what  they 
can  to  blast  Mrs.  Bargrave's  reputation, 
and  to  laugh  the  story  out  of  coun-  [20 
tenance.  But  by  the  circumstances 
thereof,  and  the  cheerful  disposition  of 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  notwithstanding  the  un- 
heard-of ill-usage  of  a  very  wicked  hus- 
band, there  is  not  the  least  sign  of  dejec- 
tion in  her  face;  nor  did  I  ever  hear  her 
let  fall  a  desponding  or  murmuring  ex- 
pression; nay,  not  when  actually  under 
her  husband's  barbarity,   which   I   have 


222 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


been  witness  to,  and  several  other  [30 
persons  of  undoubted  reputation. 

Now  you  must  know  Mrs.  Veal  was  a 
maiden  gentlewoman  of  about  thirty 
years  of  age,  and  for  some  years  last  past 
had  been  troubled  with  fits,  which  were 
perceived  coming  on  her  by  her  going 
off  from  her  discourses  very  abruptly  to 
some  impertinence.  She  was  maintained 
by  an  only  brother,  and  kept  his  house 
in  Dover.  She  was  a  very  pious  [40 
woman,  and  her  brother  a  very  sober  man, 
to  all  appearance;  but  now  he  does  all  he 
can  to  null  or  quash  the  story.  Mrs.  Veal 
was  intimately  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
Bargrave  from  her  childhood.  Mrs. 
Veal's  circumstances  were  then  mean;  her 
father  did  not  take  care  of  his  children  as 
he  ought,  so  that  they  were  exposed  to 
hardships;  and  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  those 
days  had  as  unkind  a  father,  though  [50 
she  wanted  neither  for  food  nor  clothing, 
whilst  Mrs.  Veal  wanted  for  both;  so  that 
it  was  in  the  power  of  Mrs.  Bargrave  to 
be  very  much  her  friend  in  several  in- 
stances, which  mightily  endeared  Mrs. 
Veal;  insomuch  that  she  would  often 
say,  "Mrs.  Bargrave,  you  are  not  only 
the  best,  but  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the 
world;  and  no  circumstance  in  life  shall 
ever  dissolve  my  friendship."  They  [60 
would  often  condole  each  other's  adverse 
fortunes,  and  read  together  "Drelincourt 
upon  Death,"  and  other  good  books;  and 
so,  like  two  Christian  friends,  they  com- 
forted each  other  under  their  sorrow. 

Some  time  after,  Mr.  Veal's  friends  got 
him  a  place  in  the  custom-house  at  Dover, 
which  occasioned  Mrs.  Veal,  by  little  and 
little,  to  fall  off  from  her  intimacy  with 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  though  there  never  [70 
was  any  such  thing  as  a  quarrel;  but  an 
indifferency  came  on  by  degrees,  till  at 
last  Mrs.  Bargrave  had  not  seen  her  in 
two  years  and  a  half;  though  about  a 
twelvemonth  of  the  time  Mrs.  Bargrave 
had  been  absent  from  Dover,  and  this 
last  half-year  had  been  in  Canterbury 
about  two  months  of  the  time,  dwelling 
in  a  house  of  her  own. 

In  this  house,  on  the  8th  of  Septem-  [80 
ber  last,  viz.,  1705,  she  was  sitting  alone, 
in  the  forenoon,  thinking  over  her  un- 
fortunate  life,   and  arguing   herself  into 


a  due  resignation  to  Providence,  though 
her  condition  seemed  hard.  "And,"  said 
she,  "I  have  been  provided  for  hitherto, 
and  doubt  not  but  I  shall  be  still;  and  am 
well  satisfied  that  my  afflictions  shall  end 
when  it  is  most  fit  for  me;"  and  then 
took  up  her  sewing-work,  which  she  [90 
had  no  sooner  done  but  she  hears  a  knock- 
ing at  the  door.  She  went  to  see  who  it 
was  there,  and  this  proved  to  be  Mrs. 
Veal,  her  old  friend,  who  was  in  a  riding- 
habit;  at  that  moment  of  time  the  clock 
struck  twelve  at  noon. 

"Madam,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I 
am  surprised  to  see  you,  you  have  been 
so  long  a  stranger;"  but  told  her  she  was 
glad  to  see  her,  and  offered  to  salute  [100 
her,  which  Mrs.  Veal  complied  with,  till 
their  lips  almost  touched;  and  then  Mrs. 
Veal  drew  her  hand  across  her  own  eyes 
and  said,  "I  am  not  very  well,"  and  so 
waived  it.  She  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  she 
was  going  a  journey,  and  had  a  great 
mind  to  see  her  first.  "But,"  says  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  "how  came  you  to  take  a 
journey  alone?  I  am  amazed  at  it,  be- 
cause I  know  you  have  so  fond  a  [no 
brother."  "Oh,"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "I 
gave  my  brother  the  slip,  and  came  away, 
because  I  had  so  great  a  desire  to  see  you 
before  I  took  my  journey."  So  Mrs. 
Bargrave  went  in  with  her  into  another 
room  within  the  first,  and  Mrs.  Veal  set 
her  down  in  an  elbow-chair,  in  which 
Mrs.  Bargrave  was  sitting  when  she  heard 
Mrs.  Veal  knock.  Then  says  Mrs.  Veal, 
"  My  dear  friend,  I  am  come  to  renew  [120 
our  old  friendship  again,  and  beg  your 
pardon  for  my  breach  of  it;  and  if  you 
can  forgive  me,  you  are  one  of  the  best  of 
women."  "Oh,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
"don't  mention  such  a  thing.  I  have  not 
had  an  uneasy  thought  about  it;  I  can 
easily  forgive  it."  "What  did  you  think 
of  me?"  said  Mrs.  Veal.  Says  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  "  I  thought  you  were  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  that  prosperity  [130 
had  made  you  forget  yourself  and  me." 
Then  Mrs.  Veal  reminded  Mrs.  Bargrave 
of  the  many  friendly  offices  she  did  in 
her  former  days,  and  much  of  the  con- 
versation they  had  with  each  other  in 
the  time  of  their  adversity;  what  books 
they  read,  and  what  comfort  in  particular 


DEFOE 


223 


they  received  from  Drelincourt's  "Book 
of  Death,"  which  was  the  best,  she  said, 
on  that  subject  ever  wrote.  She  [140 
also  mentioned  Dr.  Sherlock,  and  two 
Dutch  books  which  were  translated,  wrote 
upon  death,  and  several  others;  but  Dre- 
lincourt,  she  said,  had  the  clearest  notions 
of  death  and  of  the  future  state  of  any 
who  had  handled  that  subject.  Then  she 
asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  whether  she  had 
Drelincourt.  She  said,  "Yes."  Says 
Mrs.  Veal,  "Fetch  it."  And  so  Mrs. 
Bargrave  goes  upstairs  and  brings  it  [150 
down.  Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "Dear  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave,  if  the  eyes  of  our  faith  were  as 
open  as  the  eyes  of  our  body,  we  should 
see  numbers  of  angels  about  us  for  our 
guard.  The  notions  we  have  of  heaven 
now  are  nothing  like  to  what  it  is,  as 
Drelincourt  says.  Therefore  be  com- 
forted under  your  afflictions,  and  believe 
that  the  Almighty  has  a  particular  regard 
to  you,  and  that  your  afflictions  are  [t6o 
marks  of  God's  favor;  and  when  they  have 
done  the  business  they  are  sent  for,  they 
shall  be  removed  from  you.  And  believe 
me,  my  dear  friend,  believe  what  I  say 
to  you,  one  minute  of  future  happiness 
will  infinitely  reward  you  for  all  your 
sufferings;  for  I  can  never  believe"  (and 
claps  her  hand  upon  her  knee  with  great 
earnestness,  which  indeed  ran  through 
most  of  her  discourse)  "  that  ever  [170 
God  will  suffer  you  to  spend  all  your 
days  in  this  afflicted  state;  but  be  assured 
that  your  afflictions  shall  leave  you,  or 
you  them,  in  a  short  time."  She  spake 
in  that  pathetical  and  heavenly  manner 
that  Mrs.  Bargrave  wept  several  times, 
she  was  so  deeply  affected  with  it. 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  mentioned  Dr.  Hor- 
neck's  "Ascetick,"  at  the  end  of  which  he 
gives  an  account  of  the  lives  of  the  [1S0 
primitive  Christians.  Their  pattern  she 
recommended  to  our  imitation,  and  said 
their  conversation  was  not  like  this  of 
our  age;  "for  now,"  says  she,  "there  is 
nothing  but  frothy,  vain  discourse,  which 
is  far  different  from  theirs.  Theirs  was 
to  edification,  and  to  build  one  another 
up  in  faith;  so  that  they  were  not  as  we 
are,  nor  are  we  as  they  were;  but,"  said 
she,  "  we  might  do  as  they  did.  There  [190 
was  a  hearty  friendship  among  them;  but 


where  is  it  now  to  be  found?"  Says 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  "  'Tis  hard  indeed  to  find 
a  true  friend  in  these  days."  Says  Mrs. 
Veal,  "Mr.  Norris  has  a  fine  copy  of 
verses,  called  'Friendship  in  Perfection,' 
which  I  wonderfully  admire.  Have  you 
seen  the  book?"  says  Mrs.  Veal.  "No," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "but  I  have  the 
verses  of  my  own  writing  out."  [200 
"Have  you?"  says  Mrs.  Veal;  "then 
fetch  them."  Which  she  did  from  above- 
stairs,  and  offered  them  to  Mrs.  Veal  to 
read,  who  refused,  and  waived  the  thing, 
saying  holding  down  her  head  would 
make  it  ache;  and  then  desired  Mrs. 
Bargrave  to  read  them  to  her,  which  she 
did.  As  they  were  admiring  "Friend- 
ship" Mrs.  Veal  said,  "Dear  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave,  I  shall  love  you  for  ever."  In  [210 
these  verses  there  is  twice  used  the  word 
Elysian.  "Ah!"  says  Mrs.  Veal,  "these 
poets  have  such  names  for  heaven!"  She 
would  often  draw  her  hand  across  her 
own  eyes  and  say,  "Mrs.  Bargrave,  don't 
you  think  I  am  mightily  impaired  by  my 
fits?"  "No,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I 
think  you  look  as  well  as  ever  I  knew 
you." 

After  all  this  discourse,  which  theap-  [220 
parition  put  in  words  much  finer  than 
Mrs.  Bargrave  said  she  could  pretend  to, 
and  was  much  more  than  she  can  re- 
member, for  it  cannot  be  thought  that 
an  hour  and  three-quarters'  conversation 
could  all  be  retained,  though  the  main 
of  it  she  thinks  she  does,  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Bargrave  she  would  have  her  write  a 
letter  to  her  brother,  and  tell-  him  she 
would  have  him  give  rings  to  such  and  [230 
such,  and  that  there  was  a  purse  of  gold 
in  her  cabinet,  and  that  she  would  have 
two  broad  pieces  given  to  her  cousin 
Watson. 

Talking  at  this  rate,  Mrs.  Bargrave 
thought  that  a  fit  was  coming  upon  her, 
and  so  placed  herself  in  a  chair  just  be- 
fore her  knees,  to  keep  her  from  falling 
to  the  ground,  if  her  fits  should  occasion 
it  (for  the  elbow-chair,  she  thought,  [240 
would  keep  her  from  falling  on  either 
side);  and  to  divert  Mrs.  Veal,  as  she 
thought,  took  hold  of  her  gown-sleeve 
several  times  and  commended  it.  Mrs. 
Veal  told  her  it  was  a  scoured  silk,  and 


224 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


newly  made  up.  But  for  all  this,  Mrs. 
Veal  persisted  in  her  request,  and  told 
Mrs.  Bargrave  she  must  not  deny  her; 
and  that  she  would  have  her  tell  her 
brother  all  their  conversation  when  [250 
she  had  an  opportunity.  "Dear  Mrs. 
Veal,"  said  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "this  seems 
so  impertinent  that  I  cannot  tell  how  to 
comply  with  it;  and  what  a  mortifying 
story  will  our  conversation  be  to  a  young 
gentleman!"  "Well,"  says  Mrs.  Veal, 
"I  must  not  be  denied."  "Why,"  says 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  "'tis  much  better,  me- 
thinks,  to  do  it  yourself."  "No,"  says 
Mrs.  Veal,  "though  it  seems  imperti-  [260 
nent  to  you  now,  you  will  see  more  reason 
for  it  hereafter."  Mrs.  Bargrave  then, 
to  satisfy  her  importunity,  was  going 
to  fetch  a  pen  and  ink,  but  Mrs.  Veal 
said,  "Let  it  alone  now,  but  do  it  when  I 
am  gone;  but  you  must  be  sure  to  do  it;" 
which  was  one  of  the  last  things  she  en- 
joined her  at  parting;  and  so  she  promised 
her. 

Then  Mrs.  Veal  asked  for  Mrs.  [270 
Bargrave's  daughter.  She  said  she  was 
not  at  home,  "but  if  you  have  a  mind  to 
see  her,"  says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I'll  send 
for  her."  "Do,"  says  Mrs.  Veal.  On 
which  she  left  her,  and  went  to  a  neigh- 
bor's to  send  for  her;  and  by  the  time 
Mrs.  Bargrave  was  returning,  Mrs.  Veal 
was  got  without  the  door  in  the  street,  in 
the  face  of  the  beast-market,  on  a  Satur- 
day (which  is  market-day) ,  and  stood  [280 
ready  to  part  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Bargrave 
came  to  her.  She  asked  her  why  she  was 
in  such  haste.  She  said  she  must  be 
going,  though  perhaps  she  might  not  go 
her  journey  until  Monday;  and  told  Mrs. 
Bargrave  she  hoped  she  should  see  her 
again  at  her  cousin  Watson's  before  she 
went  whither  she  was  a-going.  Then 
she  said  she  would  take  her  leave  of  her, 
and  walked  from  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  [290 
her  view,  till  a  turning  interrupted  the 
sight  of  her,  which  was  three-quarters 
after  one  in  the  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Veal  died  the  7th  of  September, 
at  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  of  her  fits,  and 
had  not  above  four  hours'  senses  before 
death,  in  which  time  she  received  the  sacra- 
ment. The  next  day  after  Mrs.  Veal's 
appearing,  being  Sunday,  Mrs.  Bargrave 


was  mightily  indisposed  with  a  cold  [300 
and  a  sore  throat,  that  she  could  not 
go  out  that  day;  but  on  Monday  morn- 
ing she  sends  a  person  to  Captain  Wat- 
son's to  know  if  Mrs.  Veal  was  there. 
They  wondered  at  Mrs.  Bargrave's  in- 
quiry, and  sent  her  word  that  she  was 
not  there,  nor  was  expected.  At  this 
answer,  Mrs.  Bargrave  told  the  maid  she 
had  certainly  mistook  the  name  or  made 
some  blunder.  And  though  she  was  ill,  [310 
she  put  on  her  hood,  and  went  herself 
to  Captain  Watson's,  though  she  knew 
none  of  the  family,  to  see  if  Mrs.  Veal 
was  there  or  not.  They  said  they  won- 
dered at  her  asking,  for  that  she  had  not 
been  in  town;  they  were  sure,  if  she  had, 
she  would  have  been  there.  Says  Mrs. 
Bargrave,  "I  am  sure  she  was  with  me 
on  Saturday  almost  two  hours."  They 
said  it  was  impossible;  for  they  must  [320 
have  seen  her,  if  she  had.  In  comes 
Captain  Watson  while  they  are  in  dispute, 
and  said  that  Mrs.  Veal  was  certainly 
dead,  and  her  escutcheons  were  making. 
This  strangely  surprised  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
who  went  to  the  person  immediately  who 
had  the  care  of  them,  and  found  it  true. 
Then  she  related  the  whole  story  to  Cap- 
tain Watson's  family,  and  what  gown  she 
had  on,  and  how  striped,  and  that  [330 
Mrs.  Veal  told  her  it  was  scoured.  Then . 
Mrs.  Watson  cried  out,  "You  have  seen 
her  indeed,  for  none  knew  but  Mrs.  Veal 
and  myself  that  the  gown  was  scoured." 
And  Mrs.  Watson  owned  that  she  de- 
scribed the  gown  exactly;  "for,"  said  she, 
"I  helped  her  to  make  it  up."  This  Mrs. 
Watson  blazed  all  about  the  town,  and 
avouched  the  demonstration  of  the  truth 
of  Mrs.  Bargrave's  seeing  Mrs.  Veal's  [340 
apparition;  and  Captain  Watson  carried 
two  gentlemen  immediately  to  Mrs. 
Bargrave's  house  to  hear  the  relation 
from  her  own  mouth.  And  then  it  spread 
so  fast  that  gentlemen  and  persons 
of  quality,  the  judicious  and  sceptical 
part  of  the  world,  flocked  in  upon  her, 
which  at  last  became  such  a  task  that  she 
was  forced  to  go  out  of  the  way;  for  they 
were  in  general  extremely  satisfied  of  [350 
the  truth  of  the  thing,  and  plainly  saw 
that  Mrs.  Bargrave  was  no  hypochondriac, 
for  she  always  appears  with  such  a  cheer- 


DEFOE 


225 


ful  air  and  pleasing  mien,  that  she  has 
gained  the  favor  and  esteem  of  all  the 
gentry,  and  'tis  thought  a  great  favor  if 
they  can  but  get  the  relation  from  her 
own  mouth.  I  should  have  told  you  before 
that  Mrs.  Veal  told  Mrs.  Bargrave  that 
her  sister  and  brother-in-law  were  [360 
just  come  down  from  London  to  see  her. 
Says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "How  came  you  to 
order  matters  so  strangely?"  "It  could 
not  be  helped,"  says  Mrs.  Veal.  And 
her  sister  and  brother  did  come  to  see 
her,  and  entered  the  town  of  Dover  just 
as  Mrs.  Veal  was  expiring.  Mrs.  Bar- 
grave  asked  her  whether  she  would  drink 
some  tea.  Says  Mrs.  Veal,  "I  do  not  care 
if  I  do;  but  I'll  warrant  this  mad  fel-  [370 
low"  (meaning  Mrs.  Bargrave's  husband) 
"has  broke  all  your  trinkets."  "But," 
says  Mrs.  Bargrave,  "I'll  get  some- 
thing to  drink  in  for  all  that."  But 
Mrs.  Veal  waived  it,  and  said,  "It  is  no 
matter;  let  it  alone;"  and  so  it  passed. 

All  the  time  I  sat  with  Mrs.  Bargrave, 
which  was  some  hours,  she  recollected  fresh 
sayings  of  Mrs.  Veal.  And  one  material 
thing  more  she  told  Mrs.  Bargrave — [380 
that  old  Mr.  Breton  allowed  Mrs.  Veal 
ten  pounds  a  year,  which  was  a  secret, 
and  unknown  to  Mrs.  Bargrave  till  Mrs. 
Veal  told  it  her.  Mrs.  Bargrave  never 
varies  in  her  story,  which  puzzles  those 
who  doubt  of  the  truth  or  are  unwilling 
to  believe  it.  A  servant  in  a  neighbor's 
yard  adjoining  to  Mrs.  Bargrave's  house 
heard  her  talking  to  somebody  an  hour 
of  the  time  Mrs.  Veal  was  with  her.  [390 
Mrs.  Bargrave  went  out  to  her  next 
neighbor's  the  very  moment  she  parted 
with  Mrs.  Veal,  and  told  what  ravishing 
conversation  she  had  with  an  old  friend, 
and  told  the  whole  of  it.  Drelincourt's 
"Book  of  Death"  is,  since  this  happened, 
bought  up  strangely.  And  it  is  to  be 
observed  that,  notwithstanding  all  this 
trouble  and  fatigue  Mrs.  Bargrave  has 
undergone  upon  this  account,  she  [400 
never  took  the  value  of  a  farthing,  nor 
suffered  her  daughter  to  take  anything 
of  anybody,  and  therefore  can  have  no 
interest  in  telling  the  story. 

But  Mr.  Veal  does  what  he  can  to 
stifle  the  matter,  and  said  he  would  see 
Mrs.  Bargrave;  but  yet  it  is  certain  matter 


of  fact  that  he  has  been  at  Captain  Wat- 
son's since  the  death  of  his  sister,  and 
yet  never  went  near  Mrs.  Bargrave;  [410 
and  some  of  his  friends  report  her  to  be  a 
great  liar,  and  that  she  knew  of  Mr. 
Breton's  ten  pounds  a  year.  But  the 
person  who  pretends  to  say  so  has  the 
reputation  of  a  notorious  liar  among 
persons  whom  I  know  to  be  of  undoubted 
repute.  Now,  Mr.  Veal  is  more  a  gentle- 
man than  to  say  she  lies,  but  says  a  bad 
husband  has  crazed  her;  but  she  needs 
only  to  present  herself  and  it  will  [420 
effectually  confute  that  pretence.  Mr. 
Veal  says  he  asked  his  sister  on  her  death- 
bed whether  she  had  a  mind  to  dispose  of 
anything,  and  she  said  no.  Now,  the 
things  which  Mrs.  Veal's  apparition  would 
have  disposed  of  were  so  trifling,  and 
nothing  of  justice  aimed  at  in  their  dis- 
posal, that  the  design  of  it  appears  to  me 
to  be  only  in  order  to  make  Mrs.  Bargrave 
so  to  demonstrate  the  truth  of  her  [430 
appearance,  as  to  satisfy  the  world  of  the 
reality  thereof  as  to  what  she  had  seen 
and  heard,  and  to  secure  her  reputation 
among  the  reasonable  and  understanding 
part  of  mankind.  And  then  again  Mr. 
Veal  owns  that  there  was  a  purse  of  gold; 
but  it  was  not  found  in  her  cabinet,  but 
in  a  comb-box.  This  looks  improbable; 
for  that  Mrs.  Watson  owned  that  Mrs. 
Veal  was  so  very  careful  of  the  key  [440 
of  her  cabinet  that  she  would  trust  no- 
body with  it;  and  if  so,  no  doubt  she 
would  not  trust  her  gold  out  of  it.  And 
Mrs.  Veal's  often  drawing  her  hand  over 
her  eyes,  and  asking  Mrs.  Bargrave 
whether  her  fits  had  not  impaired  her, 
looks  to  me  as  if  she  did  it  on  purpose 
to  remind  Mrs.  Bargrave  of  her  fits,  to 
prepare  her  not  to  think  it  strange  that 
she  should  put  her  upon  writing  to  [450 
her  brother  to  dispose  of  rings  and  gold, 
which  looks  so  much  like  a  dying  person's 
request;  and  it  took  accordingly  with 
Mrs.  Bargrave,  as  the  effects  of  her  fits 
coming  upon  her;  and  was  one  of  the 
many  instances  of  her  wonderful  love  to 
her  and  care  of  her  that  she  should  not 
be  affrighted;  which  indeed  appears  in 
her  whole  management,  particularly  in  her 
coming  to  her  in  the  daytime,  waiv-  [460 
ing   the   salutation,    and   when   she   was 


226 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


alone;  and  then  the  manner  of  her  parting 
to  prevent  a  second  attempt  to  salute  her. 

Now,  why  Mr.  Veal  should  think  this 
relation  a  reflection  (as  'tis  plain  he  does 
by  his  endeavoring  to  stifle  it),  I  can't 
imagine,  because  the  generality  believe 
her  to  be  a  good  spirit,  her  discourse  was 
so  heavenly.  Her  two  great  errands  were 
to  comfort  Mrs.  Bargrave  in  her  [470 
affliction,  and  to  ask  her  forgiveness  for 
her  breach  of  friendship,  and  with  a  pious 
discourse  to  encourage  her.  So  that  after 
all  to  suppose  that  Mrs.  Bargrave  could 
hatch  such  an  invention  as  this  from 
Friday  noon  till  Saturday  noon  (suppos- 
ing that  she  knew  of  Mrs.  Veal's  death 
the  very  first  moment)  without  jumbling 
circumstances,  and  without  any  interest 
too,  she  must  be  more  witty,  for-  [480 
tunate,  and  wicked  too,  than  any  indiffer- 
ent person,  I  dare  say,  will  allow.  I 
asked  Mrs.  Bargrave  several  times  if  she 
was  sure  she  felt  the  gown.  She  answered 
modestly,  "If  my  senses  are  to  be  relied 
on,  I  am  sure  of  it."  I  asked  her  if  she 
heard  a  sound  when  she  clapped  her 
hands  upon  her  knee.  She  said  she  did 
not  remember  she  did,  and  she  said,  "She 
appeared  to  be  as  much  a  substance  [490 
as  I  did,  who  talked  with  her;  and  I  may," 
said  she,  "be  as  soon  persuaded  that  your 
apparition  is  talking  to  me  now  as  that 
I  did  not  really  see  her;  for  I  was  under 
no  manner  of  fear;  I  received  her  as  a 
friend,  and  parted  with  her  as  such.  I 
would  not,"  says  she,  "give  one  farthing 
to  make  any  one  believe  it;  I  have  no 
interest  in  it.  Nothing  but  trouble  is 
entailed  upon  me  for  a  long  time,  for  [500 
aught  I  know;  and  had  it  not  come  to 
light  by  accident,  it  would  never  have 
been  made  public."  But  now  she  says 
she  will  make  her  own  private  use  of  it, 
and  keep  herself  out  of  the  way  as  much 
as  she  can;  and  so  she  has  done  since. 
She  says  she  had  a  gentleman  who  came 
thirty  miles  to  her  to  hear  the  relation, 
and  that  she  had  told  it  to  a  roomfull  of 
people  at  a  time.  Several  particular  [510 
gentlemen  have  had  the  story  from  Mrs. 
Bargrave's  own  mouth. 

This  thing  has  very  much  affected  me, 
and  I  am  as  well  satisfied  as  I  am  of  the 
best  grounded  matter  of  fact.    And  why 


we  should  dispute  matter  of  fact  because 
we  cannot  solve  things  of  which  we  have 
no  certain  or  demonstrative  notions, 
seems  strange  to  me.  Mrs.  Bargrave's 
authority  and  sincerity  alone  would  [520 
have  been  undoubted  in  any  other  case. 


JONATHAN   SWIFT   (1667-1745) 
From  THE  TALE  OF  A  TUB 

The  Author's  Preface 

The  wits  of  the  present  age  being  so 
very  numerous  and  penetrating,  it  seems 
the  grandees  of  church  and  state  begin  to 
fall  under  horrible  apprehensions  lest 
these  gentlemen,  during  the  intervals  of 
a  long  peace,  should  find  leisure  to  pick 
holes  in  the  weak  sides  of  religion  and 
government.  To  prevent  which,  there 
has  been  much  thought  employed  of  late 
upon  certain  projects  for  taking  off  [10 
the  force  and  edge  of  those  formidable 
inquirers  from  canvassing  and  reasoning 
upon  such  delicate  points.  They  have  at 
length  fixed  upon  one  which  will  require 
some  time  as  well  as  cost  to  perfect. 
Meanwhile,  the  danger  hourly  increasing 
by  new  levies  of  wits,  all  appointed  (as 
there  is  reason  to  fear)  with  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  which  may  at  an  hour's  warn- 
ing be  drawn  out  into  pamphlets  and  [20 
other  offensive  weapons,  ready  for  im- 
mediate execution,  it  was  judged  of  ab- 
solute necessity  that  some  present  expedi- 
ent be  thought  on,  till  the  main  design 
can  be  brought  to  maturity.  To  this 
end,  at  a  grand  committee  some  days 
ago,  this  important  discovery  was  made 
by  a  certain  curious  and  refined  observer: 
—that  seamen  have  a  custom,  when 
they  meet  a  whale,  to  fling  him  an  [30 
empty  tub  by  way  of  amusement,  to  di- 
vert him  from  laying  violent  hands  upon 
the  ship.  This  parable  was  immediately 
my thologised ;  the  whale  was  interpreted 
to  be  Hobbes's  Leviathan,  which  tosses 
and  plays  with  all  schemes  of  religion 
and  government,  whereof  a  great  many 
are  hollow,  and  dry,  and  empty,  and 
noisy,  and  wooden,  and  given  to  rotation: 
this  is  the  leviathan  whence  the  ter-  [40 


SWIFT 


227 


rible  wits  of  our  age  are  said  to  borrow 
their  weapons.  The  ship  in  danger  is 
easily  understood  to  be  its  old  antitype, 
the  commonwealth.  But  how  to  analyze 
the  tub,  was  a  matter  of  difficulty;  when 
after  long  inquiry  and  debate,  the  literal 
meaning  was  preserved;  and  it  was  de- 
creed, that  in  order  to  prevent  these 
leviathans  from  tossing  and  sporting  with 
the  commonwealth,  which  of  itself  [50 
is  too  apt  to  fluctuate,  they  should  be 
diverted  from  that  game  by  a  Tale  of  a 
Tub.  And,  my  genius  being  conceived 
to  lie  not  unhappily  that  way,  I  had  the 
honor  done  me  to  be  engaged  in  the 
performance.  .  .  . 

Section  II 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  man 
who  had  three  sons  by  one  wife,  and  all 
at  a  birth,  neither  could  the  midwife  tell 
certainly  which  was  the  eldest.  Their 
father  died  while  they  were  young;  and 
upon  his  death-bed,  calling  the  lads  to 
him,  spoke  thus: — 

"Sons,  because  I  have  purchased  no 
estate,  nor  was  born  to  any,  I  have  long 
considered  of  some  good  legacies  to  [10 
bequeath  you;  and  at  last,  with  much 
care,  as  well  as  expense,  have  provided 
each  of  you  (here  they  are)  a  new  coat. 
Now,  you  are  to  understand  that  these 
coats  have  two  virtues  contained  in  them ; 
one  is,  that  with  good  wearing  they  will 
last  you  fresh  and  sound  as  long  as  you 
live;  the  other  is,  that  they  will  grow  in 
the  same  proportion  with  your  bodies, 
lengthening  and  widening  of  them-  [20 
selves,  so  as  to  be  always  fit.  Here;  let  me 
see  them  on  you  before  I  die.  So;  very 
well;  pray,  children,  wear  them  clean, 
and  brush  them  often.  You  will  find  in 
my  will  (here  it  is)  full  instructions  in 
every  particular  concerning  the  wearing 
and  management  of  your  coats;  wherein 
you  must  be  very  exact,  to  avoid  the  penal- 
ties I  have  appointed  for  every  trans- 
gression or  neglect,  upon  wrhich  your  [30 
future  fortunes  will  entirely  depend.  I 
have  also  commanded  in  my  will  that 
you  should  live  together  in  one  house  like 
brethren  and  friends,  for  then  you  will 
be  sure  to  thrive,  and  not  otherwise." 


Here,  the  story  says,  this  good  father 
died,  and  the  three  sons  went  all  together 
to  seek  their  fortunes. 

I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  recounting 
what  adventures  they  met  for  the  [40 
first  seven  years,  any  farther  than  by 
taking  notice  that  they  carefully  ob- 
served their  father's  will,  and  kept  their 
coats  in  very  good  order:  that  they 
travelled  through  several  countries,  en- 
countered a  reasonable  quantity  of  giants, 
and  slew  certain  dragons. 

Being  now  arrived  at  the  proper  age 
for  producing  themselves,  they  came  up 
to  town,  and  fell  in  love  with  the  ladies,  [50 
but  especially  three,  who  about  that  time 
were  in  chief  reputation:  the  Duchess 
d'Argent,  Madame  de  Grands  Titres, 
and  the  Countess  d'Orgueil.  On  their 
first  appearance  our  three  adventurers 
met  with  a  very  bad  reception;  and  soon 
with  great  sagacity  guessing  out  the 
reason,  they  quickly  began  to  improve  in 
the  good  qualities  of  the  town;  they  writ, 
and  rallied,  and  rhymed,  and  sung,  [60 
and  said,  and  said  nothing;  .  .  .  they 
killed  bailiffs,  kicked  fiddlers  down  stairs, 
eat  at  Locket's,  loitered  at  Will's;  they 
talked  of  the  drawing-room,  and  never 
came  there;  dined  with  lords  they  never 
saw;  whispered  a  duchess,  and  spoke 
never  a  word;  exposed  the  scrawls  of  their 
laundress  for  billets-doux  of  quality;  came 
ever  just  from  court,  and  were  never  seen 
in  it;  attended  the  levee  sub  dio;  got  [70 
a  list  of  peers  by  heart  in  one  company, 
and  with  great  familiarity  retailed  them 
in  another.  Above  all,  they  constantly 
attended  those  committees  of  senators 
who  are  silent  in  the  house  and  loud  in 
the  coffee-house;  where  they  nightly  ad- 
journ to  chew  the  cud  of  politics,  and  are 
encompassed  with  a  ring  of  disciples, 
who  lie  in  wait  to  catch  up  their 
droppings.  The  three  brothers  had  ac-  [80 
quired  forty  other  qualifications  of  the 
like  stamp,  too  tedious  to  recount,  and 
by  consequence  were  justly  reckoned  the 
most  accomplished  persons  in  the  town; 
but  all  would  not  suffice,  and  the  ladies 
aforesaid  continued  still  inflexible.  To 
clear  up  which  difficulty  I  must,  with  the 
reader's  good  leave  and  patience,  have 
recourse     to     some     points    of     weight, 


228 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


which  the  authors  of  that  age  have  not  [90 
sufficiently  illustrated. 

For  about  this  time  it  happened  a  sect 
arose  whose  tenets  obtained  and  spread 
very  far,  especially  in  the  grande  monde, 
and  among  everybody  of  good  fashion. 
They  worshipped  a  sort  of  idol,  who,  as 
their  doctrine  delivered,  did  daily  create 
men  by  a  kind  of  manufactory  operation. 
This  idol  they  placed  in  the  highest  parts 
of  the  house,  on  an  altar  erected  [100 
about  three  foot;  he  was  shown  in  the 
posture  of  a  Persian  emperor,  sitting  on 
a  superficies,  with  his  legs  interwoven 
under  him.  .  .  . 

The  worshippers  of  this  deity  had  also 
a  system  of  their  belief,  which  seemed 
to  turn  upon  the  following  fundamentals. 
They  held  the  universe  to  be  a  large  suit 
of  clothes,  which  invests  everything;  that 
the  earth  is  invested  by  the  air;  the  [no 
air  is  invested  by  the  stars;  and  the  stars 
are  invested  by  the  primum  mobile.  Look 
on  this  globe  of  earth,  you  will  find  it  to 
be  a  very  complete  and  fashionable  dress. 
What  is  that  which  some  call  land  but  a 
fine  coat  faced  with  green?  or  the  sea, 
but  a  waistcoat  of  water-tabby?  Proceed 
to  the  particular  works  of  the  creation, 
you  will  find  how  curious  journeyman  Na- 
ture has  been  to  trim  up  the  vegetable  [120 
beaux;  observe  how  sparkish  a  periwig 
adorns  the  head  of  a  beech,  and  what  a 
fine  doublet  of  white  satin  is  worn  by  the 
birch.  To  conclude  from  all,  what  is  man 
himself  but  a  microcoat,  or  rather  a  com- 
plete suit  of  clothes  with  all  its  trimmings? 
As  to  his  body  there  can  be  no  dispute; 
but  examine  even  the  acquirements  of  his 
mind,  you  will  find  them  all  contribute  in 
their  order  towards  furnishing  out  an  [130 
exact  dress:  to  instance  no  more;  is  not 
religion  a  cloak,  honesty  a  pair  of  shoes 
worn  out  in  the  dirt,  self-love  a  surtout, 
vanity  a  shirt,  and  conscience  a  pair  of 
breeches?  .  .  . 

These  opinions,  therefore,  were  so  uni- 
versal, as  well  as  the  practices  of  them, 
among  the  refined  part  of  court  and  town, 
that  our  three  brother  adventurers,  as 
their  circumstances  then  stood,  were  [140 
strangely  at  a  loss.  For,  on  the  one 
side,  the  three  ladies  they  addressed 
themselves    to,    whom    we    have    named 


already,  were  at  the  very  top  of  the  fash- 
ion, and  abhorred  all  that  were  below  it 
but  the  breadth  of  a  hair.  On  the  other 
side,  their  father's  will  was  very  precise; 
and  it  was  the  main  precept  in  it,  with 
the  greatest  penalties  annexed,  not  to  add 
to  or  diminish  from  their  coats  one  [150 
thread,  without  a  positive  command  in 
the  will.  Now,  the  coats  their  father 
had  left  them  were,  'tis  true,  of  very  good 
cloth,  and  besides  so  neatly  sewn,  you 
would  swear  they  were  all  of  a  piece;  but 
at  the  same  time  very  plain,  and  with 
little  or  no  ornament:  and  it  happened 
that  before  they  were  a  month  in  town 
great  shoulder-knots  came  up ;  straight  all 
the  world  was  shoulder-knots.  ...  [160 
That  fellow,  cries  one,  has  no  soul;  where 
is  his  shoulder-knot?  Our  three  brethren 
soon  discovered  their  want  by  sad  ex- 
perience, meeting  in  their  walks  with 
forty  mortifications  and  indignities.  If 
they  went  to  the  playhouse  the  door- 
keeper showed  them  into  the  twelve- 
penny  gallery;  if  they  called  a  boat,  says 
a  waterman,  "I  am  first  sculler";  if 
they  stepped  to  the  Rose  to  take  a  [170 
bottle,  the  drawer  would  cry,  "Friend, 
we  sell  no  ale;"  if  they  went  to  visit  a 
lady,  a  footman  met  them  at  the  door 
with  "Pray  send  up  your  message."  In 
this  unhappy  case  they  went  immediately 
to  consult  their  father's  will,  read  it  over 
and  over,  but  not  a  word  of  the  shoulder- 
knot.  What  should  they  do? — what  tem- 
per should  they  find? — obedience  was 
absolutely  necessary,  and  yet  shoulder-  [180 
knots  appeared  extremely  requisite.  After 
much  thought  one  of  the  brothers,  who 
happened  to  be  more  book-learned  than 
the  other  two,  said  he  had  found  an  ex- 
pedient. "'Tis  true,"  said  he,  "there 
is  nothing  here  in  this  will,  totidem  verbis, 
making  mention  of  shoulder-knots:  but 
I  dare  conjecture  we  may  find  them  in- 
clusive, or  totidem  syllabis."  This  distinc- 
tion was  immediately  approved  by  [190 
all,  and  so  they  fell  again  to  examine  the 
will;  but  their  evil  star  had  so  directed 
the  matter  that  the  first  syllable  was  not 
to  be  found  in  the  whole  writing.  Upon 
which  disappointment,  he  who  found  the 
former  evasion  took  heart,  and  said, 
"  Brothers,  there  are  yet  hopes;  for  though 


SWIFT 


229 


we  cannot  find  them  totidem  verbis,  nor 
totidem  syllabis,  I  dare  engage  we  shall 
make  them  out  tertio  modo,  or  totidem  [200 
Uteris."  This  discovery  was  also  highly 
commended,  upon  which  they  fell  once 
more  to  the  scrutiny,  and  picked  out 
S,  H,  O,  U,  L,  D,  E,  R;  when  the  same 
planet,  enemy  to  their  repose,  had  won- 
derfully contrived  that  a  K  was  not  to  be 
found.  Here  was  a  weighty  difficulty! 
but  the  distinguishing  brother,  for  whom 
we  shall  hereafter  find  a  name,  now 
his  hand  was  in,  proved  by  a  very  [210 
good  argument  that  K  was  a  modern, 
illegitimate  letter,  unknown  to  the  learned 
ages,  nor  anywhere  to  be  found  in  ancient 
manuscripts.  "'Tis  true,"  said  he, 
"  Calender  hath  in  Q.  V.  C.  been  sometimes 
writ  with  a  K,  but  erroneously;  for  in 
the  best  copies  it  is  ever  spelled  with  a  C. 
And,  by  consequence,  it  was  a  gross 
mistake  in  our  language  to  spell  'knot' 
with  a  K;"  but  that  from  hencefor- [220 
ward  he  would  take  care  it  should  be 
writ  with  a  C.  Upon  this  all  farther  diffi- 
culty vanished — shoulder-knots  were  made 
clearly  out  to  be  jure  pater  no,  and  our 
three  gentlemen  swaggered  with  as  large 
and  as  flaunting  ones  as  the  best.  .  .  . 

The  learned  brother,  so  often  men- 
tioned, was  reckoned  the  best  scholar  in 
all  that  or  the  next  street  to  it,  insomuch 
as,  having  run  something  behindhand  [230 
in  the  world,  he  obtained  the  favor  of 
a  certain  lord  to  receive  him  into  his 
house,  and  to  teach  his  children.  A  while 
after  the  lord  died,  and  he,  by  long  prac- 
tice of  his  father's  will,  found  the  way  of 
contriving  a  deed  of  conveyance  of  that 
house  to  himself  and  his  heirs ;  upon  which 
he  took  possession,  turned  the  young 
squires  out,  and  received  his  brothers  in 
their  stead.  [240 

Section  VI 

We  left  lord  Peter  in  open  rupture  with 
his  two  brethren;  both  for  ever  discarded 
from  his  house,  and  resigned  to  the  wide 
world,  with  little  or  nothing  to  trust  to. 
Which  are  circumstances  that  render 
them  proper  subjects  for  the  charity  of  a 
writer's  pen  to  work  on;  scenes  of  misery 
ever  affording  the  fairest  harvest  for 
great  adventures.    And  in  this  the  world 


;  may  perceive  the  difference  between  [10 
the  integrity  of  a  generous  author  and 
that  of  a  common  friend.  The  latter  is 
observed  to  adhere  closely  in  prosperity, 
but  on  the  decline  of  fortune  to  drop 
suddenly  off.  Whereas  the  generous 
author,  just  on  the  contrary,  finds  his 
hero  on  the  dunghill,  from  thence  by 
gradual  steps  raises  him  to  a  throne, 
and  then  immediately  withdraws,  ex- 
pecting not  so  much  as  thanks  for  [20 
his  pains;  in  imitation  of  which  example, 
I  have  placed  lord  Peter  in  a  noble  house, 
given  him  a  title  to  wear  and  money  to 
spend.  There  I  shall  leave  him  for  some 
time;  returning  where  common  charity 
directs  me,  to  the  assistance  of  his  two 
brothers  at  their  lowest  ebb.  However,  I 
shall  by  no  means  forget  my  character 
of  an  historian  to  follow  the  truth  step  by 
step,  whatever  happens,  or  wherever  [30 
it  may  lead  me. 

The  two  exiles,  so  nearly  united  in  for- 
tune and  interest,  took  a  lodging  together; 
where,  at  their  first  leisure,  they  began 
to  reflect  on  the  numberless  misfortunes 
and  vexations  of  their  life  past,  and  could 
not  tell  on  the  sudden  to  what  failure  in 
their  conduct  they  ought  to  impute  them ; 
when,  after  some  recollection,  they  called 
to  mind  the  copy  of  their  father's  will,  [40 
which  they  had  so  happily  recovered. 
This  was  immediately  produced,  and  a 
firm  resolution  taken  between  them  to 
alter  whatever  was  already  amiss,  and 
reduce  all  their  future  measures  to  the 
strictest  obedience  prescribed  therein. 
The  main  body  of  the  will  (as  the  reader 
cannot  easily  have  forgot)  consisted  in 
certain  admirable  rules  about  the  wearing 
of  their  coats;  in  the  perusal  whereof,  [50 
the  two  brothers  at  every  period  duly 
comparing  the  doctrine  with  the  practice, 
there  was  never  seen  a  wider  difference 
between  two  things;  horrible  downright 
transgressions  of  every  point.  Upon 
which  they  both  resolved,  without  farther 
delay,  to  fall  immediately  upon  reducing 
the  whole  exactly  after  their  father's 
model. 

But  here  it  is  good  to  stop  the  hasty  [60 
reader,  ever  impatient  to  see  the  end  of  an 
adventure  before  we  writers  can  duly 
prepare  him  for  it.     I  am  to  record  that 


23° 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


these  two  brothers  began  to  be  distin- 
guished at  this  time  by  certain  names. 
One  of  them  desired  to  be  called  MARTIN, 
and  the  other  took  the  appellation  of 
JACK.  These  two  had  lived  in  much 
friendship  and  agreement  under  the  tyr- 
anny of  their  brother  Peter,  as  it  is  [70 
the  talent  of  fellow-sufferers  to  do;  men 
in  misfortune  being  like  men  in  the  dark, 
to  whom  all  colors  are  the  same:  but  when 
they  came  forward  into  the  world,  and 
began  to  display  themselves  to  each 
other  and  to  the  light,  their  complexions 
appeared  extremely  different;  which  the 
present  posture  of  their  affairs  gave  them 
sudden  opportunity  to  discover. 

But  here  the  severe  reader  may  [80 
justly  tax  me  as  a  writer  of  short  memory, 
a  deficiency  to  which  a  true  modern  can- 
not but  of  necessity  be  a  little  sub- 
ject. ...  I  ought  in  method  to  have 
informed  the  reader,  about  fifty  pages 
ago,  of  a  fancy  lord  Peter  took,  and  in- 
fused into  his  brothers,  to  wear  on  their 
coats  whatever  trimmings  came  up  in 
fashion ;  never  pulling  off  any  as  they  went 
out  of  the  mode,  but  keeping  on  all  [90 
together,  which  amounted  in  time  to  a 
medley  the  most  antic  you  can  possibly 
conceive;  and  this  to  a  degree,  that  upon 
the  time  of  their  falling  out  there  was 
hardly  a  thread  of  the  original  coat  to  be 
seen;  but  an  infinite  quantity  of  lace,  and 
ribbons,  and  fringe,  and  embroidery,  and 
points;  I  mean  only  those  tagged  with 
silver,  for  the  rest  fell  off.  Now  this 
material  circumstance,  having  been  [100 
forgot  in  due  place,  as  good  fortune  hath 
ordered,  comes  in  very  properly  here 
when  the  two  brothers  are  just  going  to 
reform  their  vestures  into  the  primitive 
state  prescribed  by  their  father's  will. 

They  both  unanimously  entered  upon 
this  great  work,  looking  sometimes  on 
their  coats,  and  sometimes  on  the  will. 
Martin  laid  the  first  hand;  at  one  twitch 
brought  off  a  large  handful  of  points;  [no 
and,  with  a  second  pull,  stripped  away 
ten  dozen  yards  of  fringe.  But  when  he 
had  gone  thus  far  he  demurred  a  while: 
he  knew  very  well  there  yet  remained  a 
great  deal  more  to  be  done;  however,  the 
first  heat  being  over,  his  violence  began  to 
cool,  and  he  resolved  to  proceed  more  mod- 


erately in  the  rest  of  the  work,  having  al- 
ready narrowly  escaped  a  swinging  rent,  in 
pulling  off  the  points,  which,  being  [120 
tagged  with  silver  (as  we  have  observed 
before),  the  judicious  workman  had,  with 
much  sagacity,  double  sewn,  to  preserve 
them  from  falling.  Resolving  therefore  to 
rid  his  coat  of  a  huge  quantity  of  gold  lace, 
he  picked  up  the  stitches  with  much  cau- 
tion, and  diligently  gleaned  out  all  the 
loose  threads  as  he  went,  which  proved 
to  be  a  work  of  time.  Then  he  fell  about 
the  embroidered  Indian  figures  of  [130 
men,  women,  and  children;  against  which, 
as  you  have  heard  in  its  due  place,  their 
father's  testament  was  extremely  exact 
and  severe:  these,  with  much  dexterity  and 
application,  were,  after  a  while,  quite 
eradicated  or  utterly  defaced.  For  the 
rest,  where  he  observed  the  embroidery 
to  be  worked  so  close  as  not  to  be  got 
away  without  damaging  the  cloth,  or 
where  it  served  to  hide  or  strengthen  [140 
any  flaw  in  the  body  of  the  coat,  con- 
tracted by  the  perpetual  tampering  of 
workmen  upon  it,  he  concluded  the  wisest 
course  was  to  let  it  remain,  resolving  in 
no  case  whatsoever  that  the  substance  of 
the  stuff  should  suffer  injury;  which  he 
thought  the  best  method  for  serving  the 
true  intent  and  meaning  of  his  father's 
will.  And  this  is  the  nearest  account  I 
have  been  able  to  collect  of  Martin's  [150 
proceedings  upon  this  great  revolution. 

But  his  brother  Jack,  whose  adven- 
tures will  be  so  extraordinary  as  to  furnish 
a  great  part  in  the  remainder  of  this  dis- 
course, entered  upon  the  matter  with 
other  thoughts  and  a  quite  different  spirit. 
For  the  memory  of  lord  Peter's  injuries 
produced  a  degree  of  hatred  and  spite 
which  had  a  much  greater  share  of  in- 
citing him  than  any  regards  after  his  [160 
father's  commands;  since  these  appeared, 
at  best,  only  secondary  and  subservient 
to  the  other.  However,  for  this  medley 
of  humor  he  made  a  shift  to  find  a  very 
plausible  name,  honoring  it  with  the  title 
of  zeal;  which  is  perhaps  the  most  signif- 
icant word  that  has  been  ever  yet  pro- 
duced in  any  language,  as  I  think  I  have 
fully  proved  in  my  excellent  analytical  dis- 
course upon  that  subject;  wherein  I  [170 
have  deduced  a  histori-theo-physi-logical 


SWIFT 


231 


account  of  zeal,  showing  how  it  first 
proceeded  from  a  notion  into  a  word,  and 
thence,  in  a  hot  summer,  ripened  into  a 
tangible  substance.  This  work,  containing 
three  large  volumes  in  folio,  I  design  very 
shortly  to  publish  by  the  modern  way  of 
subscription,  not  doubting  but  the  no- 
bility and  gentry  of  the  land  will  give  me 
all  possible  encouragement;  having  [180 
had  already  such  a  taste  of  what  I  am 
able  to  perform. 

I  record,  therefore,  that  brother  Jack, 
brimful  of  this  miraculous  compound, 
reflecting  with  indignation  upon  Peter's 
tyranny,  and  farther  provoked  by  the 
despondency  of  Martin,  prefaced  his 
resolutions  to  this  purpose.  "What," 
said  he,  "a  rogue  that  locked  up  his  drink, 
turned  away  our  wives,  cheated  us  [190 
of  our  fortunes;  palmed  his  damned  crusts 
upon  us  for  mutton;  and  at  last  kicked  us 
out  of  doors;  must  we  be  in  his  fashions, 
with  a  pox?  A  rascal,  besides,  that  all 
the  street  cries  out  against."  Having 
thus  kindled  and  inflamed  himself  as  high 
as  possible,  and  by  consequence  in  a 
delicate  temper  for  beginning  a  reforma- 
tion, he  set  about  the  work  immediately; 
and  in  three  minutes  made  more  [200 
despatch  than  Martin  had  done  in  as 
many  hours.  For,  courteous  reader, 
you  are  given  to  understand  that  zeal  is 
never  so  highly  obliged  as  when  you  set 
it  a-tearing;  and  Jack,  who  doted  on  that 
quality  in  himself,  allowed  it  at  this  time 
its  full  swing.  Thus  it  happened  that, 
stripping  down  a  parcel  of  gold  lace  a 
little  too  hastily,  he  rent  the  main  body 
of  his  coat  from  top  to  bottom;  and  [210 
whereas  his  talent  was  not  of  the  happiest 
in  taking  up  a  stitch,  he  knew  no  better 
way  than  to  darn  it  again  with  packthread 
and  a  skewer.  But  the  matter  was  yet 
infinitely  worse  (I  record  it  with  tears) 
when  he  proceeded  to  the  embroidery:  for, 
being  clumsy  by  nature,  and  of  temper 
impatient;  withal,  beholding  millions  of 
stitches  that  required  the  nicest  hand  and 
sedatest  constitution  to  extricate,  in  [220 
a  great  rage  he  tore  off  the  whole  piece, 
cloth  and  all,  and  flung  them  into  the 
kennel,  and  furiously  thus  continuing  his 
career:  "Ah,  good  brother  Martin,"  said 
he,  "do  as  I  do,  for  the  love  of  God;  strip, 


tear,  pull,  rend,  flay  off  all,  that  we  may 
appear  as  unlike  the  rogue  Peter  as  it  is 
possible;  I  would  not  for  a  hundred  pounds 
carry  the  least  mark  about  me  that 
might  give  occasion  to  the  neighbors  [230 
of  suspecting  that  I  was  related  to  such 
a  rascal."  But  Martin,  who  at  this  time 
happened  to  be  extremely  phlegmatic 
and  sedate,  begged  his  brother,  of  all 
love,  not  to  damage  his  coat  by  any 
means;  for  he  never  would  get  such  an- 
other: desired  him  to  consider  that  it  was 
not  their  business  to  form  their  actions 
by  any  reflection  upon  Peter,  but  by  ob- 
serving the  rules  prescribed  in  their  [240 
father's  will.  That  he  should  remember 
Peter  was  still  their  brother,  whatever 
faults  or  injuries  he  had  committed;  and 
therefore  they  should  by  all  means  avoid 
such  a  thought  as  that  of  taking  meas- 
ures for  good  and  evil  from  no  other  rule 
than  of  opposition  to  him.  That  it  was 
true,  the  testament  of  their  good  father 
was  very  exact  in  what  related  to  the  wear- 
ing of  their  coats;  yet  it  was  no  less  [250 
penal  and  strict  in  prescribing  agreement, 
and  friendship,  and  affection  between 
them.  And  therefore,  if  straining  a  point 
were  at  all  dispensable,  it  would  certainly 
be  so  rather  to  the  advance  of  unity  than 
increase  of  contradiction.  .  .  . 


A  MODEST  PROPOSAL 

FOR  PREVENTING  THE  CHILDREN  OF  POOR 
PEOPLE  IN  IRELAND  FROM  BEING  A  BUR- 
DEN TO  THEIR  PARENTS  OR  COUNTRY, 
AND  FOR  MAKING  THEM  BENEFICIAL  TO 
THE   PUBLIC 

It  is  a  melancholy  object  to  those  who 
walk  through  this  great  town  or  travel 
in  the  country,  when  they  see  the  streets, 
the  roads,  and  cabin  doors,  crowded  with 
beggars  of  the  female  sex,  followed  by 
three,  four,  or  six  children,  all  in  rags 
and  importuning  every  passenger  for  an 
alms.  These  mothers,  instead  of  being 
able  to  work  for  their  honest  livelihood, 
are  forced  to  employ  all  their  time  in  [10 
strolling  to  beg  sustenance  for  their  help- 
less infants:  who  as  they  grow  up  either 
turn  thieves  for  want  of  work,  or  leave 
their  dear  native  country  to  fight  for  the 


232 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


pretender  in  Spain,  or  sell  themselves  to 
the  Barbadoes. 

I  think  it  is  agreed  by  all  parties  that 
this  prodigious  number  of  children  in 
the  arms,  or  on  the  backs,  or  at  the  heels 
of  their  mothers,  and  frequently  of  [20 
their  fathers,  is  in  the  present  deplorable 
state  of  the  kingdom  a  very  great  addi- 
tional grievance;  and,  therefore,  whoever 
could  find  out  a  fair,  cheap,  and  easy 
method  of  making  these  children  sound, 
useful  members  of  the  commonwealth, 
would  deserve  so  well  of  the  public  as  to 
have  his  statue  set  up  for  a  preserver  of 
the  nation. 

But  my  intention  is  very  far  from  be-  [30 
ing  confined  to  provide  only  for  the  chil- 
dren of  professed  beggars;  it  is  of  a  much 
greater  extent,  and  shall  take  in  the 
whole  number  of  infants  at  a  certain  age 
who  are  born  of  parents  in  effect  as  little 
able  to  support  them  as  those  who  de- 
mand our  charity  in  the  streets. 

As  to  my  own  part,  having  turned  my 
thoughts  for  many  years  upon  this,  im- 
portant subject,  and  maturely  weighed  [40 
the  several  schemes  of  other  projectors, 
I  have  always  found  them  grossly  mis- 
taken in  the  computation.  It  is  true,  a 
child  just  born  may  be  supported  by  its 
mother's  milk  for  a  solar  year,  with  little 
other  nourishment;  at  most  not  above  the 
value  of  2s.,  which  the  mother  may 
certainly  get,  or  the  value  in  scraps,  by 
her  lawful  occupation  of  begging;  and 
it  is  exactly  at  one  year  old  that  I  [50 
propose  to  provide  for  them  in  such  a 
manner  as  instead  of  being  a  charge  upon 
their  parents  or  the  parish,  or  wanting 
food  and  raiment  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives,  they  shall  on  the  contrary  con- 
tribute to  the  feeding,  and  partly  to  the 
clothing,  of  many  thousands.  .  .  . 

The  number  of  souls  in  this  kingdom 
being  usually  reckoned  one  million  and 
a  half,  of  these  I  calculate  there  may  [60 
be  about  two  hundred  thousand  couple 
whose  wives  are  breeders;  from  which 
number  I  subtract  thirty  thousand  couples 
who  are  able  to  maintain  their  own  chil- 
dren, although  I  apprehend  there  cannot 
be  so  many,  under  the  present  distresses 
of  the  kingdom;  but  this  being  granted, 
there  will   remain  an   hundred  and  sev- 


enty thousand  breeders.  I  again  subtract 
fifty  thousand  for  those  women  ...  [70 
whose  children  die  by  accident  or  dis- 
ease within  the  year.  There  only  remains 
one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  chil- 
dren of  poor  parents  annually  born. 
The  question  therefore  is,  how  this  num- 
ber shall  be  reared  and  provided  for, 
which,  as  I  have  already  said,  under  the 
present  situation  of  affairs,  is  utterly 
impossible  by  all  the  methods  hitherto 
proposed.  For  we  can  neither  employ  [80 
them  in  handicraft  or  agriculture;  we 
neither  build  houses  (I  mean  in  the  coun- 
try) nor  cultivate  land:  they  can  very 
seldom  pick  up  a  livelihood  by  stealing, 
till  they  arrive  at  six  years  old,  except 
where  they  are  of  towardly  parts;  although 
I  confess  they  learn  the  rudiments  much 
earlier,  during  which  time,  they  can  how- 
ever be  properly  looked  upon  only  as 
probationers,  as  I  have  been  informed  [90 
by  a  principal  gentleman  in  the  county  of 
Cavan,  who  protested  to  me  that  he  never 
knew  above  one  or  two  instances  under 
the  age  of  six,  even  in  a  part  of  the  king- 
dom so  renowned  for  the  quickest  pro- 
ficiency in  that  art. 

I  am  assured  by  our  merchants,  that  a 
boy  or  a  girl  before  twelve  years  old  is 
no  salable  commodity;  and  even  when 
they  come  to  this  age  they  will  not  [100 
yield  above  three  pounds,  or  three  pounds 
and  half-a-crown  at  most  on  the  exchange ; 
which  cannot  turn  to  account  either  to 
the  parents  or  kingdom,  the  charge  of 
nutriment  and  rags  having  been  at  least 
four  times  that  value. 

I  shall  now  therefore  humbly  propose 
my  own  thoughts,  which  I  hope  will  not 
be  liable  to  the  least  objection. 

I  have  been  assured  by  a  very  [no 
knowing  American  of  my  acquaintance 
in  London,  that  a  young  healthy  child 
well  nursed  is  at  a  year  old  a  most  deli- 
cious, nourishing,  and  wholesome  food, 
whether  stewed,  roasted,  baked,  or  boiled; 
and  I  make  no  doubt  that  it  will  equally 
serve  in  a  fricassee  or  a  ragout.  .  .  . 
A  child  will  make  two  dishes  at  an  enter- 
tainment for  friends;  and  when  the  family 
dines  alone,  the  fore  or  hind  quarter  [120 
will  make  a  reasonable  dish,  and  seasoned 
with  a  little  pepper  or  salt  will  be  very 


SWIFT 


233 


good  boiled  on  the  fourth  day,  especially 
in  winter. 

I  have  reckoned  upon  a  medium  that  a 
child  just  born  will  weigh  12  pounds, 
and  in  a  solar  year,  if  tolerably  nursed, 
increaseth  to  28  pounds. 

I  grant  this  food  will  be  somewhat 
dear,  and  therefore  very  proper  for  [130 
landlords,  who,  as  they  have  already  de- 
voured most  of  the  parents,  seem  to  have 
the  best  title  to  the  children.  .  .  . 

I  have  already  computed  the  charge  of 
nursing  a  beggar's  child  (in  which  list 
I  reckon  all  cottagers,  laborers,  and  four- 
fifths  of  the  farmers)  to  be  about  two 
shillings  per  annum,  rags  included;  and 
I  believe  no  gentleman  would  repine  to 
give  ten  shillings  for  the  carcass  of  a  [140 
good  fat  child,  which,  as  I  have  said,  will 
make  four  dishes  of  excellent  nutritive 
meat,  when  he  hath  only  some  particular 
friend  or  his  own  family  to  dine  with 
him.  Thus  the  squire  will  learn  to  be  a 
good  landlord,  and  grow  popular  among 
his  tenants;  the  mother  will  have  eight 
shillings  net  profit,  and  be  fit  for  work 
till  she  produces  another  child. 

Those  who  are  more  thrifty  (as  I  [150 
must  confess  the  times  require)  may  flay 
the  carcass;  the  skin  of  which  artificially 
dressed  will  make  admirable  gloves  for 
ladies,  and  summer  boots  for  fine  gentle- 
men. 

As  to  our  city  of  Dublin,  shambles  may 
be  appointed  for  this  purpose  in  the  most 
convenient  parts  of  it,  and  butchers  we 
may  be  assured  will  not  be  wanting;  al- 
though I  rather  recommend  buying  [160 
the  children  alive  than  dressing  them  hot 
from  the  knife  as  we  do  roasting  pigs. 

A  very  worthy  person,  a  true  lover  of 
his  country,  and  whose  virtues  I  highly 
esteem,  was  lately  pleased  in  discoursing 
on  this  matter  to  offer  a  refinement  upon 
my  scheme.  He  said  that  many  gentle- 
men of  this  kingdom,  having  of  late  de- 
stroyed their  deer,  he  conceived  that  the 
want  of  venison  might  be  well  sup-  [170 
plied  by  the  bodies  of  young  lads  and 
maidens,  not  exceeding  fourteen  years 
of  age  nor  under  twelve;  so  great  a  number 
of  both  sexes  in  every  country  being  now 
ready  to  starve  for  want  of  work  and 
service;  and  these  to  be  disposed  of  by 


their  parents,  if  alive,  or  otherwise  by 
their  nearest  relations.  But  with  due 
deference  to  so  excellent  a  friend  and  so 
deserving  a  patriot,  I  cannot  be  al-  [180 
together  in  his  sentiments;  for  as  to  the 
males,  my  American  acquaintance  assured 
me,  from  frequent  experience,  that  their 
flesh  was  generally  tough  and  lean,  like 
that  of  our  school-boys,  by  continual 
exercise,  and  their  taste  disagreeable;  and 
to  fatten  them  would  not  answer  the 
charge.  .  .  .  And  besides,  it  is  not 
improbable  that  some  scrupulous  people 
might  be  apt  to  censure  such  a  prac-  [190 
tice  (although  indeed  very  unjustly),  as 
a  little  bordering  upon  cruelty;  which,  I 
confess,  hath  always  been  with  me  the 
strongest  objection  against  any  project, 
however  so  well  intended. 

But  in  order  to  justify  my  friend,  he 
confessed  that  this  expedient  was  put 
into  his  head  by  the  famous  Psalmanazar, 
a  native  of  the  island  Formosa,  who  came 
from  thence  to  London  above  twenty  [200 
years  ago,  and  in  conversation  told  my 
friend,  that  in  his  country  when  any 
young  person  happened  to  be  put  to  death, 
the  executioner  sold  the  carcass  to  per- 
sons of  quality  as  a  prime  dainty;  and 
that  in  his  time  the  body  of  a  plump  girl 
of  fifteen,  who  was  crucified  for  an  at- 
tempt to  poison  the  emperor,  was  sold 
to  his  imperial  majesty's  prime  minister 
of  state,  and  other  great  mandarins  of  [210 
the  court,  in  joints  from  the  gibbet,  at 
four  hundred  crowns.  Neither  indeed 
can  I  deny,  that  if  the  same  use  were 
made  of  several  plump  young  girls  in 
this  town,  who  without  one  single  groat 
to  their  fortunes  cannot  stir  abroad 
without  a  chair,  and  appear  at  playhouse 
and  assemblies  in  foreign  fineries  which 
they  never  will  pay  for,  the  kingdom 
would  not  be  the  worse.  [220 

Some  persons  of  a  desponding  spirit 
are  in  great  concern  about  that  vast 
number  of  poor  people,  who  are  aged, 
diseased,  or  maimed,  and  I  have  been 
desired  to  employ  my  thoughts  what 
course  may  be  taken  to  ease  the  nation 
of  so  grievous  an  encumbrance.  But  I 
am  not  in  the  least  pain  upon  that  matter, 
because  it  is  very  well  known  that  they 
are  every  day  dying  and  rotting  by  [230 


234 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


cold  and  famine,  and  filth  and  vermin,  as 
fast  as  can  be  reasonably  expected.  And 
as  to  the  young  laborers,  they  are  now 
in  as  hopeful  a  condition;  they  cannot  get 
work,  and  consequently  pine  away  for 
want  of  nourishment,  to  a  degree  that  if 
at  any  time  they  are  accidentally  hired 
to  common  labor,  they  have  not  strength 
to  perform  it;  and  thus  the  country  and 
themselves  are  happily  delivered  from  [240 
the  evils  to  come. 

I  have  too  long  digressed,  and  there- 
fore shall  return  to  my  subject.  I  think 
the  advantages  by  the  proposal  which  I 
have  made  are  obvious  and  many,  as  well 
as  of  the  highest  importance. 

For  first,  as  I  have  already  observed, 
it  would  greatly  lessen  the  number  of 
papists,  with  whom  we  are  yearly  over- 
run, being  the  principal  breeders  of  [250 
the  nation  as  well  as  our  most  dangerous 
enemies;  and  who  stay  at  home  on  pur- 
pose with  a  design  to  deliver  the  king- 
dom to  the  pretender,  hoping  to  take 
their  advantage  by  the  absence  of  so 
many  good  protestants,  who  have  chosen 
rather  to  leave  their  country  than  stay  at 
home  and  pay  tithes  against  their  con- 
science to  an  episcopal  curate. 

Secondly,  the  poorer  tenants  will  [260 
have  something  valuable  of  their  own, 
which  by  law  may  be  made  liable  to  dis- 
tress and  help  to  pay  their  landlord's 
rent,  their  corn  and  cattle  being  already 
seized,  and  money  a  thing  unknown. 

Thirdly,  whereas  the  maintenance  of 
an  hundred  thousand  children,  from  two 
years  old  and  upward,  cannot  be  com- 
puted at  less  than  ten  shillings  a-piece 
per  annum,  the  nation's  stock  will  be  [270 
thereby  increased  fifty  thousand  pounds 
per  annum,  beside  the  profit  of  a  new 
dish  introduced  to  the  tables  of  all  gentle- 
men of  fortune  in  the  kingdom  who  have 
any  refinement  in  taste.  And  the  money 
will  circulate  among  ourselves,  the  goods 
being  entirely  of  our  own  growth  and 
manufacture. 

Fourthly,  the  parents,  beside  the  gain 
of  eight  shillings  sterling  per  annum  [280 
by  the  sale  of  their  children,  will  be  rid 
of  the  charge  of  maintaining  them  after 
the  first  year. 

Fifthly,  this  food  would  likewise  bring 


great  custom  to  taverns;  where  the  vint- 
ners will  certainly  be  so  prudent  as  to 
procure  the  best  receipts  for  dressing  it 
to  perfection,  and  consequently  have 
their  houses  frequented  by  all  the  fine 
gentlemen,  who  justly  value  them-  [290 
selves  upon  their  knowledge  in  good  eat- 
ing: and  a  skilful  cook,  who  understands 
how  to  oblige  his  guests,  will  contrive  to 
make  it  as  expensive  as  they  please. 

Sixthly,  this  would  be  a  great  induce- 
ment to  marriage,  which  all  wise  nations 
have  either  encouraged  by  rewrards  or 
enforced  by  laws  and  penalties.  It  would 
increase  the  care  and  tenderness  of  mothers 
toward  their  children,  when  they  [300 
were  sure  of  a  settlement  for  life  to  the 
poor  babes,  provided  in  some  sort  by  the 
public,  to  their  annual  profit  instead  of 
expense.  We  should  see  an  honest  emula- 
tion among  the  married  women,  which 
of  them  could  bring  the  fattest  child  to 
the  market.  Men  would  become  as  fond 
of  their  wives  during  the  time  of  their 
pregnancy  as  they  are  now  of  their  mares 
in  foal,  their  cows  in  calf,  their  sows  [310 
when  they  are  ready  to  farrow;  nor  offer 
to  beat  or  kick  them  (as  is  too  frequent  a 
practice)  for  fear  of  a  miscarriage. 

Many  other  advantages  might  be  enu- 
merated. For  instance,  the  addition  of 
some  thousand  carcasses  in  our  exporta- 
tion of  barreled  beef,  the  propagation  of 
swine's  flesh,  and  improvement  in  the 
art  of  making  good  bacon,  so  much  wanted 
among  us  by  the  great  destruction  [320 
of  pigs,  too  frequent  at  our  tables;  which 
are  no  way  comparable  in  taste  or  mag- 
nificence to  a  well-grown,  fat,  yearling 
child,  which  roasted  whole  will  make  a 
considerable  figure  at  a  lord  mayor's  feast 
or  any  other  public  entertainment.  But 
this  and  many  others  I  omit,  being  stu- 
dious of  brevity. 

Supposing  that  one  thousand  families 
in  this  city  would  be  constant  cus-  [330 
tomers  for  infant's  flesh,  beside  others 
who  might  have  it  at  merry-meetings, 
particularly  weddings  and  christenings, 
I  compute  that  Dublin  would  take  off 
annually  about  twenty  thousand  car- 
casses ;  and  the  rest  of  the  kingdom  (where 
probably  they  will  be  sold  somewhat 
cheaper)  the  remaining  eighty  thousand. 


SWIFT 


235 


I  can  think  of  no  one  objection  that 
will  possibly  be  raised  against  this  [340 
proposal,  unless  it  should  be  urged  that 
the  number  of  people  will  be  thereby 
much  lessened  in  the  kingdom.  This  I 
freely  own,  and  was  indeed  one  principal 
design  in  offering  it  to  the  world.  I  desire 
the  reader  will  observe,  that  I  calculate 
my  remedy  for  this  one  individual  king- 
dom of  Ireland  and  for  no  other  that 
ever  was,  is,  or  I  think  ever  can  be  upon 
earth.  Therefore  let  no  man  talk  to  [350 
me  of  other  expedients:  of  taxing  our  ab- 
sentees at  five  shillings  a  pound;  of  using 
neither  clothes  nor  household  furniture 
except  what  is  of  our  own  growth  and 
manufacture;  of  utterly  rejecting  the  ma- 
terials and  instruments  that  promote 
foreign  luxury;  of  curing  the  expensive- 
ness  of  pride,  vanity,  idleness,  and  gam- 
ing in  our  women;  of  introducing  a  vein 
of  parsimony,  prudence,  and  tern-  [360 
perance;  of  learning  to  love  our  country, 
wherein  we  differ  even  from  Laplanders 
and  the  inhabitants  of  Topinamboo;  of 
quitting  our  animosities  and  factions,  nor 
act  any  longer  like  the  Jews,  who  were 
murdering  one  another  at  the  very  mo- 
ment their  city  was  taken;  of  being  a 
little  cautious  not  to  sell  our  country 
and  conscience  for  nothing;  of  teaching 
landlords  to  have  at  least  one  degree  [370 
of  mercy  toward  their  tenants;  lastly,  of 
putting  a  spirit  of  honesty,  industry,  and 
skill  into  our  shopkeepers;  who,  if  a  resolu- 
tion could  now  be  taken  to  buy  only  our 
native  goods,  would  immediately  unite  to 
cheat  and  exact  upon  us  in  the  price,  the 
measure,  and  the  goodness,  nor  could 
ever  yet  be  brought  to  make  one  fair  pro- 
posal of  just  dealing,  though  often  and 
earnestly  invited  to  it.  [380 

Therefore  I  repeat,  let  no  man  talk 
to  me  of  these  and  the  like  expedients,  till 
he  hath  at  least  some  glimpse  of  hope  that 
there  will  be  ever  some  hearty  and  sincere 
attempt  to  put  them  in  practice. 

But  as  to  myself,  having  been  wearied 
out  for  many  years  with  offering  vain, 
idle,  visionary  thoughts,  and  at  length 
utterly  despairing  of  success,  I  fortunately 
fell  upon  this  proposal;  which,  as  it  [390 
is  wholly  new,  so  it  hath  something  solid 
and  real,  of  no  expense  and  little  trouble, 


full  in  our  own  power,  and  whereby  we 
can  incur  no  danger  in  disobliging  Eng- 
land. For  this  kind  of  commodity  will 
not  bear  exportation,  the  flesh  being  of 
too  tender  a  consistence  to  admit  a  long 
continuance  in  salt,  although  perhaps  I 
could  name  a  country  which  would  be 
glad  to  eat  up  our  whole  nation  with-  [400 
out  it. 

After  all,  I  am  not  so  violently  bent 
upon  my  own  opinion  as  to  reject  any 
offer  proposed  by  wise  men,  which  shall 
be  found  equally  innocent,  cheap,  easy, 
and  effectual.  But  before  something  of 
that  kind  shall  be  advanced  in  contradic- 
tion to  my  scheme,  and  offering  a  better, 
I  desire  the  author  or  authors  will  be 
pleased  maturely  to  consider  two  [410 
points.  First,  as  things  now  stand,  how 
they  will  be  able  to  find  food  and  raiment 
for  an  hundred  thousand  useless  mouths 
and  backs.  And  secondly,  there  being  a 
round  million  of  creatures  in  human 
figure  throughout  this  kingdom,  whose 
whole  subsistence  put  into  a  common 
stock  would  leave  them  in  debt  two  mil- 
lions of  pounds  sterling,  adding  those 
who  are  beggars  by  profession  to  the  [420 
bulk  of  farmers,  cottagers,  and  laborers, 
with  their  wives  and  children  who  are 
beggars  in  effect:  I  desire  those  politicians 
who  dislike  my  overture,  and  may  per- 
haps be  so  bold  as  to  attempt  an  answer, 
that  they  will  first  ask  the  parents  of  these 
mortals,  whether  they  would  not  at  this 
day  think  it  a  great  happiness  to  have 
been  sold  for  food  at  a  year  old  in  the 
manner  I  prescribe,  and  thereby  have  [430 
avoided  such  a  perpetual  scene  of  mis- 
fortunes as  they  have  since  gone  through 
by  the  oppression  of  landlords,  the  im- 
possibility of  paying  rent  without  money 
or  trade,  the  want  of  common  sustenance, 
with  neither  house  nor  clothes  to  cover 
them  from  the  inclemencies  of  the  weather, 
and  the  most  inevitable  prospect  of 
entailing  the  like  or  greater  miseries  upon 
their  breed  for  ever.  [440 

I  profess,  in  the  sincerity  of  my  heart, 
that  I  have  not  the  least  personal  interest 
in  endeavoring  to  promote  this  necessary 
work,  having  no  other  motive  than  the 
public  good  of  my  country,  by  advancing 
our  trade,  providing  for  infants,  relieving 


236 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


the  poor,  and  giving  some  pleasure  to 
the  rich.  I  have  no  children  by  which 
I  can  propose  to  get  a  single  penny;  the 
youngest  being  nine  years  old,  and  [450 
my  wife  past  child-bearing. 

From  THE  JOURNAL  TO  STELLA 

Sept.  30,  iyio.  Have  not  I  brought 
myself  into  a  fine  premunire  to  begin 
writing  letters  in  whole  sheets?  and  now 
I  dare  not  leave  it  off.  I  can't  tell  whether 
you  like  these  journal  letters:  I  believe 
they  would  be  dull  to  me  to  read  them 
over;  but,  perhaps,  little  MD  is  pleased  to 
know  how  Presto  passes  his  time  in  her 
absence.  I  always  begin  my  last  the 
same  day  I  ended  the  former.  I  told  [10 
you  where  I  dined  to-day  at  a  tavern 
with  Stratford:  Lewis,  who  is  a  great 
favorite  of  Harley's,  was  to  have  been 
with  us;  but  he  was  hurried  to  Hamp- 
ton Court,  and  sent  his  excuse,  and  that 
next  Wednesday  he  would  introduce  me 
to  Harley.  'Tis  good  to  see  what  a  la- 
mentable confession  the  Whigs  all  make 
me  of  my  ill  usage;  but  I  mind  them 
not.  I  am  already  represented  to  Har-  [20 
ley  as  a  discontented  person,  that  was 
used  ill  for  not  being  Whig  enough;  and 
I  hope  for  good  usage  from  him.  The 
Tories  dryly  tell  me,  I  may  make  my 
fortune,  if  I  please;  but  I  do  not  under- 
stand them,  or  rather,  I  do  understand 
them. 

Oct.  4.  After  I  had  put  out  my  candle 
last  night,  my  landlady  came  into  my 
room,  with  a  servant  of  Lord  Halifax,  [30 
to  desire  I  would  go  dine  with  him  at  his 
house  near  Hampton  Court;  but  I  sent 
him  word  I  had  business  of  great  impor- 
tance that  hindered  me,  etc.  And,  to-day, 
I  was  brought  privately  to  Mr.  Harley, 
who  received  me  with  the  greatest  respect 
and  kindness  imaginable:  he  has  appointed 
me  an  hour  on  Saturday  at  four,  after- 
noon, when  I  will  open  my  business  to 
him.  [40 

Oct.  7.  I  wonder  when  this  letter  will 
be  finished:  it  must  go  by  Tuesday,  that 
is  certain;  and  if  I  have  one  from  MD 
before,  I  will  not  answer  it,  that's  as  cer- 
tain too!  'Tis  now  morning,  and  I  did 
not  finish  my  papers  for  Mr.  Harley  last 


night;  for  you  must  understand  Presto 
was  sleepy,  and  made  blunders  and  blots. 
Very  pretty  that  I  must  be  writing  to 
young  women  in  a  morning  fresh  and  [50 
fasting,  faith.  Well,  good  morrow  to 
you :  and  so  I  go  to  business,  and  lay  aside 

this  paper  till  night,  sirrahs.     At 

night.  Jack  How  told  Harley,  that  if 
there  were  a  lower  place  in  hell  than  an- 
other, it  was  reserved  for  his  porter,  who 
tells  lies  so  gravely,  and  with  so  civil  a 
manner.  This  porter  I  have  had  to  deal 
with,  going  this  evening  at  four  to  visit 
Mr.  Harley,  by  his  own  appointment.  [60 
But  the  fellow  told  me  no  lie,  though  I 
suspected  every  word  he  said.  He  told 
me  his  master  was  just  gone  to  dinner, 
with  much  company,  and  desired  I  would 
come  an  hour  hence,  which  I  did,  expect- 
ing to  hear  Mr.  Harley  was  gone  out;  but 
they  had  just  done  dinner.  Mr.  Harley 
came  out  to  me,  brought  me  in,  and  pre- 
sented me  to  his  son-in-law,  Lord  Do- 
blane  (or  some  such  name),  and  his  [70 
own  son,  and  among  others,  Will  Penn  the 
Quaker:  we  sat  two  hours,  drinking  as 
good  wine  as  you  do;  and  two  hours  more 
he  and  I  alone;  where  he  heard  me  tell 
my  business;  asked  for  my  powers,  and 
read  them;  and  read  likewise  a  memorial 
I  had  drawn  up,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket 
to  show  the  Queen;  told  me  the  measures 
he  would  take;  and,  in  short,  said  every- 
thing I  could  wish;  told  me  he  must  [80 
bring  Mr.  St.  John  (Secretary  of  State) 
and  me  acquainted;  and  spoke  so  many 
things  of  personal  kindness  and  esteem 
for  me,  that  I  am  inclined  half  to  believe 
what  some  friends  have  told  me,  that  he 
would  do  everything  to  bring  me  over. 
He  has  desired  to  dine  with  me  (what  a 
comical  mistake  was  that),  I  mean,  he  has 
desired  me  to  dine  with  him  on  Tuesday; 
and  after  four  hours  being  with  him,  [90 
set  me  down  at  St.  James's  Coffeehouse, 
in  a  hackney  coach.  All  this  is  odd  and 
comical  if  you  consider  him  and  me.  He 
knew  my  Christian  name  very  well.  I 
could  not  forbear  saying  thus  much  upon 
this  matter,  although  you  will  think  it 
tedious.  But  I  will  tell  you;  you  must 
know,  'tis  fatal  to  me  to  be  a  scoundrel 
and  a  prince  the  same  day:  for  being  to 
see  him  at  four,  I  could  not  engage  [100 


SWIFT 


237 


myself  to  dine  at  any  friend's;  so  I  went 
to  Tooke,  to  give  him  a  ballad  and  dine 
with  him;  but  he  was  not  at  home;  so  I 
was  forced  to  go  to  a  blind  chop  house,  and 
dine  for  tenpence  upon  gill  ale,  bad  broth, 
and  three  chops  of  mutton;  and  then  go 
reeking  from  thence  to  the  first  minister 
of  state.  And  now  I  am  going  in  charity  to 
send  Steele  a  Tatler,  who  is  very  low  of 
late.  I  think  I  am  civiller  than  I  used  [no 
to  be;  and  have  not  used  the  expression 
of  "you  in  Ireland"  and  "we  in  England," 
as  I  did  when  I  was  here  before,  to  your 
great  indignation. — They  may  talk  of  the 
you  know  what;  but,  gad,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  that,  I  should  never  have  been 
able  to  get  the  access  I  have  had;  and  if 
that  helps  me  to  succeed,  then  that  same 
thing  will  be  serviceable  to  the  church. 
But  how  far  we  must  depend  upon  [120 
new  friends,  I  have  learned  by  long  prac- 
tice, though  I  think,  among  great  minis- 
ters, they  are  just  as  good  as  old  ones. 
And  so  I  think  this  important  day  has 
made  a  great  hole  in  this  side  of  the  paper ; 
and  the  fiddle  faddles  of  to-morrow  and 
Monday  will  make  up  the  rest;  and,  be- 
sides, I  shall  see  Harley  on  Tuesday  be- 
fore this  letter  goes. 

Feb.  4,  lyu.  I  went  to  Mr.  Addi-  [130 
son's,  and  dined  with  him  at  his  lodgings;  I 
had  not  seen  him  these  three  weeks ;  we  are' 
grown  common  acquaintance:  yet  what 
have  I  not  done  for  his  friend  Steele?  Mr. 
Harley  reproached  me  the  last  time  I  saw 
him,  that  to  please  me,  he  would  be  recon- 
ciled to  Steele,  and  had  promised  and  ap- 
pointed to  see  him,  and  that  Steele  never 
came.  Harrison,  whom  Mr.  Addison  rec- 
ommended to  me,  I  have  introduced  to  [140 
the  Secretary  of  State,  who  has  promised 
me  to  take  care  of  him;  and  I  have  repre- 
sented Addison  himself  so  to  the  ministry, 
that  they  think  and  talk  in  his  favor, 
though  they  hated  him  before. — Well;  he 
is  now  in  my  debt,  and  there's  an  end;  and 
I  never  had  the  least  obligation  to  him, 
and  there's  another  end.  This  evening 
I  had  a  message  from  Mr.  Harley,  de- 
siring to  know  whether  I  was  alive,  [150 
and  that  I  would  dine  with  him  to-morrow. 
They  dine  so  late,  that  since  my  head 
has  been  wrong,  I  have  avoided  being 
with  them. 


Feb.  6.  Mr.  Harley  desired  I  would 
dine  with  him  again  to-day;  but  I  re- 
fused him,  for  I  fell  out  with  him  yes- 
terday, and  will  not  see  him  again  till 
he  makes  me  amends;  and  so  I  go  to 
bed.  [160 

Feb.  j.  I  was  this  morning  early  with 
Mr.  Lewis  of  the  Secretary's  office,  and 
saw  a  letter  Mr.  Harley  had  sent  to  him, 
desiring  to  be  reconciled;  but  I  was  deaf 
to  all  entreaties,  and  have  desired  Lewis 
to  go  to  him,  and  let  him  know  I  expect 
farther  satisfaction.  If  we  let  these  great 
ministers  pretend  too  much,  there  will  be 
no  governing  them.  He  promises  to  make 
me  easy,  if  I  will  but  come  and  see  [170 
him;  but  I  won't,  and  he  shall  do  it  by 
message,  or  I  will  cast  him  off.  I'll  tell 
you  the  cause  of  our  quarrel  when  I  see 
you,  and  refer  it  to  yourselves.  In  that 
he  did  something,  which  he  intended  for 
a  favor,  and  I  have  taken  it  quite  other- 
wise, disliking  both  the  thing  and  the 
manner,  and  it  has  heartily  vexed  me, 
and  all  I  have  said  is  truth,  though  it 
looks  like  jest;  and  I  absolutely  re-  [180 
fused  to  submit  to  his  intended  favor, 
and  expect  further  satisfaction. 

Feb.  13.  I  have  taken  Mr.  Harley  into 
favor  again. 

June  30,  17 11.  We  have  plays  acted 
in  our  town,  and  Patrick  was  at  one 
of  them,  oh,  oh.  He  was  damnably 
mauled  one  day  when  he  was  drunk;  he 
was  at  cuffs  with  a  brother  footman,  who 
dragged  him  along  the  floor  on  his  [190 
face,  which  looked  for  a  week  after  as  if 
he  had  the  leprosy;  and  I  was  glad  enough 
to  see  it.  I  have  been  ten  times  sending 
him  over  to  you;  yet  now  he  has  new 
clothes,  and  a  laced  hat,  which  the  hat- 
ter brought  by  his  orders,  and  he  offered 
to  pay  for  the  lace  out  of  his  wages. 
Farewell,  my  dearest  lives  and  lights,  I 
love  you  better  than  ever,  if  possible,  as 
hope  saved,  I  do,  and  ever  will.  [?oo 
God  Almighty  bless  you  ever,  and  make 
us  happy  together;  I  pray  for  this  twice 
every  day;  and  I  hope  God  wall  hear  my 
poor  hearty  prayers.  Remember,  if  I 
am  used  ill  and  ungratefully,  as  I  have 
formerly  been,  'tis  what  I  am  prepared 
for,  and  shall  not  wonder  at  it.  Yet,  I  am 
now  envied,  and  thought  in  high  favor, 


238 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


and  have  every  day  numbers  of  con- 
siderable men  teasing  me  to  solicit  [210 
for  them.  And  the  ministry  all  use  me 
perfectly  well,  and  all  that  know  them 
say  they  love  me.  Yet  I  can  count  upon 
nothing,  nor  will,  but  upon  MD's  love 
and  kindness.  They  think  me  useful; 
they  pretended  they  were  afraid  of  none 
but  me;  and  that  they  resolved  to  have 
me;  they  have  often  confessed  this:  yet 
all  makes  little  impression  on  me.  Pox 
of  these  speculations!  they  give  me  [220 
the  spleen;  and  that  is  a  disease  I  was 
not  born  to. — Let  me  alone,  sirrahs,  and 
be  satisfied:  I  am,  as  long  as  MD  and 
Presto  are  well: 

Little  wealth, 
And  much  health, 
And  a  life  by  stealth; 

that  is  all  we  want;  and  so,  farewell, 
dearest  MD;  Stella,  Dingley,  Presto,  all 
together,  now  and  forever  all  to-  [230 
gether.    Farewell  again  and  again. 

May  31,  1J12.  I'll  say  no  more  to  00 
tonite,  sellohs,  because  I  must  send  away 
the  letter,  not  by  the  bell,  but  early: 
and  besides,  I  have  not  much  more  to 
say  at  zis  plesent  liting.  Does  MD  never 
read  at  all  now,  pee?  But  00  walk 
plodigiousry,  I  suppose, — You  make  noth- 
ing of  walking  to,  to,  to,  ay,  to  Dony- 
brook.  I  walk  too  as  much  as  I  can,  [240 
because  sweating  is  good;  but  I'll  walk 
more  if  I  go  to  Kensington.  I  suppose 
I  shall  have  no  apples  this  year  neither, 
for  I  dined  t'other  day  with  Lord  Rivers, 
who  is  sick  at  his  country  house,  and  he 
showed  me  all  his  cherries  blasted.  Nite 
deelest  sollahs;  farewell  deelest  Rives; 
rove  poor  Pdfr.  Farewell  deelest  richar 
MD,  MD,  MD,  FW,  FW,  FW,  FW,  FW, 
ME,  ME,  Lele,  ME,  Lele,  Lele,  [250 
richar  MD. 

Nov.  75,  17 12.  Before  this  comes  to 
your  hands,  you  will  have  heard  of  the 
most  terrible  accident  that  hath  almost 
ever  happened.  This  morning  at  eight, 
my  man  brought  me  word  that  Duke  of 
Hamilton  had  fought  with  Lord  Mohun, 
and  killed  him,  and  was  brought  home 
wounded.  I  immediately  sent  him  to  the 
Duke's  house,  in  St.  James's  Square;  [260 
but  the  porter  could  hardly  answer  for 


tears,  and  a  great  rabble  was  about  the 
house.  In  short,  they  fought  at  seven 
this  morning.  The  dog  Mohun  was 
killed  on  the  spot;  and  while  the  Duke  was 
over  him,  Mohun  shortening  his  sword, 
stabbed  him  in  at  the  shoulder  to  the 
heart.  The  Duke  was  helped  toward  the 
cake-house  by  the  ring  in  Hyde  Park 
(where  they  fought),  and  died  on  the  [270 
grass,  before  he  could  reach  the  house; 
and  was  brought  home  in  his  coach  by 
eight,  while  the  poor  Duchess  was  asleep. 
Macartney,  and  one  Hamilton,  were  the 
seconds,  who  fought  likewise,  and  are 
both  fled.  I  am  told,  that  a  footman  of 
Lord  Mohun's  stabbed  Duke  of  Hamil- 
ton; and  some  say  Macartney  did  so  too. 
Mohun  gave  the  affront,  and  yet  sent  the 
challenge.  I  am  infinitely  concerned  [280 
for  the  poor  Duke,  who  was  a  frank, 
honest,  good-natured  man.  I  loved  him 
very  well,  and  I  think  he  loved  me  better. 
He  had  the  greatest  mind  in  the  world 
to  have  me  go  with  him  to  France,  but 
durst  not  tell  it  to  me;  and  those  he  did, 
said  I  could  not  be  spared,  which  was 
true.  They  have  removed  the  poor 
Duchess  to  a  lodging  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, where  I  have  been  with  her  two  [290 
hours,  and  am  just  come  away.  I  never 
saw  so  melancholy  a  scene;  for  indeed  all 
reasons  for  real  grief  belong  to  her;  nor 
is  it  possible  for  any  body  to  be  a  greater 
loser  in  all  regards.  She  has  moved  my 
very  soul.  The  lodging  was  inconvenient, 
and  they  would  have  removed  her  to 
another;  but  I  would  not  suffer  it,  be- 
cause it  had  no  room  backward,  and 
she  must  have  been  tortured  with  [300 
the  noise  of  the  Grub  Street  screamers 
mentioning  her  husband's  murder  to  her 
ears. 

I  believe  you  have  heard  the  story  of 
my  escape,  in  opening  the  ben-box  sent 
to  Lord-Treasurer.  The  prints  have 
told  a  thousand  lies  of  it;  but  at  last  we 
gave  them  a  true  account  of  it  at  length, 
printed  in  the  evening;  only  I  would  not 
suffer  them  to  name  me,  having  been  [310 
so  often  named  before,  and  teased  to 
death  with  questions.  I  wonder  how  I 
came  to  have  so  much  presence  of  mind, 
which  is  usually  not  my  talent;  but  so  it 
pleased  God,  and  I  saved  myself  and  him; 


ADDISON 


239 


for  there  was  a  bullet  apiece.  A  gentle- 
man told  me,  that  if  I  had  been  killed, 
the  Whigs  would  have  called  it  a  judg- 
ment, because  the  barrels  were  of  ink- 
horns,  with  which  I  had  done  them  [320 
so  much  mischief.  There  was  a  pure  Grub 
Street  of  it,  full  of  lies  and  inconsistencies. 
I  do  not  like  these  things  at  all,  and  I 
wish  myself  more  and  more  among  my 
willows.  There  is  a  devilish  spirit  among 
people,  and  the  ministry  must  exert  them- 
selves, or  sink.  Nite  dee  sollahs,  I'll 
go  seep. 

Nov.  16.  I  thought  to  have  finished 
this  yesterday,  but  was  too  much  [330 
disturbed.  I  sent  a  letter  early  this 
morning  to  Lady  Masham,  to  beg  her 
to  write  some  comforting  words  to  the 
poor  Duchess.  I  dined  to-day  with  Lady 
Masham  at  Kensington.  She  has  prom- 
ised me  to  get  the  Queen  to  write  to  the 
Duchess  kindly  on  this  occasion;  and  to- 
morrow I  will  beg  Lord-Treasurer  to 
visit  and  comfort  her.  I  have  been  with 
her  two  hours  again,  and  find  her  [340 
worse.  Her  violences  not  so  frequent, 
but  her  melancholy  more  formal  and 
settled.  She  has  abundance  of  wit  and 
spirit;  about  thirty-three  years  old;  hand- 
some and  airy,  and  seldom  spared  any- 
body that  gave  her  the  least  provocation; 
by  which  she  had  many  enemies,  and 
few  friends.  Lady  Orkney,  her  sister-in- 
law,  is  come  to  town  on  this  occasion,  and 
behaved  herself  with  great  human-  [350 
ity.  They  have  always  been  very  ill  to- 
gether, and  the  poor  Duchess  could  not 
have  patience  when  people  told  her  I 
went  often  to  Lady  Orkney's.  But  I  am 
resolved  to  make  them  friends;  for  the 
Duchess  is  now  no  more  the  object  of 
envy,  and  must  learn  humility  from  the 
severest  master,  Affliction.  I  design  to 
make  the  ministry  put  out  a  proclama- 
tion (if  it  can  be  found  proper)  against  [360 
that  villain  Macartney.  What  shall  we 
do  with  these  murderers?  I  cannot  end 
this  letter  to-night,  and  there  is  no  occa- 
sion ;  for  I  cannot  send  it  till  Tuesday,  and 
the  coroner's  inquest  on  the  Duke's  body 
is  to  be  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  know  no 
more.  But  what  care  00  for  all  this?  Iss, 
MD  im  sorry  for  poo  Pdfr's  friends;  and 
this    is    a    very    surprising    event.      'Tis 


late,  and  I'll  go  to  bed.     This  looks  [370 
like  journals.     Nite. 

Nov.  18.  The  committee  of  council  is 
to  sit  this  afternoon  upon  the  affair  of 
Duke  of  Hamilton's  murder,  and  I  hope 
a  proclamation  will  be  out  against  Ma- 
cartney. I  was  just  now  ('tis  now  noon) 
with  the  Duchess,  to  let  her  know  Lord- 
Treasurer  will  see  her.  She  is  mightily 
out  of  order.  The  jury  have  not  yet 
brought  in  their  verdict  upon  the  cor-  [380 
oner's  inquest.  We  suspect  Macartney 
stabbed  the  Duke  while  he  was  fighting. 
The  Queen  and  Lord-Treasurer  are  in 
great  concern  at  this  event.  I  dine  to-day 
again  with  Lord-Treasurer;  but  must 
send  this  to  the  post-office  before,  because 
else  I  shall  not  have  time;  he  usually 
keeps  me  so  late. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON    (1672-1719) 

From  THE  CAMPAIGN,  A  POEM  TO 
HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  MARL- 
BOROUGH 

But,  O  my  muse,  what  numbers  wilt 
thou  find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  joined ! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous 
sound  275 

The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  con- 
found, 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the 

skies, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise! 
'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty 

soul  was  proved. 
That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  un- 
moved, 280 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair, 
Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war; 
In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  sur- 
veyed, 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage,  285 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to 

rage. 
So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past, 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious 
blast,  290 


?4Q 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


And,    pleased   the   Almighty's   orders   to 

perform, 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the 

storm. 

HYMN 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

Th'  unwearied  Sun  from  day  to  day         5 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale ;     1  o 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  Earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll,  15 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found?        20 
In  Reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice; 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 


JOSEPH    ADDISON    (1672-1719)    AND 
RICHARD    STEELE   (1672-1729) 

From  THE  TATLER 

PROSPECTUS 

No.  1.    Tuesday,  April  12,  ijog 

Quicquid  agunt  homines 

— nostri  est  farrago  libelli. 
Juv.  Sat.  i.  85,  86. 
Whatever  men  do,  or  say,  or  think,  or  dream, 
Our  motley  paper  seizes  for  its  theme. — Pope. 

Though  the  other  papers,  which  are 
published  for  the  use  of  the  good  people  of 
England,  have  certainly  very  wholesome 
effects,  and  are  laudable  in  their  particular 


kinds,  they  do  not  seem  to  come  up  to  the 
main  design  of  such  narrations,  which,  I 
humbly  presume,  should  be  principally 
intended  for  the  use  of  politic  persons, 
who  are  so  public-spirited  as  to  neglect 
their  own  affairs  to  look  into  trans-  [10 
actions  of  state.  Now  these  gentlemen, 
for  the  most  part,  being  persons  of  strong 
zeal,  and  weak  intellects,  it  is  both  a 
charitable  and  necessary  work  to  offer 
something,  whereby  such  worthy  and 
well-affected  members  of  the  common- 
wealth may  be  instructed,  after  their 
reading,  what  to  think;  which  shall  be 
the  end  and  purpose  of  this  my  paper, 
wherein  I  shall,  from  time  to  time,  [20 
report  and  consider  all  matters  of  what 
kind  soever  that  shall  occur  to  me,  and 
publish  such  my  advices  and  reflections 
every  Tuesday,  Thursday,  and  Saturday 
in  the  week,  for  the  convenience  of  the 
post.  I  resolve  to  have  something  which 
may  be  of  entertainment  to  the  fair  sex, 
in  honor  of  whom  I  have  invented  the 
title  of  this  paper.  I  therefore  earnestly 
desire  all  persons,  without  distinc-  [30 
tion,  to  take  it  in  for  the  present  gratis, 
and  hereafter  at  the  price  of  one  penny, 
forbidding  all  hawkers  to  take  more  for 
it  at  their  peril.  And  I  desire  all  persons 
to  consider,  that  I  am  at  a  very  great 
charge  for  proper  materials  for  this  work, 
as  well  as  that,  before  I  resolved  upon  it, 
I  had  settled  a  correspondence  in  all  parts 
of  the  known  and  knowing  world.  And 
forasmuch  as  this  globe  is  not  trodden  [40 
upon  by  mere  drudges  of  business  only, 
but  that  men  of  spirit  and  genius  are 
justly  to  be  esteemed  as  considerable 
agents  in  it,  we  shall  not,  upon  a  dearth  of 
news,  present  you  with  musty  foreign 
edicts,  and  dull  proclamations,  but  shall 
divide  our  relation  of  the  passages  which 
occur  in  action  or  discourse  throughout 
this  town,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  under 
such  dates  of  places  as  may  prepare  [50 
you  for  the  matter  you  are  to  expect  in 
the  following  manner. 

All  accounts  of  gallantry,  pleasure,  and 
entertainment,  shall  be  under  the  article 
of  White's  Chocolate-house ;  poetry,  under 
that  of  Will's  Coffee-house;  learning, 
under  the  title  of  Grecian;  foreign  and 
domestic  news,  you  will  have  from  St. 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


241 


James's  Coffee-house;  and  what  else 
I  have  to  offer  on  any  other  subject  [60 
shall  be  dated  from  my  own  Apartment. 

I  once  more  desire  my  reader  to  con- 
sider, that  as  I  cannot  keep  an  ingenious 
man  to  go  daily  to  Will's  under  two-pence 
each  day,  merely  for  his  charges;  to 
White's  under  six-pence;  nor  to  the  Gre- 
cian, without  allowing  him  some  plain 
Spanish,  to  be  as  able  as  others  at  the 
learned  table;  and  that  a  good  observer 
cannot  speak  with  even  Kidney  at  [70 
St.  James's  without  clean  linen;  I  say, 
these  considerations  will,  I  hope,  make 
all  persons  willing  to  comply  with  my 
humble  request  (when  my  gratis  stock  is 
exhausted)  of  a  penny  apiece;  especially 
since  they  are  sure  of  some  proper  amuse- 
ment, and  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
want  means  to  entertain  them,  having, 
besides  the  force  of  my  own  parts,  the 
power  of  divination,  and  that  I  can,  by  [80 
casting  a  figure,  tell  you  all  that  will 
happen  before  it  comes  to  pass. 

But  this  last  faculty  I  shall  use  very 
sparingly,  and  speak  but  of  few  things 
until  they  are  passed,  for  fear  of  divulg- 
ing matters  which   may  offend  our  su- 


periors. 


— Steele. 


DUELLING 


No.  25.    Tuesday,  June  7,  iyog. 
Quicquid  agunt  homines — 
— nostri  est  farrago  libelli. 

Juv.  Sat.  i.  85,  86. 
Whatever  men  do,  or  say,  or  think,  or  dream, 
Our  motley  paper  seizes  for  its  theme. — Pope. 

White's  Chocolate-House,  June  6. 
A  letter  from  a  young  lady,  written 
in  the  most  passionate  terms,  wherein 
she  laments  the  misfortune  of  a  gentle- 
man, her  lover,  who  was  lately  wounded 
in  a  duel,  has  turned  my  thoughts  to 
that  subject,  and  inclined  me  to  examine 
into  the  causes  which  precipitate  men  into 
so  fatal  a  folly.  And  as  it  has  been  pro- 
posed to  treat  of  subjects  of  gallantry  in 
the  article  from  hence,  and  no  one  [10 
point  in  nature  is  more  proper  to  be  con- 
sidered by  the  company  who  frequent 
this  place  than  that  of  duels,  it  is  worth 


our  consideration  to  examine  into  this 
chimerical  groundless  humor,  and  to  lay 
every  other  thought  aside,  until  we  have 
stripped  it  of  all  its  false  pretences  to 
credit  and  reputation  amongst  men. 

But  I  must  confess,  when  I  consider 
what  I  am  going  about,  and  run  over  in  [20 
my  imagination  all  the  endless  crowd  of 
men  of  honor  who  will  be  offended  at 
such  a  discourse,  I  am  undertaking,  me- 
thinks,  a  work  worthy  an  invulnerable 
hero  in  romance,  rather  than  a  private 
gentleman  with  a  single  rapier:  but  as 
I  am  pretty  well  acquainted  by  great 
opportunities  with  the  nature  of  man, 
and  know  of  a  truth  that  all  men  fight 
against  their  will,  the  danger  vanishes,  [30 
and  resolution  rises  upon  this  subject. 
For  this  reason  I  shall  talk  very  freely 
on  a  custom  which  all  men  wish  exploded, 
though  no  man  has  courage  enough  to 
resist  it. 

But  there  is  one  unintelligible  word, 
which  I  fear  will  extremely  perplex  my 
dissertation,  and  I  must  confess  to  you 
I  find  very  hard  to  explain,  which  is 
the  term  "satisfaction."  An  honest  [40 
country  gentleman  had  the  misfortune 
to  fall  into  company  with  two  or  three 
modern  men  of  honor,  where  he  hap- 
pened to  be  very  ill-treated;  and  one  of 
the  company,  being  conscious  of  his 
offense,  sends  a  note  to  him  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  tells  him,  he  was  ready  to  give 
him  satisfaction.  "This  is  fine  doing," 
says  the  plain  fellow;  "last  night  he  sent 
me  away  cursedly  out  of  humor,  and  [50 
this  morning  he  fancies  it  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  be  run  through  the  body." 

As  the  matter  at  present  stands,  it  is 
not  to  do  handsome  actions  denominates 
a  man  of  honor;  it  is  enough  if  he  dares 
to  defend  ill  ones.  Thus  you  often  see  a 
common  sharper  in  competition  with  a 
gentleman  of  the  first  rank;  though  all 
mankind  is  convinced  that  a  fighting 
gamester  is  only  a  pick-pocket  with  [60 
the  courage  of  a  highwayman.  One  can- 
not with  any  patience  reflect  on  the  un- 
accountable jumble  of  persons  and  things 
in  this  town  and  nation,  which  occasions 
very  frequently  that  a  brave  man  falls 
by  a  hand  below  that  of  a  common  hang- 
man, and  yet  his  executioner  escapes  the 


242 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


clutches  of  the  hangman  for  doing  it. 
I  shall  therefore  hereafter  consider,  how 
the  bravest  men  in  other  ages  and  na-  [70 
tions  have  behaved  themselves  upon  such 
incidents  as  we  decide  by  combat;  and 
show,  from  their  practice,  that  this  re- 
sentment neither  has  its  foundation  from 
true  reason  or  solid  fame;  but  is  an  im- 
posture, made  of  cowardice,  falsehood, 
and  want  of  understanding.  For  this 
work,  a  good  history  of  quarrels  would 
be  very  edifying  to  the  public,  and  I 
apply  myself  to  the  town  for  par-  [80 
ticulars  and  circumstances  within  their 
knowledge,  which  may  serve  to  embellish 
the  dissertation  with  proper  cuts.  Most 
of  the  quarrels  I  have  ever  known,  have 
proceeded  from  some  valiant  coxcomb's 
persisting  in  the  wrong,  to  defend  some 
prevailing  folly,  and  preserve  himself 
from  the  ingenuity  of  owning  a  mistake. 

By  this  means  it  is  called  "giving  a 
man  satisfaction,"  to  urge  your  [90 
offense  against  him  with  your  sword; 
which  puts  me  in  mind  of  Peter's  order  to 
the  keeper  in  The  Tale  of  a  Tub:  "If  you 
neglect  to  do  all  this,  damn  you  and  your 
generation  for  ever:  and  so  wre  bid  you 
heartily  farewell."  If  the  contradiction 
in  the  very  terms  of  one  of  our  challenges 
were  as  well  explained  and  turned  into 
downright  English,  would  it  not  run  after 
this  manner?  [100 

"Sir, 

Your  extraordinary  behavior  last  night, 
and  the  liberty  you  were  pleased  to  take 
with  me,  makes  me  this  morning  give 
you  this,  to  tell  you,  because  you  are  an 
ill-bred  puppy,  I  will  meet  you  in  Hyde- 
park,  an  hour  hence;  and  because  you  want 
both  breeding  and  humanity,  I  desire 
you  would  come  with  a  pistol  in  your 
hand,  on  horseback,  and  endeavor  to  [no 
shoot  me  through  the  head,  to  teach  you 
more  manners.  If  you  fail  of  doing  me 
this  pleasure,  I  shall  say,  you  are  a  rascal, 
on  every  post  in  town:  and  so,  sir,  if  you 
will  not  injure  me  more,  I  shall  never 
forgive  what  you  have  done  already. 
Pray,  sir,  do  not  fail  of  getting  everything 
ready;  and  you  will  infinitely  oblige,  sir, 
your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 
etc."  *  *  *  [120 

— Steele. 


NED   SOFTLY 

No.  1 6 j.    Tuesday,  April  25,  iyio. 

Idem  inficeto  est  inficetior  rure, 
Simul  poemata  attigit;  neque  idem  unquam 
JEque  est  beatus,  ac  poema  cum  scribit: 
Tarn  gaudet  in  se,  tamque  se  ipse  miratur. 
Nimirum  idem  omnes  fallimur;  neque  est 

quisquam 
Quern  non  in  aliqud  re  videre  Sujfenum 

Possis 

Catul.  de  Suffeno,  xx.  14. 
Sujfenus  has  no  more  wit  than  a  mere 
clown  when  he  attempts  to  write  verses,  and 
yet  he  is  never  happier  than  when  he  is 
scribbling;  so  much  does  he  admire  himself 
and  his  compositions.  And,  indeed,  this 
is  the  foible  of  every  one  of  us,  for  there  is 
no  man  living  who  is  not  a  Suffenus  in  one 
thing  or  other. 

Will's  Coffee  House,  April  24. 

I  yesterday  came  hither  about  two 
hours  before  the  company  generally  make 
their  appearance,  with  a  design  to  read 
over  all  the  newspapers;  but,  upon  my 
sitting  down,  I  was  accosted  by  Ned 
Softly,  who  saw  me  from  a  corner  in  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  where  I  found  he 
had  been  writing  something.  "Mr. 
Bickerstaff,"  says  he,  "I  observe  by  a 
late  Paper  of  yours,  that  you  and  I  [10 
are  just  of  a  humor;  for  you  must  know, 
of  all  impertinences,  there  is  nothing  which 
I  so  much  hate  as  news.  I  never  read  a 
Gazette  in  my  life;  and  never  trouble  my 
head  about  our  armies,  whether  they  win 
or  lose,  or  in  what  part  of  the  world  they 
lie  encamped."  Without  giving  me  time 
to  reply,  he  drew  a  paper  of  verses  out 
of  his  pocket,  telling  me,  "that  he  had 
something  which  would  entertain  me  [20 
more  agreeably;  and  that  he  would  desire 
my  judgment  upon  every  line,  for  that 
we  had  time  enough  before  us  until  the 
company  came  in." 

Ned  Softly  is  a  very  pretty  poet,  and  a 
great  admirer  of  easy  lines.  Waller  is  his 
favorite:  and  as  that  admirable  writer 
has  the  best  and  worst  verses  of  any  among 
our  great  English  poets,  Ned  Softly  has 
got  all  the  bad  ones  without  book;  [30 
which  he  repeats  upon  occasion,  to  show 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


HS 


his  reading,  and  garnish  his  conversation. 
Ned  is  indeed  a  true  English  reader,  in- 
capable of  relishing  the  great  and  mas- 
terly strokes  of  this  art;  but  wonderfully 
pleased  with  the  little  Gothic  ornaments 
of  epigrammatical  conceits,  turns,  points, 
and  quibbles,  which  are  so  frequent  in  the 
most  admired  of  our  English  poets,  and 
practised  by  those  who  want  genius  [40 
and  strength  to  represent,  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  ancients,  simplicity  in  its  nat- 
ural beauty  and  perfection. 

Finding  myself  unavoidably  engaged 
in  such  a  conversation,  I  was  resolved  to 
turn  my  pain  into  a  pleasure,  and  to  di- 
vert myself  as  well  as  I  could  with  so  very 
odd  a  fellow.  "You  must  understand," 
says  Ned,  "that  the  sonnet  I  am  going 
to  read  to  you  was  written  upon  a  [50 
lady,  who  showed  me  some  verses  of  her 
own  making,  and  is,  perhaps,  the  best 
poet  of  our  age.    But  you  shall  hear  it." 

Upon  which  he  began  to  read  as  follows: 

To  Mira  on  Her  Incomparable  Poems. 

When  dressed  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine, 
And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes, 

You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine, 
Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing,  [60 

(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art) 

Your  pen  was  plucked  from  Cupid's  wing; 
For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "this  is  a  little  nosegay 
of  conceits,  a  very  lump  of  salt :  every  verse 
has  something  in  it  that  piques;  and  then 
the  dart  in  the  last  line  is  certainly  as 
pretty  a  sting  in  the  tail  of  an  epigram, 
for  so  I  think  you  critics  call  it,  as  ever 
entered  into  the  thought  of  a  poet."  [70 
"Dear  Mr.  Bickerstaff,"  says  he,  shaking 
me  by  the  hand,  "everybody  knows  you 
to  be  a  judge  of  these  things;  and  to  tell 
you  truly,  I  read  over  Roscommon's 
translation  of  'Horace's  Art  of  Poetry' 
three  several  times,  before  I  sat  down  to 
write  the  sonnet  which  I  have  shown  you. 
But  you  shall  hear  it  again,  and  pray 
observe  every  line  of  it;  for  not  one  of 
them  shall  pass  without  your  approba-  [80 
tion. 


When  dressed  in  laurel  wreaths  you  shine. 

"That  is,"  says  he,  "when  you  have 
your  garland  on;  when  you  are  writing 
verses."  To  which  I  replied,  "I  know 
your  meaning:  a  metaphor!"  "The 
same,"  said  he,  and  went  on: 

"  And  tune  your  soft  melodious  notes. 

"Pray  observe  the  gliding  of  that  verse; 
there  is  scarce  a  consonant  in  it:  I  [go 
took  care  to  make  it  run  upon  liquids. 
Give  me  your  opinion  of  it."  "Truly," 
said  I,  "I  think  it  as  good  as  the  former." 
"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so," 
says  he;  "but  mind  the  next: 

You  seem  a  sister  of  the  Nine. 

"That  is,"  says  he,  "you  seem  a  sister 
of  the  Muses;  for,  if  you  look  into  ancient 
authors,  you  will  find  it  was  their  opinion 
that  there  were  nine  of  them."  "I  [100 
remember  it  very  well,"  said  I;  "but  pray 
proceed." 

"  Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats. 

"Phoebus,"  says  he,  "was  the  god  of 
poetry.  These  little  instances,  Mr.  Bick- 
erstaff, show  a  gentleman's  reading.  Then, 
to  take  off  from  the  air  of  learning,  which 
Phoebus  and  the  Muses  had  given  to  this 
first  stanza,  you  may  observe,  how  it 
falls  all  of  a  sudden  into  the  familiar;  [no 
'in  Petticoats'! 

Or  Phoebus'  self  in  petticoats." 

"Let  us  now,"  says  I,  "enter  upon  the 
second  stanza;  I  find  the  first  line  is  still  a 
continuation  of  the  metaphor: 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing." 

"It  is  very  right,"  says  he,  "but  pray 
observe  the  turn  of  words  in  those  two 
lines.  I  was  a  whole  hour  in  adjusting 
of  them,  and  have  still  a  doubt  upon  [120 
me,  whether  in  the  second  line  it  should 
be  'Your  song  you  sing;'  or,  'You  sing 
your  song.'    You  shall  hear  them  both: 

I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 
(Your  song  you  sing  with  so  much  art) 

or 
I  fancy,  when  your  song  you  sing, 

(You  sing  your  song  with  so  much  art.) " 

"Truly,"  said  I,  "the  turn  is  so  natural 
either  way,  that  you  have  made  me  [130 


244 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


almost  giddy  with  it."  "Dear  sir,"  said 
he,  grasping  me  by  the  hand,  "you  have 
a  great  deal  of  patience;  but  pray  what  do 
you  think  of  the  next  verse? 

Your  pen  was  plucked  from  Cupid's  wing." 

"Think!"  says  I;  "I  think  you  have 
made  Cupid  look  like  a  little  goose." 
"That  was  my  meaning,"  says  he:  "I 
think  the  ridicule  is  well  enough  hit  off. 
But  we  come  now  to  the  last,  which  [140 
sums  up  the  whole  matter: 

For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"Pray,  how  do  you  like  that  Ah!  doth 
it  not  make  a  pretty  figure  in  that  place? 

Ah! it  looks  as  if  I  felt  the  dart,  and 

cried  out  as  being  pricked  with  it! 

For,  ah!  it  wounds  me  like  his  dart. 

"My  friend  Dick  Easy,"  continued  he, 
"  assured  me,  he  would  rather  have  written 
that  A  hi  than  to  have  been  the  au-  [150 
thor  of  the  ^Eneid.  He  indeed  objected, 
that  I  made  Mira's  pen  like  a  quill  in  one  of 
the  lines,  and  like  a  dart  in  the  other.    But 

as  to  that "  "Oh!  as  to  that,"  says  I, 

"it  is  but  supposing  Cupid  to  be  like  a 
porcupine,  and  his  quills  and  darts  will  be 
the  same  thing."  He  was  going  to  em- 
brace me  for  the  hint;  but  half  a  dozen 
critics  coming  into  the  room,  whose  faces 
he  did  not  like,  he  conveyed  the  son-  [160 
net  into  his  pocket,  and  whispered  me  in 
the  ear,  "he  would  show  it  me  again  as 
soon  as  his  man  had  written  it  over  fair." 

— Addison. 


FROZEN  WORDS 

No.  254.    Thursday,  November  23,  1710. 
Splendidb  mendax- 


Hor.  2  Od.  Hi.  35. 

Gloriously  false . 

Francis. 

My  Own  Apartment,  November  22. 
There  are  no  books  which  I  more  delight 
in  than  in  travels,  especially  those  that 
describe  remote  countries,  and  give  the 
writer  an  opportunity  of  showing  his 
parts   without   incurring   any   danger   of 


being  examined  or  contradicted.  Among 
all  the  authors  of  this  kind,  our  renowned 
countryman,  Sir  John  Mandeville,  has 
distinguished  himself  by  the  copiousness 
of  his  invention  and  the  greatness  of  [10 
his  genius.  The  second  to  Sir  John  I  take 
to  have  been  Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto, 
a  person  of  infinite  adventure,  and  un- 
bounded imagination.  One  reads  the 
voyages  of  these  two  great  wits,  with  as 
much  astonishment  as  the  travels  of  Ulys- 
ses in  Homer,  or  of  the  Red-Cross  Knight 
in  Spenser.  All  is  enchanted  ground,  and 
fairyland. 

I  have  got  into  my  hands,  by  great  [20 
chance,  several  manuscripts  of  these  two 
eminent  authors,  which  are  filled  with 
greater  wonders  than  any  of  those  they 
have  communicated  to  the  public;  and 
indeed,  were  they  not  so  well  attested,  they 
would  appear  altogether  improbable.  I 
am  apt  to  think  the  ingenious  authors  did 
not  publish  them  with  the  rest  of  their 
works,  lest  they  should  pass  for  fictions 
and  fables:  a  caution  not  unnecessary,  [30 
when  the  reputation  of  their  veracity  was 
not  yet  established  in  the  world.  But  as 
this  reason  has  now  no  farther  weight,  I 
shall  make  the  public  a  present  of  these 
curious  pieces,  at  such  times  as  I  shall 
find  myself  unprovided  with  other  sub- 
jects. 

The  present  paper  I  intend  to  fill  with 
an  extract  from  Sir  John's  Journal,  in 
which  that  learned  and  worthy  knight  [40 
gives  an  account  of  the  freezing  and 
thawing  of  several  short  speeches,  which 
he  made  in  the  territories  of  Nova  Zembla. 
I  need  not  inform  my  reader,  that  the 
author  of  "Hudibras"  alludes  to  this 
strange  quality  in  that  cold  climate, 
when,  speaking  of  abstracted  notions 
clothed  in  a  visible  shape,  he  adds  that 
apt  simile, 

"Like  words  congealed  in  northern  air."  50 

Not  to  keep  my  reader  any  longer  in  sus- 
pense, the  relation  put  into  modern  lan- 
guage, is  as  follows: 

"We  were  separated  by  a  storm  in  the 
latitude  of  seventy-three,  insomuch,  that 
only  the  ship  which  I  was  in,  with  a  Dutch 
and  French  vessel,  got  safe  into  a  creek 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


245 


of  Nova  Zembla.  We  landed,  in  order 
to  refit  our  vessels,  and  store  ourselves 
with  provisions.  The  crew  of  each  ves-  [60 
sel  made  themselves  a  cabin  of  turf  and 
wood,  at  some  distance  from  each  other, 
to  fence  themselves  against  the  inclemen- 
cies of  the  weather,  which  was  severe 
beyond  imagination.  We  soon  observed, 
that  in  talking  to  one  another  we  lost 
several  of  our  words,  and  could  not  hear 
one  another  at  above  two  yards  distance, 
and  that  too  when  we  sat  very  near  the 
fire.  After  much  perplexity,  I  found  [70 
that  our  words  froze  in  the  air,  before 
they  could  reach  the  ears  of  the  persons 
to  whom  they  were  spoken.  I  was  soon 
confirmed  in  this  conjecture,  when,  upon 
the  increase  of  the  cold,  the  whole  com- 
pany grew  dumb,  or  rather  deaf;  for 
every  man  was  sensible,  as  we  afterwards 
found,  that  he  spoke  as  well  as  ever;  but 
the  sounds  no  sooner  took  air  than  they 
were  condensed  and  lost.  It  was  now  [80 
a  miserable  spectacle  to  see  us  nodding 
and  gaping  at  one  another,  every  man 
talking,  and  no  man  heard.  One  might 
observe  a  seaman  that  could  hail  a  ship 
at  a  league's  distance,  beckoning  with 
his  hand,  straining  bis  lungs,  and  tearing 
his  throat;  but  all  in  vain: 


-Nee  vox  nee  verba  sequuntur. 
Ovid,  Met.  xi.  326. 


"Nor  voice,  nor  words  ensued. 

"We  continued  here  three  weeks  [90 
in  this  dismal  plight.  At  length,  upon  a 
turn  of  wind,  the  air  about  us  began  to 
thaw.  Our  cabin  was  immediately  filled 
with  a  dry  clattering  sound,  which  I 
afterwards  found  to  be  the  crackling  of 
consonants  that  broke  above  our  heads, 
and  were  often  mixed  with  a  gentle  hiss- 
ing, which  I  imputed  to  the  letter  s,  that 
occurs  so  frequently  in  the  English  tongue. 
I  soon  after  felt  a  breeze  of  whispers  [100 
rushing  by  my  ear;  for  those,  being  of  a 
soft  and  gentle  substance,  immediately 
liquefied  in  the  warm  wind  that  blew 
across  our  cabin.  These  were  soon  fol- 
lowed by  syllables  and  short  words,  and 
at  length  by  entire  sentences,  that  melted 
sooner  or  later,  as  they  were  more  or  less 
congealed;  so  that  we  now  heard  every 


thing  that  had  been  spoken  during  the 
whole  three  weeks  that  we  had  been  [no 
silent,  if  I  may  use  that  expression.  It 
was  now  very  early  in  the  morning,  and 
yet,  to  my  surprise,  I  heard  somebody 
say,  'Sir  John,  it  is  midnight,  and  time 
for  the  ship's  crew  to  go  to  bed.'  This 
I  knew  to  be  the  pilot's  voice;  and,  upon 
recollecting  myself,  I  concluded  that  he 
had  spoken  these  words  to  me  some  days 
before,  though  I  could  not  hear  them 
until  the  present  thaw.  My  reader  [120 
will  easily  imagine  how  the  whole  crew  was 
amazed  to  hear  every  man  talking,  and 
see  no  man  opening  his  mouth.  In  the 
midst  of  this  great  surprise  we  were  all 
in,  we  heard  a  volley  of  oaths  and  curses, 
lasting  for  a  long  while,  and  uttered  in  a 
very  hoarse  voice,  which  I  knew  belonged 
to  the  boatswain,  who  was  a  very  choleric 
fellow,  and  had  taken  his  opportunity  of 
cursing  and  swearing  at  me,  when  he  [130 
thought  I  could  not  hear  him;  for  I  had 
several  times  given  him  the  strappado  on 
that  account,  as  I  did  not  fail  to  repeat 
it  for  these  his  pious  soliloquies,  when 
I  got  him  on  shipboard. 

"I  must  not  omit  the  names  of  several 
beauties  in  Wapping,  which  were  heard 
every  now  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  a 
long  sigh  that  accompanied  them;  as, 
'Dear  Kate!'  'Pretty  Mrs.  Peggy!'  [140 
'When  shall  I  see  my  Sue  again!'  This 
betrayed  several  amours  which  had  been 
concealed  until  that  time,  and  furnished 
us  with  a  great  deal  of  mirth  in  our  return 
to  England. 

"When  this  confusion  of  voices  was 
pretty  well  over,  though  I  was  afraid  to 
offer  at  speaking,  as  fearing  I  should 
not  be  heard,  I  proposed  a  visit  to  the 
Dutch  cabin,  which  lay  about  a  mile  [150 
farther  up  in  the  country.  My  crew  were 
extremely  rejoiced  to  find  they  had  again 
recovered  their  hearing;  though  every 
man  uttered  his  voice  with  the  same 
apprehensions  that  I  had  done, 

" Et  timide  verba  inter mhsa  retentat. 

Ovid,  Met.  i.  146. 
"And  tried  his  tongue,  his  silence  softly 
broke. 

"At  about  half-a-mile's  distance  from 
our  cabin  we  heard  the  groanings  of  a  bear, 


246 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


which  at  first  startled  us;  but,  upon  [160 
enquiry,  we  were  informed  by  some  of 
our  company,  that  he  was  dead,  and  now 
lay  in  salt,  having  been  killed  upon  that 
very  spot  about  a  fortnight  before,  in  the 
time  of  the  frost.  Not  far  from  the 
same  place,  we  .were  likewise  entertained 
with  some  posthumous  snarls  and  barkings 
of  a  fox. 

"We  at  length  arrived  at  the  little 
Dutch  settlement;  and,  upon  entering  [170 
the  room,  found  it  filled  with  sighs  that 
smelt  of  brandy,  and  several  other  un- 
savory sounds,  that  were  altogether  in- 
articulate. My  valet,  who  was  an  Irish- 
man, fell  into  so  great  a  rage  at  what  he 
heard,  that  he  drew  his  sword;  but  not 
knowing  where  to  lay  the  blame,  he  put 
it  up  again.  We  were  stunned  with  these 
confused  noises,  but  did  not  hear  a  single 
word  until  about  half-an-hour  after;  [180 
which  I  ascribed  to  the  harsh  and  ob- 
durate sounds  of  that  language,  which 
wanted  more  time  than  ours  to  melt,  and 
become  audible. 

"After  having  here  met  with  a  very 
hearty  welcome,  we  went  to  the  cabin  of 
the  French,  who,  to  make  amends  for 
their  three  weeks'  silence,  were  talking 
and  disputing  with  greater  rapidity  and 
confusion  than  I  ever  heard  in  an  [190 
assembly,  even  of  that  nation.  Their 
language,  as  I  found,  upon  the  first  giving 
of  the  weather,  fell  asunder  and  dissolved. 
I  was  here  convinced  of  an  error,  into 
which  I  had  before  fallen;  for  I  fancied, 
that  for  the  freezing  of  the  sound,  it  was 
necessary  for  it  to  be  wrapped  up,  and, 
as  it  were,  preserved  in  breath:  but 
I  found  my  mistake  when  I  heard  the 
sound  of  a  kit  playing  a  minuet  over  [200 
our  heads.  I  asked  the  occasion  of  it ;  upon 
which  one  of  the  company  told  me  that 
it  would  play  there  above  a  week  longer; 
'for,'  says  he,  'finding  ourselves  bereft  of 
speech,  we  prevailed  upon  one  of  the  com- 
pany, who  had  his  musical  instrument 
about  him,  to  play  to  us  from  morning 
to  night;  all  which  time  was  employed 
in  dancing  in  order  to  dissipate  our 
chagrin,  and  titer  le  temps.'"  [210 

Here  Sir  John  gives  very  good  philosoph- 
ical reasons,  why  the  kit  could  not  be 
heard  during  the  frost;  but,  as  they  are 


something  prolix,  I  pass  them  over  in 
silence,  and  shall  only  observe,  that  the 
honorable  author  seems,  by  his  quota- 
tions, to  have  been  well  versed  in  the 
ancient  poets,  which  perhaps  raised  his 
fancy  above  the  ordinary  pitch  of  histo- 
rians, and  very  much  contributed  to  [220 
the  embellishment  of  his  writings. 

— Addison. 


From  THE  SPECTATOR 
MR.  SPECTATOR 

No.  1.    Thursday,  March  1,  iyn. 

Non  fumum  ex  fulgore,  sed  ex  fumo  dare 

lucem 
Cogitat,  ut  speciosa  dehinc  miracula  promat. 
Hor.  Ars  Poet.  143. 

One  with  a  flash  begins,  and  ends  in  smoke; 
Another  out  of  smoke  brings  glorious  light, 
And,  without  raising  expectation  high, 
Surprises  us  with  dazzling  miracles. 

— Roscommon. 

I  have  observed  that  a  reader  seldom 
peruses  a  book  with  pleasure,  till  he 
knows  whether  the  writer  of  it  be  a  black 
or  a  fair  man,  of  a  mild  or  choleric  dis- 
position, married  or  a  bachelor,  with 
other  particulars  of  the  like  nature,  that 
conduce  very  much  to  the  right  under- 
standing of  an  author.  To  gratify  this 
curiosity,  which  is  so  natural  to  a  reader, 
I  design  this  paper,  and  my  next,  [10 
as  prefatory  discourses  to  my  following 
writings,  and  shall  give  some  account  in 
them  of  the  several  persons  that  are  en- 
gaged in  this  work.  As  the  chief  trouble 
of  compiling,  digesting,  and  correcting 
will  fall  to  my  share,  I  must  do  myself 
the  justice  to  open  the  work  with  my 
own  history. 

I  was  born  to  a  small  hereditary  es- 
tate, which,  according  to  the  tradition  [20 
of  the  village  where  it  lies,  was  bounded 
by  the  same  hedges  and  ditches  in  Wil- 
liam the  Conqueror's  time  that  it  is  at 
present,  and  has  been  delivered  down 
from  father  to  son  whole  and  entire, 
without  the  loss  or  acquisition  of  a  single 
field  or  meadow,  during  the  space  of  six 
hundred  years.     There  runs  a  story  in 


ADDISON  AXD  STEELE 


247 


the  family  that  when  my  mother  was 
gone  with  child  of  me  about  three  [30 
months,  she  dreamt  that  she  was  brought 
to  bed  of  a  judge.  Whether  this  might 
proceed  from  a  law-suit  which  was  then 
depending  in  the  family,  or  my  father's 
being  a  justice  of  the  peace,  I  cannot  de- 
termine; for  I  am  not  so  vain  as  to  think 
it  presaged  any  dignity  that  I  should 
arrive  at  in  my  future  life,  though  that 
was  the  interpretation  which  the  neigh- 
borhood put  upon  it.  The  gravity  of  [40 
my  behavior  at  my  very  first  appearance 
in  the  world  seemed  to  favor  my  mother's 
dream;  for,  as  she  often  told  me,  I  threw 
away  my  rattle  before  I  was  two  months 
old,  and  would  not  make  use  of  my  coral 
until  they  had  taken  away  the  bells  from 
it. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  infancy,  there 
being  nothing  in  it  remarkable,  I  shall 
pass  it  over  in  silence.  I  find  that  [50 
during  my  nonage  I  had  the  reputation 
of  a  very  sullen  youth,  but  was  always  a 
favorite  of  my  schoolmaster,  who  used 
to  say,  that  my  parts  were  solid,  and 
would  wear  well.  I  had  not  been  long 
at  the  university,  before  I  distinguished 
myself  by  a  most  profound  silence;  for, 
during  the  space  of  eight  years,  excepting 
in  the  public  exercises  of  the  college, 
I  scarce  uttered  the  quantity  of  a  [60 
hundred  words;  and  indeed  do  not  re- 
member that  I  ever  spoke  three  sentences 
together  in  my  whole  life.  Whilst  I  was 
in  this  learned  body,  I  applied  myself 
with  so  much  diligence  to  my  studies, 
that  there  are  very  few  celebrated  books, 
either  in  the  learned  or  the  modern  tongues, 
which  I  am  not  acquainted  with. 

Upon  the  death  of  my  father,  I  was 
resolved  to  travel  into  foreign  coun-  [70 
tries,  and  therefore  left  the  university, 
with  the  character  of  an  odd  unaccount- 
able fellow,  that  had  a  great  deal  of  learn- 
ing, if  I  would  but  show  it.  An  insatiable 
thirst  after  knowledge  carried  me  into 
all  the  countries  of  Europe,  in  which  there 
was  anything  new  or  strange  to  be  seen; 
nay,  to  such  a  degree  was  my  curiosity 
raised,  that  having  read  the  controversies 
of  some  great  men  concerning  the  an-  [80 
tiquities  of  Egypt,  I  made  a  voyage  to 
Grand    Cairo,    on    purpose    to    take    the 


measure  of  a  pyramid;  and  as  soon  as  I 
had  set  myself  right  in  that  particular, 
returned  to  my  native  country  with  great 
satisfaction. 

I  have  passed  my  latter  years  in  this 
city,  where  I  am  frequently  seen  in  most 
public  places,  though  there  are  not  above 
j  half  a  dozen  of  my  select  friends  that  [90 
know  me;  of  whom  my  next  paper  shall 
give  a  more  particular  account.  There 
is  no  place  of  general  resort,  wherein 
I  do  not  often  make  my  appearance; 
sometimes  I  am  seen  thrusting  my  head 
into  a  round  of  politicians  at  Will's,  and 
listening  with  great  attention  to  the  nar- 
ratives that  are  made  in  those  little  cir- 
cular audiences.  Sometimes  I  smoke  a 
pipe  at  Child's,  and  whilst  I  seem  at-  [100 
tentive  to  nothing  but  the  Postman, 
overhear  the  conversation  of  every  table 
in  the  room.  I  appear  on  Sunday  nights 
at  St.  James's  coffee-house,  and  some- 
times join  the  little  committee  of  politics 
in  the  inner  room,  as  one  who  comes  there 
to  hear  and  improve.  My  face  is  likewise 
very  well  known  at  the  Grecian,  the 
Cocoa-tree,  and  in  the  theaters  both  of 
Drury-Lane  and  the  Hay-market.  I  [no 
have  been  taken  for  a  merchant  upon 
the  Exchange  for  above  these  ten  years, 
and  sometimes  pass  for  a  Jew  in  the  as- 
sembly of  stock-jobbers  at  Jonathan's. 
In  short,  wherever  I  see  a  cluster  of  people, 
I  always  mix  with  them,  though  I  never 
open  my  lips  but  in  my  own  club. 

Thus  I  live  in  the  world  rather  as  a 
Spectator  of  mankind,  than  as  one  of  the 
species,  by  which  means  I  have  made  [120 
myself  a  speculative  statesman,  soldier, 
merchant,  and  artisan,  without  ever  med- 
dling with  any  practical  part  in  life.  I 
am  very  well  versed  in  the  theory  of  a 
husband  or  a  father,  and  can  discern  the 
errors  in  the  economy,  business,  and  di- 
version of  others,  better  than  those  who 
are  engaged  in  them;  as  standers-by  dis- 
cover blots  which  are  apt  to  escape  those 
who  are  in  the  game.  I  never  espoused  [130 
any  party  with  violence,  and  am  resolved 
to  observe  an  exact  neutrality  between 
the  Whigs  and  Tories,  unless  I  shall 
be  forced  to  declare  myself  by  the  hos- 
tilities of  either  side.  In  short,  I  have 
acted  in  all  the  parts  of  my  life  as  a  looker- 


248 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


on,  which  is  the  character  I  intend  to 
preserve  in  this  paper. 

I  have  given  the  reader  just  so  much 
of  my  history  and  character,  as  to  let  [140 
him  see  I  am  not  altogether  unqualified 
for  the  business  I  have  undertaken.  As 
for  other  particulars  in  my  life  and  adven- 
tures, I  shall  insert  them  in  following 
papers,  as  I  shall  see  occasion.  In  the 
meantime,  when  I  consider  how  much  I 
have  seen,  read,  and  heard,  I  begin  to 
blame  my  own  taciturnity;  and  since  I 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination,  to  com- 
municate the  fulness  of  my  heart  in  [150 
speech,  I  am  resolved  to  do  it  in  writ- 
ing, and  to  print  myself  out,  if  possible, 
before  I  die.  I  have  been  often  told  by 
my  friends,  that  it  is  a  pity  so  many 
useful  discoveries  which  I  have  made 
should  be  in  the  possession  of  a  silent 
man.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  I  shall 
publish  a  sheet-full  of  thoughts  every 
morning,  for  the  benefit  of  my  contempo- 
raries; and  if  I  can  any  way  contrib-  [160 
ute  to  the  diversion  or  improvement  of 
the  country  in  which  I  live,  I  shall  leave 
it  when  I  am  summoned  out  of  it,  with 
the  secret  satisfaction  of  thinking  that 
I  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

There  are  three  very  material  points 
which  I  have  not  spoken  to  in  this  paper; 
and  which,  for  several  important  rea- 
sons, I  must  keep  to  myself,  at  least  for 
some  time:  I  mean,  an  account  of  [170 
my  name,  my  age,  and  my  lodgings.  I 
must  confess,  I  would  gratify  my  reader 
in  anything  that  is  reasonable;  but  as  for 
these  three  particulars,  though  I  am  sen- 
sible they  might  tend  very  much  to  the 
embellishment  of  my  paper,  I  cannot  yet 
come  to  a  resolution  of  communicating 
them  to  the  public.  They  would  indeed 
draw  me  out  of  that  obscurity  which  I 
have  enjoyed  for  many  years,  and  ex-  [180 
pose  me  in  public  places  to  several  salutes 
and  civilities,  which  have  been  always  very 
disagreeable  to  me;  for  the  greatest  pain 
I  can  suffer,  is  the  being  talked  to,  and 
being  stared  at.  It  is  for  this  reason  like- 
wise, that  I  keep  my  complexion  and 
dress  as  very  great  secrets;  though  it  is 
not  impossible  but  I  may  make  discover- 
ies of  both  in  the  progress  of  the  work 
I  have  undertaken.  [190 


After  having  been  thus  particular  upon 
myself,  I  shall,  in  to-morrow's  paper, 
give  an  account  of  those  gentlemen  who 
are  concerned  with  me  in  this  work;  for, 
as  I  have  before  intimated,  a  plan  of  it 
is  laid  and  concerted,  as  all  other  matters 
of  importance  are,  in  a  club.  However, 
as  my  friends  have  engaged  me  to  stand 
in  the  front,  those  who  have  a  mind  to 
correspond  with  me  may  direct  their  [200 
letters  to  the  Spectator,  at  Mr.  Buck- 
ley's, in  Little  Britain.  For  I  must  further 
acquaint  the  reader,  that,  though  our 
club  meets  only  on  Tuesdays  and  Thurs- 
days, we  have  appointed  a  committee  to 
sit  every  night,  for  the  inspection  of  all 
such  papers  as  may  contribute  to  the 
advancement  of  the  public  weal. 

— Addison. 


THE  CLUB 

No.  2.    Friday,  March  2,  ijii. 

— Ast  alii  sex 
Et  plures  uno  conclamant  ore. 

— Juv.  Sat.  vii.  167. 
Six  more  at  least  join  their  consenting  voice. 

The  first  of  our  society  is  a  gentleman 
of  Worcestershire,  of  ancient  descent,  a 
baronet,  his  name  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley. 
His  great  grandfather  was  inventor  of 
that  famous  country-dance  which  is  called 
after  him.  All  who  know  that  shire  are 
very  well  acquainted  with  the  parts  and 
merits  of  Sir  Roger.  He  is  a  gentleman 
that  is  very  singular  in  his  behavior,  but 
his  singularities  proceed  from  his  [10 
good  sense,  and  are  contradictions  to  the 
manners  of  the  world,  only  as  he  thinks 
the  world  is  in  the  wrong.  However,  this 
humor  creates  him  no  enemies,  for  he 
does  nothing  with  sourness  or  obstinacy; 
and  his  being  unconfined  to  modes  and 
forms,  makes  him  but  the  readier  and  more 
capable  to  please  and  oblige  all  who  know 
him.  When  he  is  in  town,  he  lives  in 
Soho  Square.  It  is  said,  he  keeps  himself  [20 
a  bachelor,  by  reason  he  was  crossed  in 
love  by  a  perverse  beautiful  widow  of  the 
next  county  to  him.  Before  this  disap- 
pointment, Sir  Roger  was  what  you  call 
a  fine  gentleman,  had  often  supped  with 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


249 


my  Lord  Rochester  and  Sir  George  Eth- 
erege,  fought  a  duel  upon  his  first  coming 
to  town,  and  kicked  Bully  Dawson  in 
a  public  coffee  house  for  calling  him 
youngster.  But  being  ill  used  by  the  [30 
above  mentioned  widow,  he  was  very 
serious  for  a  year  and  a  half;  and  though, 
his  temper  being  naturally  jovial,  he  at 
last  got  over  it,  he  grew  careless  of  himself, 
and  never  dressed  afterwards.  He  con- 
tinues to  wear  a  coat  and  doublet  of  the 
same  cut  that  were  in  fashion  at  the  time 
of  his  repulse,  which,  in  his  merry  humors, 
he  tells  us,  has  been  in  and  out  twelve 
times  since  he  first  wore  it.  It  is  said  [40 
Sir  Roger  grew  humble  in  his  desires  after 
he  had  forgot  his  cruel  beauty,  inasmuch 
that  it  is  reported  he  has  frequently  of- 
fended in  point  of  chastity  with  beggars 
and  gypsies;  but  this  is  looked  upon,  by 
his  friends,  rather  as  matter  of  raillery 
than  truth.  He  is  now  in  his  fifty-sixth 
year,  cheerful,  gay,  and  hearty;  keeps  a 
good  house  both  in  town  and  country; 
a  great  lover  of  mankind;  but  there  is  [50 
such  a  mirthful  cast  in  his  behavior,  that 
he  is  rather  beloved  than  esteemed. 

His  tenants  grow  rich,  his  servants  look 
satisfied,  all  the  young  women  profess  love 
to  him,  and  the  young  men  are  glad  of  his 
company.  When  he  comes  into  a  house,  he 
calls  the  servants  by  their  names,  and 
talks  all  the  way  up  stairs  to  a  visit.  I 
must  not  omit,  that  Sir  Roger  is  a  justice 
of  the  quorum;  that  he  fills  the  chair  [60 
at  a  quarter-session  with  great  abilities, 
and  three  months  ago,  gained  universal 
applause,  by  explaining  a  passage  in  the 
game-act. 

The  gentleman  next  in  esteem  and 
authority  among  us,  is  another  bachelor, 
who  is  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple; 
a  man  of  great  probity,  wit,  and  under- 
standing; but  he  has  chosen  his  place  of 
residence  rather  to  obey  the  direction  [70 
of  an  old  humorsome  father,  than  in  pur- 
suit of  his  own  inclinations.  He  was 
placed  there  to  study  the  laws  of  the  land, 
and  is  the  most  learned  of  any  of  the  house 
in  those  of  the  stage.  Aristotle  and 
Longinus  are  much  better  understood  by 
him  than  Littleton  or  Coke.  The  father 
sends  up  every  post  questions  relating  to 
marriage  articles,  leases,  and  tenures,  in 


the  neighborhood;  all  which  questions  [80 
he  agrees  with  an  attorney  to  answer  and 
take  care  of  in  the  lump.  He  is  studying 
the  passions  themselves,  when  he  should 
be  inquiring  into  the  debates  among  men 
which  arise  from  them.  He  knows  the 
argument  of  each  of  the  orations  of  Demos- 
thenes and  Tully;  but  not  one  case  in 
the  reports  of  our  own  courts.  No  one 
ever  took  him  for  a  fool,  but  none,  ex- 
cept his  intimate  friends,  know  he  has  [90 
a  great  deal  of  wit.  This  turn  makes 
him  at  once  both  disinterested  and  agree- 
able. As  few  of  his  thoughts  are  drawn 
from  business,  they  are  most  of  them  fit 
for  conversation.  His  taste  of  books  is 
a  little  too  just  for  the  age  he  lives  in; 
he  has  read  all,  but  approves  of  very  few. 
His  familiarity  with  the  customs,  man- 
ners, actions,  and  writings  of  the  an- 
cients, makes  him  a  very  delicate  ob-  [100 
server  of  what  occurs  to  him  in  the  pres- 
ent world.  He  is  an  excellent  critic,  and 
the  time  of  the  play  is  his  hour  of  busi- 
ness; exactly  at  five  he  passes  through 
New  Inn,  crosses  through  Russell  court, 
and  takes  a  turn  at  Will's,  till  the  play 
begins;  he  has  his  shoes  rubbed,  and  his 
periwig  powdered,  at  the  barber's  as  you 
go  into  the  Rose.  It  is  for  the  good  of  the 
audience  when  hte  is  at  a  play;  for  [no 
the  actors  have  an  ambition  to  please  him. 
The  person  of  next  consideration  is  Sir 
Andrew  Freeport,  a  merchant  of  great 
eminence  in  the  city  of  London.  A  person 
of  indefatigable  industry,  strong  reason, 
and  great  experience.  His  notions  of 
trade  are  noble  and  generous,  and,  as 
every  rich  man  has  usually  some  sly 
way  of  jesting,  which  would  make  no  great 
figure  were  he  not  a  rich  man,  he  [120 
calls  the  sea  the  British  Common.  He 
is  acquainted  with  commerce  in  all  its 
parts,  and  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  stupid 
and  barbarous  way  to  extend  dominion 
by  arms;  for  true  power  is  to  be  got  by 
arts  and  industry.  He  will  often  argue 
that  if  this  part  of  our  trade  were  well 
cultivated,  we  should  gain  from  one  na- 
tion;—  and  if  another,  from  another.  I 
have  heard  him  prove,  that  diligence  [130 
makes  more  lasting  acquisitions  than 
valor,  and  that  sloth  has  ruined  more 
nations  than  the  sword.     He  abounds  in 


250 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


several  frugal  maxims,  amongst  which 
the  greatest  favorite  is,  "A  penny  saved 
is  a  penny  got."  A  general  trader  of 
good  sense  is  pleasanter  company  than 
a  general  scholar;  and  Sir  Andrew  having 
a  natural  unaffected  eloquence,  the  per- 
spicuity of  his  discourse  gives  the  [140 
same  pleasure  that  wit  would  in  another 
man.  He  has  made  his  fortunes  himself; 
and  says  that  England  may  be  richer 
than  other  kingdoms,  by  as  plain  methods 
as  he  himself  is  richer  than  other  men; 
though  at  the  same  time  I  can  say  this  of 
him,  that  there  is  not  a  point  in  the  com- 
pass but  blows  home  a  ship  in  which  he 
is  an  owner. 

Next  to  Sir  Andrew  in  the  club-room  [150 
sits  Captain  Sentry,  a  gentleman  of  great 
courage,  good  understanding,  but  in- 
vincible modesty.  He  is  one  of  those 
that  deserve  very  well,  but  are  very  awk- 
ward at  putting  their  talents  within  the 
observation  of  such  as  should  take  notice 
of  them.  He  was  some  years  a  captain, 
and  behaved  himself  with  great  gallantry 
in  several  engagements  and  at  several 
sieges;  but  having  a  small  estate  of  [160 
his  own,  and  being  next  heir  to  Sir  Roger, 
he  has  quitted  a  way  of  life,  in  which 
no  man  can  rise  suitably  to  his  merit, 
who  is  not  something  of  a  courtier  as  well 
as  a  soldier.  I  have  heard  him  often 
lament,  that  in  a  profession  where  merit 
is  placed  in  so  conspicuous  a  view,  im- 
pudence should  get  the  better  of  modesty. 
When  he  has  talked  to  this  purpose,  I 
never  heard  him  make  a  sour  expres-  [1 70 
sion,  but  frankly  confess  that  he  left  the 
world,  because  he  was  not  fit  for  it.  A 
strict  honesty  and  an  even  regular  be- 
havior are  in  themselves  obstacles  to 
him  that  must  press  through  crowds  who 
endeavor  at  the  same  end  with  himself, 
the  favor  of  a  commander.  He  will,  how- 
ever, in  his  way  of  talk,  excuse  generals 
for  not  disposing  according  to  men's  de- 
sert, or  inquiring  into  it:  for,  says  he,  [180 
that  great  man  who  has  a  mind  to  help 
me,  has  as  many  to  break  through  to 
come  at  me,  as  I  have  to  come  at  him: 
therefore,  he  will  conclude,  that  the  man 
who  would  make  a  figure,  especially  in  a 
military  way,  must  get  over  all  false 
modesty,   and   assist   his  patron   against 


the  importunity  of  other  pretenders,  by 
a  proper  assurance  in  his  own  vindication. 
He  says  it  is  a  civil  cowardice  to  [190 
be  backward  in  asserting  what  you  ought 
to  expect,  as  it  is  a  military  fear  to  be 
slow  in  attacking  when  it  is  your  duty. 
With  this  candor  does  the  gentleman 
speak  of  himself  and  others.  The  same 
frankness  runs  through  all  his  conversa- 
tion. The  military  part  of  his  life  has 
furnished  him  with  many  adventures,  in 
the  relation  of  which  he  is  very  agreeable 
to  the  company;  for  he  is  never  [200 
over-bearing,  though  accustomed  to  com- 
mand men  in  the  utmost  degree  below 
him;  nor  ever  too  obsequious,  from  an 
habit  of  obeying  men  highly  above  him. 
But,  that  our  society  may  not  appear 
a  set  of  humorists,  unacquainted  with  the 
gallantries  and  pleasures  of  the  age,  we 
have  amongst  us  the  gallant  Will  Honey- 
comb, a  gentleman  who,  according  to  his 
years,  should  be  in  the  decline  of  his  [210 
life,  but,  having  ever  been  very  careful 
of  his  person,  and  always  had  a  very  easy 
fortune,  time  has  made  but  a  very  little 
impression,  either  by  wrinkles  on  his 
forehead,  or  traces  on  his  brain.  His 
person  is  well  turned,  of  a  good  height. 
He  is  very  ready  at  that  sort  of  discourse 
with  which  men  usually  entertain  women. 
He  has  all  his  life  dressed  very  well,  and 
remembers  habits  as  others  do  men.  [220 
He  can  smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and 
laughs  easily.  He  knows  the  history  of 
every  mode,  and  can  inform  you  from 
which  of  the  French  king's  wenches  our 
wives  and  daughters  had  this  manner  of 
curling  their  hair,  that  way  of  placing 
their  hoods;  whose  frailty  was  covered 
by  such  a  sort  of  petticoat,  and  whose 
vanity  to  show  her  foot  made  that  part 
of  the  dress  so  short  in  such  a  year.  [230 
In  a  word,  all  his  conversation  and  knowl- 
edge have  been  in  the  female  world. 
As  other  men  of  his  age  will  take  notice 
to  you  what  such  a  minister  said  upon 
such  and  such  an  occasion,  he  will  tell 
you,  when  the  Duke  of  Monmouth 
danced  at  court,  such  a  woman  was  then 
smitten,  another  was  taken  with  him  at 
the  head  of  his  troop  in  the  Park.  In  all 
these  important  relations,  he  has  ever  [240 
about    the   same    time    received    a   kind 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


251 


glance  or  a  blow  of  a  fan  from  some 
celebrated  beauty,  mother  of  the  present 
Lord  Such-a-one.  *  *  *  This  way  of 
talking  of  his  very  much  enlivens  the 
conversation  among  us  of  a  more  sedate 
turn;  and  I  find  there  is  not  one  of  the 
company,  but  myself,  who  rarely  speak 
at  all,  but  speaks  of  him  as  of  that  sort 
of  man  who  is  usually  called  a  well-  [250 
bred  fine  gentleman.  To  conclude  his 
character,  where  women  are  not  con- 
cerned, he  is  an  honest  worthy  man. 

I  cannot  tell  whether  I  am  to  account 
him  whom  I  am  next  to  speak  of,  as  one  of 
our  company;  for  he  visits  us  but  seldom, 
but  when  he  does,  it  adds  to  every  man 
else  a  new  enjoyment  of  himself.  He  is 
a  clergyman,  a  very  philosophic  man,  of 
general  learning,  great  sanctity  of  life,  [260 
and  the  most  exact  good  breeding.  He 
has  the  misfortune  to  be  of  a  very  weak 
constitution;  and  consequently  cannot 
accept  of  such  cares  and  business  as  pre- 
ferments in  his  function  would  oblige 
him  to;  he  is  therefore  among  divines 
what  a  chamber-councillor  is  among 
lawyers.  The  probity  of  his  mind,  and 
the  integrity  of  his  life,  create  him  fol- 
lowers, as  being  eloquent  or  loud  ad-  [270 
vances  others.  He  seldom  introduces  the 
subject  he  speaks  upon;  but  we  are  so 
far  gone  in  years  that  he  observes,  when 
he  is  among  us,  an  earnestness  to  have 
him  fall  on  some  divine  topic,  which  he 
always  treats  with  much  authority,  as 
one  who  has  no  interest  in  this  world,  as 
one  who  is  hastening  to  the  object  of  all 
his  wishes,  and  conceives  hope  from  his 
decays  and  infirmities.  These  are  my  [280 
ordinary  companions. 

— Steele. 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

No.  26.    Friday,  March  30,  iyn. 

Pallida  mors  aequo  pulsat  pede  pauperum 
tabemas 
Regumque  turres,  0  beate  Sexti! 
Vita  sumtna  brevis  spent  nos  vetat  inchoare 
longam. 
Jam  te  premet  nox,  fabulaeque  manes, 
Et  domus  exilis  Plutonia. 

Hor.  Od.  i.  4,  13. 


With    equal  foot,    rich  friend,    impartial 

Fate 
Knocks  at  the  cottage,  and  the  palace  gate: 
Life's  span  forbids  thee  to  extend  thy  cares, 
A  nd  stretch  thy  hopes  beyond  thy  years: 
Night  soon  will  seize,  and  you  must  quickly 

go 
To  storied  ghosts,  and  Pluto's  house  below. 

— Creech. 

When  I  am  in  a  serious  humor,  I  very 
often  walk  by  myself  in  Westminster 
Abbey;  where  the  gloominess  of  the 
place,  and  the  use  to  which  it  is  applied, 
with  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and 
the  condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it, 
are  apt  to  fill  the  mind  with  a  kind  of 
melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtfulness, 
that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday 
passed  a  whole  afternoon  in  the  church-  [10 
yard,  the  cloisters,  and  the  church,  amus- 
ing myself  with  the  tombstones  and 
inscriptions  that  I  met  with  in  those 
several  regions  of  the  dead.  Most  of 
them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried 
person,  but  that  he  was  born  upon  one 
day,  and  died  upon  another;  the  whole 
history  of  his  life  being  comprehended  in 
those  two  circumstances  that  are  com- 
mon to  all  mankind.  I  could  not  but  [20 
look  upon  these  registers  of  existence, 
whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of 
satire  upon  the  departed  persons;  who 
had  left  no  other  memorial  of  them,  but 
that  they  were  born,  and  that  they  died. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons 
mentioned  in  the  battles  of  heroic  poems, 
who  have  sounding  names  given  them,  for 
no  other  reason  but  that  they  may  be 
killed,  and  are  celebrated  for  nothing  [30 
but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 

TXavKov  re  MeSovTa  Te  ©epo-tAo^ov  re.     Horn. 
Glaucumque,    Medontaque,    Thersilochum- 
que.    Virg. 

The  life  of  these  men  is  finely  described 
in  holy  writ  by  "the  path  of  an  arrow," 
which  is  immediately  closed  up  and  lost. 
Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  en- 
tertained myself  with  the  digging  of  a 
grave;  and  saw  in  every  shovel-full  of  [40 
it  that  was  thrown  up,  the  fragment  of 
a  bone  or  skull  intermixed  with  a  kind  of 


252 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


fresh  mouldering  earth,  that  some  time 
or  other  had  a  place  in  the  composition 
of  a  human  body.  Upon  this  I  began 
to  consider  with  myself  what  innumer- 
able multitudes  of  people  lay  confused 
together  under  the  pavement  of  that  an- 
cient cathedral;  how  men  and  women, 
friends  and  enemies,  priests  and  sol-  [50 
diers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  were 
crumbled  amongst  one  another,  and 
blended  together  in  the  same  common 
mass;  how  beauty,  strength,  and  youth, 
with  old-age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay 
undistinguished  in  the  same  promiscuous 
heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  this  great 
magazine  of  mortality,  as  it  were  in  the 
lump,  I  examined  it  more  particularly  [60 
by  the  accounts  which  I  found  on  several 
of  the  monuments  which  are  raised  in 
every  quarter  of  that  ancient  fabric. 
Some  of  them  were  covered  with  such  ex- 
travagant epitaphs,  that  if  it  were  possible 
for  the  dead  person  to  be  acquainted 
with  them,  he  would  blush  at  the  praises 
which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon 
him.  There  are  others  so  excessively 
modest,  that  they  deliver  the  charac-  [70 
ter  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or 
Hebrew,  and  by  that  means  are  not  un- 
derstood once  in  a  twelvemonth.  In  the 
poetical  quarter,  I  found  there  were 
poets  who  had  no  monuments,  and  mon- 
uments which  had  no  poets.  I  observed 
indeed  that  the  present  war  had  filled  the 
church  with  many  of  these  uninhabited 
monuments,  which  had  been  erected  to 
the  memory  of  persons  whose  bodies  [80 
were  perhaps  buried  in  the  plains  of 
Blenheim,  or  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted 
with  several  modern  epitaphs,  which  are 
written  with  great  elegance  of  expres- 
sion and  justness  of  thought,  and  there- 
fore do  honor  to  the  living  as  well  as 
to  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner  is  very  apt 
to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or 
politeness  of  a  nation  from  the  turn  of  [90 
their  public  monuments  and  inscriptions, 
they  should  be  submitted  to  the  perusal 
of  men  of  learning  and  genius,  before 
they  are  put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesley 
Shovel's  monument  has  very  often  given 
me  great  offense.     Instead  of  the  brave 


rough  English  admiral,  which  was  the 
distinguishing  character  of  that  plain 
gallant  man,  he  is  represented  on  his 
tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau,  dressed  [100 
in  a  long  periwig,  and  reposing  himself 
upon  velvet  cushions  under  a  canopy  of 
state.  The  inscription  is  answerable  to 
the  monument;  for  instead  of  celebrating 
the  many  remarkable  actions  he  had 
performed  in  the  service  of  his  country, 
it  acquaints  us  only  with  the  manner  of 
his  death,  in  which  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  reap  any  honor.  The  Dutch, 
whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for  want  [no 
of  genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater  taste 
of  antiquity  and  politeness  in  their  build- 
ings and  works  of  this  nature,  than  what 
we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own  coun- 
try. The  monuments  of  their  admirals, 
which  have  been  erected  at  the  public 
expense,  represent  them  like  themselves; 
and  are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns  and 
naval  ornaments,  with  beautiful  festoons 
of  sea- weed,  shells,  and  coral.  [120 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have 
left  the  repository  of  our  English  kings 
for  the  contemplation  of  another  day, 
when  I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for 
so  serious  an  amusement.  I  know  that 
entertainments  of  this  nature  are  apt  to 
raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in  timo- 
rous minds,  and  gloomy  imaginations; 
but  for  my  own  part,  though  I  am  always 
serious,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  [130 
be  melancholy;  and  can  therefore  take 
a  view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn 
scenes,  with  the  same  pleasure  as  in  her 
most  gay  and  delightful  ones.  By  this 
means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those 
objects,  which  others  consider  with  ter- 
ror. When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the 
great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  in  me; 
when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beauti- 
ful, every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  [140 
when  I  meet  with  the  grief  of  parents 
upon  a  tomb-stone,  my  heart  melts  with 
compassion;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of 
the  parents  themselves,  I  consider  the 
vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we 
must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see  kings 
lying  by  those  who  deposed  them,  when 
I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side  by  side, 
or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world 
with  their  contests  and  disputes,  I  [150 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


253 


reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonishment  on 
the  little  competitions,  factions,  and 
debates  of  mankind.  When  I  read  the 
several  dates  of  the  tombs,  of  some  that 
died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred 
years  ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when 
we  shall  all  of  us  be  contemporaries, 
and  make  our  appearance  together. 

— Addison. 


SIR  ROGER  AT  CHURCH 

No.  112.    Monday,  July  g,  iyn. 

'AOavdrow;  fxtv  Trp&Ta  0£ovs,  vo/jlu)  w?  StctKeiTai 
Ti/xa. — PYTHAG. 

First,  in  obedience  to  thy  country's  rites, 
Worship  the  immortal  gods. 

I  am  always  very  well  pleased  with  a 
country  Sunday,  and  think,  if  keeping 
holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a  human 
institution,  it  would  be  the  best  method 
that  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the 
polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It 
is  certain  the  country  people  would  soon 
degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages  and 
barbarians,  were  there  not  such  frequent 
returns  of  a  stated  time  in  which  the  fio 
whole  village  meet  together  with  their 
best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanliest  habits, 
to  converse  with  one  another  upon  indif- 
ferent subjects,  hear  their  duties  ex- 
plained to  them,  and  join  together  in 
adoration  of  the  Supreme  Being.  Sun- 
day clears  away  the  rust  of  the  whole 
week,  not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their 
minds  the  notions  of  religion,  but  as  it 
puts  both  the  sexes  upon  appearing  in  [20 
their  most  agreeable  forms,  and  exerting 
all  such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them 
a  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  village.  A  coun- 
try fellow  distinguishes  himself  as  much 
in  the  churchyard,  as  a  citizen  does  upon 
the  Change,  the  whole  parish-politics  be- 
ing generally  discussed  in  that  place 
either  after  sermon  or  before  the  bell 
rings. 

My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  [30 
churchman,  has  beautified  the  inside  of 
his  church  with  several  texts  of  his  own 
choosing.    He  has  likewise  given  a  hand- 


some pulpit-cloth,  and  railed  in  the  com- 
munion table  at  his  own  expense.  He 
has  often  told  me,  that  at  his  coming  to 
his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very 
irregular;  and  that  in  order  to  make 
them  kneel  and  join  in  the  responses, 
he  gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  [40 
and  a  common-prayer  book:  and  at  the 
same  time  employed  an  itinerant  singing 
master,  who  goes  about  the  country  for 
that  purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly  in 
the  tunes  of  the  Psalms;  upon  which 
they  now  very  much  value  themselves, 
and  indeed  outdo  most  of  the  country 
churches  that  I  have  ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole 
congregation,  he  keeps  them  in  very  [50 
good  order,  and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep 
in  it  besides  himself;  for  if  by  chance  he 
has  been  surprised  into  a  short  nap  at 
sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it  he 
stands  up  and  looks  about  him,  and  if 
he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either 
wakes  them  himself,  or  sends  his  serv- 
ants to  them.  Several  other  of  the  old 
knight's  particularities  break  out  upon 
these  occasions.  Sometimes  he  will  [60 
be  lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  singing 
Psalms,  half  a  minute  after  the  rest  of 
the  congregation  have  done  with  it; 
sometimes,  when  he  is  pleased  with  the 
matter  of  his  devotion,  he  pronounces 
"Amen"  three  or  four  times  to  the  same 
prayer;  and  sometimes  stands  up  when 
everybody  else  is  upon  their  knees,  to 
count  the  congregation,  or  see  if  any  of 
his  tenants  are  missing.  [70 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised 
to  hear  my  old  friend,  in  the  midst  of 
the  service,  calling  out  to  one  John 
Matthews  to  mind  what  he  was  about, 
and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This 
John  Matthews,  it  seems,  is  remarkable 
for  being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that  time 
was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diversion. 
This  authority  of  the  knight,  though  ex- 
erted in  that  odd  manner  which  ac-  [80 
companies  him  in  all  circumstances  of 
life,  has  a  very  good  effect  upon  the  parish, 
who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see  any 
thing  ridiculous  in  his  behavior;  besides 
that  the  general  good  sense  and  worthi- 
ness of  his  character  makes  his  friends 
observe  these  little  singularities  as  foils 


254 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


that  rather  set  off  than  blemish  his  good 
qualities. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  [90 
nobody  presumes  to  stir  till  Sir  Roger  is 
gone  out  of  the  church.  The  knight 
walks  down  from  his  seat  in  the  chancel 
between  a  double  row  of  his  tenants,  that 
stand  bowing  to  him  on  each  side;  and 
every  now  and  then  inquires  how  such 
a  one's  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father 
do,  whom  he  does  not  see  at  church; 
which  is  understood  as  a  secret  reprimand 
to  the  person  that  is  absent.  [100 

The  chaplain  has  often  told  me,  that 
upon  a  catechising  day,  when  Sir  Roger 
has  been  pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers 
well,  he  has  ordered  a  Bible  to  be  given 
him  next  day  for  his  encouragement;  and 
sometimes  accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of 
bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir  Roger  has  like- 
wise added  five  pounds  a  year  to  the 
clerk's  place;  and  that  he  may  encourage 
the  young  fellows  to  make  themselves  [no 
perfect  in  the  church-service,  has  prom- 
ised, upon  the  death  of  the  present  in- 
cumbent, who  is  very  old,  to  bestow  it 
according  to  merit. 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir 
Roger  and  his  chaplain,  and  their  mu- 
tual concurrence  in  doing  good,  is  the 
more  remarkable,  because  the  very  next 
village  is  famous  for  the  differences  and 
contentions  that  rise  between  the  par-  [120 
son  and  the  squire,  who  live  in  a  per- 
petual state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always 
preaching  at  the  squire,  and  the  squire 
to  be  revenged  on  the  parson  never 
comes  to  church.  The  squire  has  made  all 
his  tenants  atheists,  and  tithe-stealers; 
while  the  parson  instructs  them  every 
Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his  order,  and 
insinuates  to  them,  in  almost  every 
sermon,  that  he  is  a  better  man  than  [130 
his  patron.  In  short,  matters  have  come 
to  such  an  extremity,  that  the  squire  has 
not  said  his  prayers  either  in  public  or 
private  this  half  year;  and  that  the  parson 
threatens  him,  if  he  does  not  mend  his 
manners,  to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  congregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  fre- 
quent in  the  country,  are  very  fatal  to 
the  ordinary  people;  who  are  so  used  [140 
to  be  dazzled  with  riches,  that  they  pay 


as  much  deference  to  the  understanding 
of  a  man  of  an  estate,  as  of  a  man  of  learn- 
ing; and  are  very  hardly  brought  to  re- 
gard any  truth,  how  important  soever 
it  may  be,  that  is  preached  to  them,  when 
they  know  there  are  several  men  of  five 
hundred  a  year  who  do  not  believe  it. 

— Addison. 


SIR  ROGER  AT  THE  ASSIZES 

No.  122.    Friday,  July  20,  iyn. 

Comes  jucundus  in  via  pro  vehiculo  est. 

Publ.  Syr.  Frag. 
A  n  agreeable  companion  upon  the  road  is  as 
good  as  a  coach. 

A  man's  first  care  should  be  to  avoid 
the  reproaches  of  his  own  heart;  his  next, 
to  escape  the  censures  of  the  world.  If 
the  last  interferes  with  the  former,  it 
ought  to  be  entirely  neglected;  but  other- 
wise there  cannot  be  a  greater  satisfac- 
tion to  an  honest  mind,  than  to  see  those 
approbations  which  it  gives  itself  sec- 
onded by  the  applauses  of  the  public.  A 
man  is  more  sure  of  conduct,  when  the  [10 
verdict  which  he  passes  upon  his  own 
behavior  is  thus  warranted  and  confirmed 
by  the  opinion  of  all  that  know  him. 

My  worthy  friend  Sir  Roger  is  one  of 
those  who  is  not  only  at  peace  within 
himself,  but  beloved  and  esteemed  by  all 
about  him.  He  receives  a  suitable  trib- 
ute for  his  universal  benevolence  to  man- 
kind, in  the  returns  of  affection  and  good- 
will, which  are  paid  him  by  every  one  [20 
that  lives  within  his  neighborhood.  I 
lately  met  with  two  or  three  odd  instances 
of  that  general  respect  which  is  shown 
to  the  good  old  knight.  He  would  needs 
carry  Will  Wimble  and  myself  with 
him  to  the  county  assizes.  As  we  were 
upon  the  road  Will  Wimble  joined  a 
couple  of  plain  men  who  rid  before  us, 
and  conversed  with  them  for  some  time; 
during  which  my  friend  Sir  Roger  ac-  [30 
quainted  me  with  their  characters. 

"The  first  of  them,"  says  he,  "that  has 
a  spaniel  by  his  side,  is  a  yeoman  of 
about  an  hundred  pounds  a  year,  an 
honest  man.    He  is  just  within  the  game- 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


255 


act,  and  qualified  to  kill  a  hare  or  a 
pheasant.  He  knocks  down  a  dinner 
with  his  gun  twice  or  thrice  a  week;  and 
by  that  means  lives  much  cheaper  than 
those  who  have  not  so  good  an  estate  [40 
as  himself.  He  would  be  a  good  neighbor 
if  he  did  not  destroy  so  many  partridges. 
In  short  he  is  a  very  sensible  man;  shoots 
flying,  and  has  been  several  times  fore- 
man of  the  petty  jury. 

"That  other  that  rides  along  with  him 
is  Tom  Touchy,  a  fellow  famous  for 
'taking  the  law'  of  everybody.  There  is 
not  one  in  the  town  where  he  lives  that 
he  has  not  sued  at  a  quarter-sessions.  [50 
The  rogue  had  once  the  impudence  to  go 
to  law  with  the  widow.  His  head  is  full 
of  costs,  damages,  and  ejectments.  He 
plagued  a  couple  of  honest  gentlemen  so 
long  for  a  trespass  in  breaking  one  of 
his  hedges,  till  he  was  forced  to  sell  the 
ground  it  enclosed  to  defray  the  charges 
of  the  prosecution;  his  father  left  him 
fourscore  pounds  a  year;  but  he  has  cast 
and  been  cast  so  often,  that  he  is  not  [60 
now  worth  thirty.  I  suppose  he  is  going 
upon  the  old  business  of  the  willow  tree." 

As  Sir  Roger  was  giving  me  this  ac- 
count of  Tom  Touchy,  Will  Wimble  and 
his  two  companions  stopped  short  till  we 
came  up  to  them.  After  having  paid 
their  respects  to  Sir  Roger,  Will  told  him 
that  Mr.  Touchy  and  he  must  appeal  to 
him  upon  a  dispute  that  arose  between 
them.  Will  it  seems  had  been  giving  [70 
his  fellow-traveler  an  account  of  his  an- 
gling one  day  in  such  a  hole;  when  Tom 
Touchy,  instead  of  hearing  out  his  story, 
told  him  that  Mr.  Such-a-one,  if  he 
pleased,  might  "take  the  law  of  him"  for 
fishing  in  that  part  of  the  river.  My 
friend  Sir  Roger  heard  them  both,  upon 
a  round  trot;  and  after  having  paused 
some  time,  told  them,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  would  not  give  his  judg-  [80 
ment  rashly,  that  "  much  might  be  said  on 
both  sides."  They  were  neither  of  them 
dissatisfied  with  the  knight's  determina- 
tion, because  neither  of  them  found  him- 
self in  the  wrong  by  it;  upon  which  we 
made  the  best  of  our  way  to  the  assizes. 

The  court  was  sat  before  Sir  Roger 
came;  but  notwithstanding  all  the  justices 
had  taken  their  places  upon  the  bench, 


they  made  room  for  the  old  knight  at  [90 
the  head  of  them;  who,  for  his  reputation 
in  the  country,  took  occasion  to  whisper 
in  the  judge's  ear,  that  he  was  glad  his 
lordship  had  met  with  so  much  good 
weather  in  his  circuit.  I  was  listening 
to  the  proceedings  of  the  court  with  much 
attention,  and  infinitely  pleased  with  that 
great  appearance  of  solemnity  which  so 
properly  accompanies  such  a  public  ad- 
ministration of  our  laws;  when,  after  [100 
about  an  hour's  sitting,  I  observed  to  my 
great  surprise,  in  the  midst  of  a  trial,  that 
my  friend  Sir  Roger  was  getting  up  to 
speak.  I  was  in  some  pain  for  him  till  I 
found  he  had  acquitted  himself  of  two  or 
three  sentences,  with  a  look  of  much 
business  and  great  intrepidity. 

Upon  his  first  rising  the  court  was 
hushed,  and  a  general  whisper  ran  among 
the  country  people  that  Sir  Roger  [no 
"was  up."  The  speech  he  made  was  so 
little  to  the  purpose,  that  I  shall  not  trou- 
ble my  readers  with  an  account  of  it;  and 
I  believe  was  not  so  much  designed  by  the 
knight  himself  to  inform  the  court,  as  to 
give  him  a  figure  in  my  eye,  and  keep  up 
his  credit  in  the  country. 

I  was  highly  delighted,  when  the  court 
rose,  to  see  the  gentlemen  of  the  country 
gathering  about  my  old  friend,  and  [120 
striving  who  should  compliment  him 
most;  at  the  same  time  that  the  ordinary 
people  gazed  upon  him  at  a  distance,  not 
a  little  admiring  his  courage,  that  was  not 
afraid  to  speak  to  the  judge. 

In  our  return  home  we  met  with  a  very 
odd  accident;  which  I  cannot  forbear  re- 
lating, because  it  shows  how  desirous  all 
who  know  Sir  Roger  are  of  giving  him 
marks  of  their  esteem.  When  we  [130 
were  arrived  upon  the  verge  of  his  estate, 
we  stopped  at  a  little  inn  to  rest  ourselves 
and  our  horses.  The  man  of  the  house 
had,  it  seems,  been  formerly  a  servant 
in  the  knight's  family;  and  to  do  honor 
to  his  old  master,  had  some  time  since, 
unknown  to  Sir  Roger,  put  him  up  in  a 
sign-post  before  the  door;  so  that  the 
knight's  head  had  hung  out  upon  the 
road  about  a  week  before  he  himself  [140 
knew  anything  of  the  matter.  As  soon 
as  Sir  Roger  was  acquainted  with  it, 
finding  that  his  servant's  indiscretion  pro- 


256 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


ceeded  wholly  from  affection  and  good- 
will, he  only  told  him  that  he  had  made 
him  too  high  a  compliment;  and  when  the 
fellow  seemed  to  think  that  could  hardly 
be,  added  with  a  more  decisive  look,  that 
it  was  too  great  an  honor  for  any  man 
under  a  duke;  but  told  him  at  the  [150 
same  time,  that  it  might  be  altered  with 
a  very  few  touches,  and  that  he  himself 
would  be  at  the  charge  of  it.  Accordingly, 
they  got  a  painter  by  the  knight's  direc- 
tions to  add  a  pair  of  whiskers  to  the  face, 
and  by  a  little  aggravation  of  the  features 
to  change  it  into  the  Saracen's  Head.  I 
should  not  have  known  this  story,  had 
not  the  inn-keeper,  upon  Sir  Roger's 
alighting,  told  him  in  my  hearing,  [160 
that  his  honor's  head  was  brought  back 
last  night  with  the  alterations  that  he 
had  ordered  to  be  made  in  it.  Upon  this 
my  friend  with  his  usual  cheerfulness  re- 
lated the  particulars  above-mentioned, 
and  ordered  the  head  to  be  brought  into 
the  room.  I  could  not  forbear  discovering 
greater  expressions  of  mirth  than  ordi- 
nary upon  the  appearance  of  this  mon- 
strous face,  under  which,  notwith-  [170 
standing  it  was  made  to  frown  and  stare 
in  a  most  extraordinary  manner,  I  could 
still  discover  a  distant  resemblance  of  my 
old  friend.  Sir  Roger,  upon  seeing  me 
laugh,  desired  me  to  tell  him  truly  if  I 
thought  it  possible  for  people  to  know 
him  in  that  disguise.  I  at  first  kept  my 
usual  silence;  but  upon  the  knight's  con- 
juring me  to  tell  him  whether  it  was  not 
still  more  like  himself  than  a  Saracen,  [180 
I  composed  my  countenance  in  the  best 
manner  I  could,  and  replied  "that  much 
might  be  said  on  both  sides." 

These  several  adventures,  with  the 
knight's  behavior  in  them,  gave  me  as 
pleasant  a  day  as  ever  I  met  with  in  any 
of  my  travels. 

— Addison. 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA 

No.  159.     Saturday,  September  1,  lyn. 

— Omnem,  quce  nunc  obducta  tuenti 

M  or  tales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  et  humida  circum 

Caligat,  nubetn  eripiam — 

Virg.  JEn.  ii.  604. 


The  cloud,  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light, 
Hangs  o'er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal 

sight, 
I  will  remove — 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up 
several  Oriental  manuscripts,  which  I 
have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I  met 
with  one  entitled  The  Visions  of  Mirza, 
which  I  have  read  over  with  great  pleas- 
ure. I  intend  to  give  it  to  the  public 
when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for 
them;  and  shall  begin  with  the  first  vision, 
which  I  have  translated  word  for  word  as 
follows:  [10 

"On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which, 
according  to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers, 
I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devo- 
tions, I  ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdat, 
in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in 
meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here 
airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains, 
I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on 
the  vanity  of  human  life;  and  passing  [20 
from  one  thought  to  another,  'Surely,' 
said  I,  'man  is  but  a  shadow,  and  life  a 
dream.'  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I 
cast  my  eyes  towards  the  summit  of  a 
rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I 
discovered  one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd, 
with  a  musical  instrument  in  his  hand. 
As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his 
lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The 
sound  of  it  was  exceedingly  sweet,  [30 
and  wrought  into  a  variety  of  tunes  that 
were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  alto- 
gether different  from  anything  I  had 
ever  heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of 
those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to 
the  departed  souls  of  good  men  upon 
their  first  arrival  in  Paradise,  to  wear 
out  the  impressions  of  their  last  agonies, 
and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  of 
that  happy  place.  My  heart  melted  [40 
away  in  secret  raptures. 

"I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock 
before  me  was  the  haunt  of  a  Genius; 
and  that  several  had  been  entertained 
with  music  who  had  passed  by  it,  but 
never  heard  that  the  musician  had  before 
made  himself  visible.  When  he  had 
raised  my  thoughts  by  those  transporting 
airs  which  he  played  to  taste  the  pleasures 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


257 


of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  [50 
him  like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned  to 
me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  di- 
rected me  to  approach  the  place  where  he 
sat.  I  drew  near  with  that  reverence 
which  is  due  to  a  superior  nature;  and 
as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the 
captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell 
down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  Genius 
smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compas- 
sion and  affability  that  familiarized  [60 
him  to  my  imagination,  and  at  once  dis- 
pelled all  the  fears  and  apprehensions 
with  which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted 
me  from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by 
the  hand,  'Mirza,'  said  he,  'I  have  heard 
thee  in  thy  soliloquies;  follow  me.' 

"He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pin- 
nacle of  the  rock,  and  placing  me  on  the 
top  of  it,  'Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,'  said 
he,  'and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'  [70 
'I  see,'  said  I,  'a  huge  valley,  and  a  pro- 
digious tide  of  water  rolling  through  it.' 
'The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is 
the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water 
that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  Tide 
of  Eternity.'  'What  is  the  reason,'  said 
I,  'that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick 
mist  at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself 
in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other? '  '  What  thou 
seest,'  said  he,  'is  that  portion  of  [80 
eternity  which  is  called  time,  measured 
out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consumma- 
tion. Examine  now,'  said  he,  'this  sea 
that  is  bounded  with  darkness  at  both 
ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest 
in  it.'  'I  see  a  bridge,'  said  I,  'standing 
in  the  midst  of  the  tide.'  'The  bridge 
thou  seest,'  said  he,  'is  Human  Life: 
consider  it  attentively.'  Upon  a  more  [90 
leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  con- 
sisted of  threescore  and  ten  entire  arches, 
with  several  broken  arches,  which  added 
to  those  that  were  entire,  made  up  the 
number  about  a  hundred.  As  I  was  count- 
ing the  arches,  the  Genius  told  me  that 
this  bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thousand 
arches;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept  away 
the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous 
condition  I  now  beheld  it.  'But  tell  [100 
me  farther,'  said  he,  'what  thou  dis- 
coverest on  it.'  'I  see  multitudes  of  peo- 
ple passing  over  it,'  said  I,  'and  a  black 


cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'  As  I 
looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of 
the  passengers  dropping  through  the 
bridge  into  the  great  tide  that  flowed 
underneath  it;  and  upon  farther  examina- 
tion, perceived  there  were  innumerable 
trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  [no 
bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner 
trod  upon,  but  they  fell  through  them 
into  the  tide,  and  immediately  disap- 
peared. These  hidden  pit-falls  were  set 
very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge, 
so  that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke 
through  the  cloud,  but  many  of  them  fell 
into  them.  They  grew  thinner  towards 
the  middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay  closer 
together  towards  the  end  of  the  arches  [120 
that  were  entire. 

"There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but 
their  number  was  very  small,  that  con- 
tinued a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the 
broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after 
another,  being  quite  tired  and  spent  with 
so  long  a  walk. 

"I  passed  some  time  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  this  wonderful  structure,  and  the 
great  variety  of  objects  which  it  [130 
presented.  My  heart  was  filled  with  a 
deep  melancholy  to  see  several  dropping 
unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and 
jollity,  and  catching  at  everything  that 
stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some 
were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens  in  a 
thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of 
sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the 
pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  in  [140 
their  eyes  and  danced  before  them;  but 
often  when  they  thought  themselves 
within  the  reach  of  them,  their  footing 
failed  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  con- 
fusion of  objects,  I  observed  some  with 
scymetars  in  their  hands,  who  ran  to 
and  fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several 
persons  on  trap-doors  which  did  not  seem 
to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might 
have  escaped  had  they  not  been  [150 
thus  forced  upon  them. 

"The  Genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself 
on  this  melancholy  prospect,  told  me  I 
had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  'Take 
thine  eyes  off  the  bridge,'  said  he,  'and 
tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  anything  thou 
dost  not  comprehend.'    Upon  looking  up, 


258 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


'what  mean,'  said  I,  'those  great  flights 
of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering 
about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  [160 
from  time  to  time?  I  see  vultures,  harpies, 
ravens,  cormorants,  and  among  many- 
other  feathered  creatures  several  little 
winged  boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers 
upon  the  middle  arches.'  'These,'  said 
the  Genius,  'are  Envy,  Avarice,  Super- 
stition, Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares 
and  passions  that  infest  human  life.' 

"I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  'Alas,' 
said  I,  'Man  was  made  in  vain!  how  [170 
is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mor- 
tality! tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed  up 
in  death ! '  The  Genius  being  moved  with 
compassion  towards  me,  bid  me  quit  so 
uncomfortable  a  prospect.  'Look  no 
more,'  said  he,  'on  man  in  the  first  stage 
of  his  existence,  in  his  setting  out  for 
eternity;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick 
mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several 
generations  of  mortals  that  fall  into  [180 
it.'  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered, 
and  (whether  or  no  the  good  Genius 
strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural 
force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that 
was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  pene- 
trate), I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the 
farther  end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an 
immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock  of 
adamant  running  through  the  midst  of 
it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  [190 
parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on  one 
half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover 
nothing  in  it;  but  the  other  appeared  to 
me  a  vast  ocean  planted  with  innumer- 
able islands,  that  were  covered  with  fruits 
and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a 
thousand  little  shining  seas  that  ran 
among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed 
in  glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon 
their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  [200 
lying  down  by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or 
resting  on  beds  of  flowers;  and  could 
hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds, 
falling  waters,  human  voices,  and  musical 
instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon 
the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I 
wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I 
might  fly  away  to  those  happy  seats;  but 
the  Genius  told  me  there  was  no  pas- 
sage to  them,  except  through  the  [210 
gates  of  death  that  I  saw  opening  every 


moment  upon  the  bridge.  'The  islands,' 
said  he,  '  that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before 
thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of 
the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou 
canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the 
sands  on  the  sea-shore;  there  are  myriads 
of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here 
discoverest,  reaching  farther  than  thine 
eye,  or  even  thine  imagination  can  [220 
extend  itself.  These  are  the  mansions  of 
good  men  after  death,  who,  according  to 
the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which 
they  excelled,  are  distributed  among  these 
several  islands,  which  abound  with  pleas- 
ures of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suit- 
able to  the  relishes  and  perfections  of 
those  who  are  settled  in  them;  every 
island  is  a  paradise  accommodated  to 
its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not  [230 
these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  con- 
tending for?  Does  life  appear  miserable 
that  gives  thee  opportunities  of  earning 
such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be  feared 
that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy  an 
existence?  Think  not  man  was  made  in 
vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved 
for  him.'  I  gazed  with  inexpressible 
pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  At 
length,  said  I,  'Show  me  now,  I  be-  [240 
seech  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under 
those  dark  clouds  which  cover  the  ocean 
on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant.' 
The  Genius  making  me  no  answer,  I 
turned  me  about  to  address  myself  to 
him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he 
had  left  me;  I  then  turned  again  to  the 
vision  which  I  had  been  so  long  contem- 
plating; but  instead  of  the  rolling  tide, 
the  arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  [250 
islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow 
valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and 
camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it." 

— Addison. 

A  COQUETTE'S  HEART 

No.  281.    Tuesday,  January  22,  1712. 

Pectoribus  inhians  spirantia  consulit  exta. 

Virg.  JEn.  iv.  64. 
Anxious  the  reeking  entrails  he  consults. 

Having  already  given  an  account  of  the 
dissection   of   a   beau's   head,    with   the 


ADDISON  AND  STEELE 


259 


several  discoveries  made  on  that  occa- 
sion, I  shall  here,  according  to  my  promise, 
enter  upon  the  dissection  of  a  coquette's 
heart,  and  communicate  to  the  public 
such  particularities  as  we  observed  in 
that  curious  piece  of  anatomy. 

I  should  perhaps  have  waived  this 
undertaking,  had  not  I  been  put  in  [10 
mind  of  my  promise  by  several  of  my 
unknown  correspondents,  who  are  very 
importunate  with  me  to  make  an  ex- 
ample of  the  coquette,  as  I  have  already 
done  of  the  beau.  It  is  therefore  in 
compliance  with  the  request  of  friends, 
that  I  have  looked  over  the  minutes  of 
my  former  dream,  in  order  to  give  the 
public  an  exact  relation  of.  it,  which  I 
shall  enter  upon  without  farther  [20 
preface. 

Our  operator,  before  he  engaged  in  this 
visionary  dissection,  told  us  that  there 
was  nothing  in  his  art  more  difficult  than 
to  lay  open  the  heart  of  a  coquette,  by 
reason  of  the  many  labyrinths  and  recesses 
which  are  to  be  found  in  it,  and  which 
do  not  appear  in  the  heart  of  any  other 
animal. 

He  desired  us  first  of  all  to  observe  [30 
the  pericardium,  or  outward  case  of  the 
heart,  which  we  did  very  attentively;  and 
by  the  help  of  our  glasses  discerned  in  it 
millions  of  little  scars,  which  seemed  to 
have  been  occasioned  by  the  points  of 
innumerable  darts  and  arrows,  that  from 
time  to  time  had  glanced  upon  the  out- 
ward coat;  though  we  could  not  discover 
the  smallest  orifice  by  which  any  of  them 
had  entered  and  pierced  the  inward  [40 
substance. 

Every  smatterer  in  anatomy  knows  that 
this  pericardium,  or  case  of  the  heart, 
contains  in  it  a  thin  reddish  liquor,  sup- 
posed to  be  bred  from  the  vapors  which 
exhale  out  of  the  heart,  and  being  stopped 
here,  are  condensed  into  this  watery  sub- 
stance. Upon  examining  this  liquor,  we 
found  that  it  had  in  it  all  the  qualities 
of  that  spirit  which  is  made  use  of  in  [50 
the  thermometer  to  show  the  change  of 
weather. 

Nor  must  I  here  omit  an  experiment 
one  of  the  company  assured  us  he  him- 
self had  made  with  this  liquor,  which  he 
found  in  great  quantity  about  the  heart 


of  a  coquette  whom  he  had  formerly 
dissected.  He  affirmed  to  us,  that  he  had 
actually  inclosed  it  in  a  small  tube  made 
after  the  manner  of  a  weather-glass;  [60 
but  that,  instead  of  acquainting  him  with 
the  variations  of  the  atmosphere,  it  showed 
him  the  qualities  of  those  persons  who 
entered  the  room  where  it  stood.  He 
affirmed  also,  that  it  rose  at  the  approach 
of  a  plume  of  feathers,  an  embroidered 
coat,  or  a  pair  of  fringed  gloves;  and  that 
it  fell  as  soon  as  an  ill-shaped  periwig,  a 
clumsy  pair  of  shoes,  or  an  unfashionable 
coat  came  into  his  house.  Nay,  he  [70 
proceeded  so  far  as  to  assure  us,  that  upon 
his  laughing  aloud  when  he  stood  by  it, 
the  liquor  mounted  very  sensibly,  and 
immediately  sunk  again  upon  his  looking 
serious.  In  short,  he  told  us  that  he  knew 
very  well  by  this  invention,  whenever 
he  had  a  man  of  sense  or  a  coxcomb  in 
his  room. 

Having  cleared  away  the  pericardium, 
or  the  case,  and  liquor  above-men-  [80 
tioned,  we  came  to  the  heart  itself.  The 
outward  surface  oHt  was  extremely  slip- 
pery, and  the  mucro,  or  point,  so  very 
cold  withal,  that  upon  endeavoring  to 
take  hold  of  it,  it  glided  through  the 
fingers  like  a  smooth  piece  of  ice. 

The  fibres  were  turned  and  twisted  in 
a  more  intricate  and  perplexed  manner 
than  they  are  usually  found  in  other 
hearts;  insomuch  that  the  whole  heart  [90 
was  wound  up  together  like  a  Gordian 
knot,  and  must  have  had  very  irregular 
and  unequal  motions,  while  it  was  em- 
ployed in  its  vital  function. 

One  thing  we  thought  very  observable, 
namely,  that  upon  examining  all  the 
vessels  which  came  into  it,  or  issued  out  of 
it,  we  could  not  discover  any  communi- 
cation that  it  had  with  the  tongue. 

We  could  not  but  take  notice  like-  [100 
wise  that  several  of  those  little  nerves  in 
the  heart  which  are  affected  by  the  senti- 
ments of  love,  hatred,  and  other  passions, 
did  not  descend  to  this  before  us  from  the 
brain,  but  from  the  muscles  which  lie 
about  the  eye. 

Upon  weighing  the  heart  in  my  hand, 
I  found  it  to  be  extremely  light,  and 
consequently  very  hollow,  which  I  did 
not  wonder  at,  when,  upon  looking  [no 


260 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


into  the  inside  of  it,  I  saw  multitudes  of 
cells  and  cavities  running  one  within 
another,  as  our  historians  describe  the 
apartments  of  Rosamond's  bower.  Sev- 
eral of  these  little  hollows  were  stuffed 
with  innumerable  sorts  of  trifles,  which 
I  shall  forbear  giving  any  particular 
account  of,  and  shall,  therefore,  only  take 
notice  of  what  lay  first  and  uppermost, 
which,  upon  our  unfolding  it,  and  [120 
applying  our  microscopes  to  it,  appeared 
to  be  a  flame-colored  hood. 

We  are  informed  that  the  lady  of  this 
heart,  when  living,  received  the  addresses 
of  several  who  made  love  to  her,  and  did 
not  only  give  each  of  them  encouragement, 
but  made  everyone  she  conversed  with 
believe  that  she  regarded  him  with  an 
eye  of  kindness;  for  which  reason  we  ex- 
pected to  have  seen  the  impression  of  [130 
multitudes  of  faces  among  the  several 
plaits  and  foldings  of  the  heart;  but  to 
our  great  surprise  not  a  single  print  of 
this  nature  discovered  itself  till  we  came 
into  the  very  core  and  centre  of  it.  We 
there  observed  a  little  figure,  which, 
upon  applying  our  glasses  to  it,  appeared 
dressed  in  a  very  fantastic  manner. 
The  more  I  looked  upon  it,  the  more  I 
thought  I  had  seen  the  face  before, but  [140 
could  not  possibly  recollect  either  the 
place  or  time;  when  at  length  one  of  the 
company,  who  had  examined  this  figure 
more  nicely  than  the  rest,  showed  us 
plainly  by  the  make  of  its  face,  and  the 
several  turns  of  its  features,  that  the  little 
idol  which  was  thus  lodged  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  heart  was  the  deceased  beau, 
whose  head  I  gave  some  account  of  in 
my  last  Tuesday's  paper.  [150 

As  soon  as  we  had  finished  our  dis- 
section, we  resolved  to  make  an  experi- 
ment of  the  heart,  not  being  able  to  deter- 
mine among  ourselves  the  nature  of  its 
substance,  which  differed  in  so  many 
particulars  from  that  in  the  heart  of 
other  females.  Accordingly,  we  laid  it 
into  a  pan  of  burning  coals,  when  we  ob- 
served in  it  a  certain  salamandrine  qual- 
ity, that  made  it  capable  of  living  in  [160 
the  midst  of  fire  and  flame,  without 
being  consumed  or  so  much  as  singed. 

As  we  were  admiring  this  strange 
phenomenon,    and    standing    round    the 


;  heart  in  a  circle,  it  gave  a  most  prodigious 
I  sigh,  or  rather  crack,  and  dispersed  all 
j  at  once  in  smoke  and  vapor.  This  im- 
aginary noise,  which  methought  was  louder 
than  the  burst  of  a  cannon,  produced 
such  a  violent  shake  in  my  brain,  [170 
that  it  dissipated  the  fumes  of  sleep, 
and  left  me  in  an  instant  broad  awake. 

— Addison. 


ALEXANDER   POPE    (1688-1744) 
From  WINDSOR  FOREST 

The  groves  of  Eden,  vanished  now  so 

long, 
Live   in   description,   and   look   green  in 

song: 
These,  were  my  breast  inspired  with  equal 

flame, 
Like  them  in  beauty,  should  be  like  in 

fame.  10 

Here  hills  and  vales,  the  woodland  and 

the  plain, 
Here    earth    and    water    seem    to    strive 

again ; 
Not    chaos-like    together    crushed    and 

bruised, 
But,  as  the  world,  harmoniously  confused: 
Where  order  in  variety  we  see,  15 

And  where,  though  all  things  differ,  all 

agree. 
Here  waving  groves   a  chequered  scene 

display, 
And  part  admit,  and  part  exclude  the  day; 
As   some  coy  nymph  her  lover's  warm 

address 
Nor  quite  indulges,  nor  can  quite  repress.  20 
There,  interspersed  in  lawns  and  opening 

glades, 
Thin  trees  arise  that  shun  each  other's 

shades. 
Here  in  full  light  the  russet  plains  extend: 
There   wrapt   in   clouds   the  bluish   hills 

ascend. 
Even  the  wild  heath  displays  her  purple 

dyes,  25 

And  'midst  the  desert  fruitful  fields  arise, 
That    crowned    with    tufted    trees    and 

springing  corn, 
Like  verdant  isles,  the  sable  waste  adorn. 
Let  India  boast  her  plants,  nor  envy  we 
The  weeping  amber  or  the  balmy  tree,    30 


POPE 


261 


While  by  our  oaks  the  precious  loads  are  J  He  lifts  the  tube,  and  levels  with  his  eye; 


borne, 
And  realms  commanded  which  those  trees 

adorn. 
Not  proud  Olympus  yields  a  nobler  sight, 
Though  gods  assembled  grace  his  towering 

height, 
Than  what  more  humble  mountains  offer 

here,  35 

Where,  in  their  blessings,  all  those  gods 

appear. 
See  Pan  with  flocks,  with  fruits  Pomona 

crowned, 
Here  blushing  Flora  paints  th'  enamelled 

ground, 
Here    Ceres'    gifts    in    waving    prospect 

stand, 
And  nodding  tempt    the  joyful  reaper's 

hand,  40 

Rich  industry  sits  smiling  on  the  plains, 
And  peace  and  plenty  tell  a  Stuart  reigns. 


See!  from  the  brake  the  whirring  pheas- 
ant springs, 
And    mounts    exulting    on    triumphant 

wings: 
Short  is  his  joy;  he  feels  the  fiery  wound, 
Flutters  in  blood,  and  panting  beats  the 

ground. 
Ah!  what  avail  his  glossy,  varying  dyes,  115 
His  purple  crest,  and  scarlet-circled  eyes, 
The  vivid  green  his  shining  plumes  un- 
fold, 
His  painted  wings,  and  breast  that  flames 

with  gold? 
Nor  yet,  when  moist  Arcturus  clouds 

the  sky, 
The  woods  and  fields  their  pleasing  toils 

deny.  120 

To  plains  with  well-breathed  beagles  we 

repair, 
And  trace  the  mazes  of  the  circling  hare 
(Beasts,  urged  by  us,  their  fellow  beasts 

pursue, 
And  learn  of  man  each  other  to  undo). 
With    slaughtering    guns    th'    unwearied 

fowler  roves,  125 

When  frosts  have  whitened  all  the  naked 

groves, 
Where  doves  in  flocks  the  leafless  trees 

o'ershade, 
And  lonely  woodcocks  haunt  the  watery 

glade. 


Straight  a  short  thunder  breaks  the  frozen 

sky:  130 

Oft,  as  in  airy  rings  they  skim  the  heath, 
The  clamorous  lapwings  feel  the  leaden 

death; 
Oft,   as  the  mounting   larks   their  notes 

prepare, 
They  fall,  and  leave  their  little  lives  in 

air. 
In  genial  spring,  beneath  the  quivering 

shade,  ,  135 

Where  cooling  vapors  breathe  along  the 

mead, 
The  patient  fisher  takes  his  silent  stand, 
Intent,  his  angle  trembling  in  his  hand: 
With  looks  unmoved,  he  hopes  the  scaly 

breed, 
And  eyes  the  dancing  cork  and  bending 

reed.  140 

Our    plenteous    streams    a    various    race 

supply, 
The  bright-eyed  perch  with  fins  of  Tyrian 

dye, 
The  silver  eel,  in  shining  volumes  rolled, 
The  yellow  carp,  in  scales  bedropped  with 

gold, 
Swift    trouts,    diversified    with    crimson 

stains,  145 

And   pikes,    the    tyrants   of   the    watery 

plains. 
Now  Cancer  glows  with  Phcebus'  fiery 

car: 
The  youth  rush  eager  to  the  sylvan  war, 
Swarm  o'er  the  lawns,  the  forest  walks 

surround, 
Rouse  the  fleet  hart,  and  cheer  the  opening 

hound.  150 

Th'    impatient    courser    pants    in    every 

vein, 
And,  pawing,  seems  to  beat  the  distant 

plain : 
Hills,   vales,   and   floods   appear   already 

crossed, 
And  ere  he  starts,  a  thousand  steps  are 

lost. 
See  the  bold  youth  strain  up  the  threaten- 
ing steep,  155 
Rush    through    the    thickets,    down    the 

valleys  sweep, 
Hang  o'er  their  coursers'  heads  with  eager 

speed, 
And  earth  rolls  back  beneath  the  flying 

steed. 


262 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


AN   ESSAY  ON   CRITICISM 

From  PART  I 

'Tis  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 
Appear  in  writing  or  in  judging  ill; 
But,   of   the  two,   less   dangerous  is   th' 

offence 
To  tire  our  patience,   than  mislead  our 

sense. 
Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this;  5 
Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes 

amiss; 
A  fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose; 
Now  one  in  verse  makes  many  more  in 

prose. 
'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches, 

none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own.  10 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but  rare, 
True  taste  as  seldom  is  the  critic's  share; 
Both  must  alike  from  Heaven  derive  their 

light, 
These  born  to  judge,  as  well  as  those  to 

write. 
Let   such   teach   others   who   themselves 

excel,  15 

And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well. 
Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,  'tis  true, 
But  are  not  critics  to  their  judgment  too? 


First  follow  Nature,  and  your  judgment 
frame 

By  her  just  standard,  which  is  still  the 
same; 

Unerring  Nature,  still  divinely  bright,    70 

One  clear,  unchanged,  and  universal  light, 

Life,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all  impart, 

At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and  test  of 
Art. 

Art  from  that  fund  each  just  supply  pro- 
vides, 

Works  without  show,  and  without  pomp 
presides.  75 

In  some  fair  body  thus  th'  informing  soul 

With  spirits  feeds,  with  vigor  fills  the 
whole, 

Each  motion  guides,  and  every  nerve  sus- 
tains; 

Itself  unseen,  but  in  th'  effects,  remains. 

Some,  to  whom  Heaven  in  wit  has  been 
profuse,  80 

Want  as  much  more,  to  turn  it  to  its  use; 


For  wit  and  judgment  often  are  at  strife, 
Though  meant  each  other's  aid,  like  man 

and  wife. 
'Tis  more  to  guide  than  spur  the  Muse's 
steed;  84 

Restrain  his  fury,  than  provoke  his  speed; 
The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse, 
Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check 
his  course. 
Those  rules  of  old,  discovered,  not  de- 
vised, 
Are  Nature  still,  but  Nature  methodized; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but  restrained     90 
By  the  same  laws  which  first  herself  or- 
dained. 


You,  then,  whose  judgment  the  right 
course  would  steer, 

Know  well   each  ancient's   proper  char- 
acter; 

His  fable,1  subject,  scope  in  every  page;  120 

Religion,  country,  genius  of  his  age: 

Without  all  these  at  once  before  your  eyes, 

Cavil  you  may,  but  never  criticise. 

Be  Homer's  works  your  study  and  delight, 

Read  them  by  day,  and  meditate  by  night; 

Thence  form  your  judgment,  thence  your 
maxims  bring,  126 

And   trace   the   Muses   upward   to   their 
spring. 

Still  with  itself  compared,  his  text  peruse; 

And  let  your  comment  be  the  Mantuan 
Muse. 
When  first  young  Maro  in  his  boundless 
mind  130 

A  work   t'   outlast  immortal   Rome   de- 
signed, 

Perhaps    he    seemed    above    the    critic's 
law, 

And  but  from  nature's  fountains  scorned 
to  draw: 

But  when  t'  examine  every  part  he  came, 

Nature  and  Homer  were,  he  found,  the 
same.  135 

Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold 
design ; 

And  rules  as  strict  his  labored  work  con- 
fine, 

As  if  the  Stagirite  o'erlooked  each  line. 

Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a  just  es- 
teem; 

To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them.  140 

'  plot. 


POPE 


263 


From  PART  II 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing;  15 
Drink    deep,    or    taste    not    the    Pierian 

spring: 
There    shallow    draughts    intoxicate    the 

brain, 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 
Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse 

imparts, 
In  fearless  youth  we  tempt  the  heights  of 

arts,  20 

While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths 

behind; 
But,  more  advanced,  behold  with  strange 

surprise 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 
So  pleased  at  first  the  towering  Alps  we 

try,  25 

Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread 

the  sky, 
Th'  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem 

the  last; 
But,  those  attained,  we  tremble  to  survey 
The  growing  labors  of  the  lengthened  way, 
Th'  increasing  prospects  tire  our  wander- 
ing eyes,  31 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps 

arise ! 


Some  to  conceit  alone  their  taste  con- 
fine, 
And   glittering    thoughts    struck   out    at 

every  line;  90 

Pleased  with  a  work  where  nothing's  just 

or  fit; 
One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 
Poets  like  painters,  thus  unskilled  to  trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace, 
With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part,     95 
And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of 

art. 
True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well 

expressed ; 
Something  whose  truth  convinced  at  sight 

we  find, 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 
As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the 

light,  1 01. 

So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit. 


For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does 

'em  good, 
As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 
Others  for  language  all  their  care  ex- 
press, 105 
And   value   books,   as   women   men,   for 

dress: 
Their  praise  is  still — the  style  is  excellent; 
The  sense  they  humbly  take  upon  con- 
tent. 
Words  are  like  leaves;  and  where  they 

most  abound, 
Much   fruit   of   sense   beneath   is   rarely 

found.  no 

False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 
Its  gaudy  colors  spreads  on  every  place; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey, 
All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay: 
But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging 

sun,  115 

Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines 

upon; 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 
Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and 

still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable; 
A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed, 
Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed :     121 
For  different  styles  with  different  subjects 

sort,1 
As  several  garbs  with  country,  town,  and 

court. 
Some  by  old  words  to  fame  have  made 

pretence, 
Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in  their 

sense;  125 

Such  labored  nothings,  in  so  strange  a 

style, 
Amaze    th'    unlearn'd,    and    make    the 

learned  smile. 
Unlucky  as  Fungoso  in  the  play, 
These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  dis- 
play 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday; 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best,    131 
As  apes  our  grandsires,  in  their  doublets 

dressed. 
In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will 

hold; 
Alike  fantastic  if  too  new  or  old: 
Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are 

tried,  135 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

1  accord. 


264 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's 

song; 
And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right 

or  wrong. 
In    the    bright    Muse    though    thousand 

charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all   these   tuneful  fools  ad- 
mire; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their 

ear,  ,  141 

Not  mend  their  minds;  as  some  to  church 

repair, 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 
These  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Though    oft    the    ear    the    open    vowels 

tire;  145 

While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull 

line: 
While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried 

chimes, 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes: 
Where'er  you  find  "the  cooling  western 

breeze,"  150 

In  the  next  line,  it  "whispers  through  the 

trees;" 
If  crystal   streams   "with  pleasing  mur- 
murs creep," 
The  reader's  threatened  (not  in  vain)  with 

"sleep:" 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fraught 
With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a 

thought,  1 55 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow 

length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes, 

and  know 
What's  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly 

slow ; 
And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a  line,  160 

Where  Denham's  strength,  and  Waller's 

sweetness  join. 
True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not 

chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to 

dance. 
'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence : 
The  sound   must   seem   an   echo   to   the 

sense.  165 

Soft  is  the    strain  when   Zephyr  gently 

blows, 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  num- 
bers flows; 


But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding 

shore, 
The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the 

torrent  roar. 
When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight 

to  throw,  170 

The  line,  too,  labors,  and  the  words  move 

slow. 
Not  so  when   swift   Camilla  scours   the 

plain, 
Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims 

along  the  main. 
Hear  how  Timotheus'  varied  lays  surprise, 
And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise!  1 75 
While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan 

Jove 
Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with 

love; 
Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury 

glow, 
Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to 

flow: 
Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature 

found,  180 

And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by 

sound ! 
The  power  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow, 
And  what  Timotheus  was,  is  Dryden  now. 
Avoid  extremes;  and  shun  the  fault  of 

such 
Who  still  are  pleased  too  little  or  too  much. 
At  every  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence ;        1 86 
That  always  shows  great  pride,  or  little 

sense ; 
Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the 

best, 
Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothing  can  digest. 
Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture 

move;  190 

For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  ap- 
prove : 
As  things  seem  large  which  we  through 

mists  descry, 
Dullness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify. 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK 

AN   HEROI-COMICAL   POEM 

Canto  I 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes 
springs, 
What   mighty  contests  rise  from   trivial 
things, 


POPE 


265 


I  sing. — This  verse  to  Caryl,  Muse!  is  due; 
This,    e'en    Belinda    may    vouchsafe    to 

view. 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise,  5 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 
Say    what    strange    motive,    Goddess! 

could  compel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle? 
Oh  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unex- 
plored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord?  10 
In  tasks  so  bold,  can  little  men  engage, 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells  such  mighty 

rage? 
Sol    through    white    curtains    shot    a 

timorous  ray, 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the 

day. 
Now  lap-dogs  give  themselves  the  rousing 

shake,  15 

And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve,  awake. 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knocked 

the  ground, 
And  the  pressed  watch  returned  a  silver 

sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed, 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy 

rest.  20 

'Twas  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning-dream  that  hovered  o'er  her 

head: 
A  youth  more  glittering  than  a  birth-night 

beau, 
(That  ev'n  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to 

glow) 
Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay,  25 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to 

say: 
"Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguished 

care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air ! 
If   e'er    one    vision    touched    thy    infant 

thought, 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have 

taught —  30 

Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight  shadows  seen, 
The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green, 
Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers, 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heav- 
enly flowers, — 
Hear  and  believe!   thy  own  importance 

know,  35 

Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  be- 
low. 


Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  con- 
cealed, 
To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed. 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may 

give? 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe.    40 
Know,   then,   unnumbered   spirits  round 

thee  fly, 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky. 
These,   though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the 

wing, 
Hang  o'er  the  box,  and  hover  round  the 

Ring. 
Think  what   an   equipage    thou   hast  in 

air,  45 

And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a 

chair. 
As  now  your   own,  our   beings  were  of 

old, 
And  once  enclosed  in  woman's  beauteous 

mould; 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air,        50 
Think     not,     when     woman's     transient 

breath  is  fled, 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards, 
And  though  she  plays  no  more,  o'erlooks 

the  cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive,  55 
And  love  of  ombre,  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire: 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name. 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away,  61 
And  sip,   with  nymphs,   their  elemental 

tea. 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a 

gnome, 

In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 

The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair, 

And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air.   66 

"Know  further  yet:  whoever  fair  and 

chaste 
Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  em- 
braced; 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with 

ease 
Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shapes  they 

please.  70 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids, 
In    courtly    balls,    and    midnight    mas- 
querades, 


266 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Safe  from  the  treacherous  friend,  the  dar- 
ing spark, 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the 

dark, 
When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm 

desires,  75 

When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing 

fires? 
'Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials 

know, 
Though  honor  is  the  word  with  men  below. 
Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of 

their  face, 
For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  em- 
brace. 80 
These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 

pride, 
When    offers    are    disdained,    and    love 

denied : 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While   peers,   and   dukes,   and   all    their 

sweeping  train, 
And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear,  85 
And  in  soft  sounds  'Your  Grace'  salutes 

their  ear. 
'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul, 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to 

roll, 
Teach  infant  cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to 

know, 
And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau.         90 
"Oft  when  the  world  imagine  women 

stray, 
The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide 

their  way; 
Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue, 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What   tender   maid   but   must   a   victim 

fall  95 

To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's 

ball? 
When  Florio  speaks,  what  virgin  could 

withstand, 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand? 
With  varying  vanities,  from  every  part, 
They  shift  the  moving  toyshop  of  their 

heart,  100 

Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots 

sword-knots  strive, 
Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches 

drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call; 
Oh,  blind  to  truth!  the  sylphs  contrive  it 

all. 


"Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection 
claim,  105 

A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air, 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas!  some  dread  event  impend, 
Ere  to  the  main1  this  morning  sun  descend, 
But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or 
where.  m 

Warned   by   the   sylph,   O   pious   maid, 

beware ! 

This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can: 

Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man!" 

He  said;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she 

slept  too  long,  115 

Leaped  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with 

his  tongue. 
'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true, 
Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a  billet-doux; 
Wounds,    charms,    and    ardors    were    no 

sooner  read, 
But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head. 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  dis- 
played, 121 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent 

adores, 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears,  125 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she 

rears. 
Th'  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side, 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  Pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and 

here 

The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear; 

From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious 

toil,  131 

And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering 

spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite,     135 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled,  and 

the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billets- 
doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her 
face;  142 

1  the  sea. 


POPE 


267 


Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 

The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling 

care,  145 

These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the 

hair, 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait 

the  gown; 
And  Betty  's  praised  for  labors  not  her 

own. 

Canto  II 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal 

plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launched   on    the   bosom   of    the    silver 

Thames. 
Fair    nymphs    and    well-dressed    youths 

around  her  shone,  5 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she 

wore 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those; 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends;  n 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes   the  gazers 

strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of 

pride,  15 

Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults 

to  hide; 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  'em  all. 
This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  man- 
kind, 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung 

behind  *  20 

In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth   ivory 

neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And   mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender 

chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray;  25 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey; 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
Th'  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks 

admired ; 
He  saw,  he  wished, and  to  the  prize  aspired. 


Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way,  31 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends, 
Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 
For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  im- 
plored 35 
Propitious    Heaven,    and    every    Power 

adored, 
But  chiefly  Love;  to  Love  an  altar  built, 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly 

gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,   half  a  pair  of 

gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves ;    40 
With    tender   billets-doux   he   lights    the 

pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise 

the  fire. 
Then  prostrate-  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent 

eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. 
The  Powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his 

prayer;  45 

The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 

The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating 

tides ; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently 

play,  51 

Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All  but  the  sylph — with  careful  thoughts 

oppressed, 
Th'    impending    woe    sat    heavy    on    his 

breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air;  55 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  re- 
pair;1 
Soft    o'er    the    shrouds    aerial    whispers 

breathe, 
That   seemed   but  zephyrs   to   the   train 

beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect- wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of 

gold;  *  60 

Transparent  forms,   too  fine  for  mortal 

sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 
Dipt  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies,    65 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes, 

1  gather. 


268 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


While  every  beam  new  transient  colors 

flings, 
Colors  that  change  whene'er  they  wave 

their  wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed;  70 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun: 
"Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief 

give  ear! 
Fays,   fairies,  genii,   elves,   and  demons, 

hear! 
Ye  know  the  spheres,  and  various  tasks 

assigned  75 

By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  aether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs 

on  high, 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless 

sky.  80 

Some,  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale 

light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the 

night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry 

main,  85 

Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain. 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside, 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions 

guide: 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own, 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British 

throne.  90 

"Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the 

fair, 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious 

care; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 
Nor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale; 
To   draw   fresh   colors   from   the    vernal 

flowers;  95 

To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in 

showers, 
A   brighter  wash;   to   curl   their   waving 

hairs, 

Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs; 

Nay  oft,  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 

To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow.  100 

"This    day,    black    omens    threat    the 

brightest  fair 
That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 


Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  sleight; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped  N 

in  night. 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's 

law,  105 

Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw; 
Or  stain  her  honor,  or  her  new  brocade; 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball; 
Or    whether    Heaven    has    doomed    that 

Shock  must  fall.  no 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits!  to  your  charge 

repair: 
The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 
The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine; 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favorite  lock; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 
To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note,  117 
We    trust    th'    important    charge,    the 

petticoat: 
Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence 

to  fail, 
Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  armed  with 

ribs  of  whale;  120 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 
"Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large, 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake 

his  sins,  125 

Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye; 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  re- 
strain, 
While,  clogged,  he  beats  his  silken  wings 

in  vain;  130 

Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink   his   thin   essence   like   a   rivelled 

flower; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill, 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow, 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below! " 
He   spoke;   the   spirits   from   the   sails 

descend;  137 

Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  ex- 
tend; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they 


wait, 


141 


Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 


POPE 


269 


Canto  III 

Close  by  those  meads,  forever  crowned 
with  flowers, 

Where   Thames   with   pride   surveys   his 
rising  towers, 

There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 

Which   from    the    neighboring   Hampton 
takes  its  name. 

Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  fore- 
doom 5 

Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home; 

Here  thou,  great  Anna!  whom  three  realms 
obey, 

Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  some- 
times tea. 
Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  re- 
sort, 

To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court;  10 

In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they 
passed, 

Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 

One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 

And    one    describes    a    charming    Indian 
screen; 

A   third   interprets   motions,   looks,   and 
eyes;  15 

At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 

Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of 
chat, 

With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 
Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of 
day, 

The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray; 

The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 

And  wretches  hang   that  jurymen   may 
dine;  22 

The  merchant  from  th'  Exchange  returns 
in  peace, 

And  the  long  labors  of  the  toilet  cease. 

Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 

Burns    to    encounter    two    adventurous 
knights,  26 

At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom; 

And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet 
to  come. 

Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms 
to  join, 

Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine. 

Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial 
guard  31 

Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card: 

First,  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 

Then  each,  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 


For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient 

race,  35 

Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of 

place. 
Behold  four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard; 
And  four  fair  queens,  whose  hands  sustain 

a  flower, 
The   expressive   emblem   of   their   softer 

power;  40 

Four  knaves,  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty 

band, 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their 

hand; 
And  parti-colored  troops,  a  shining  train, 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The   skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force 

with  care:  45 

"Let  spades  be  trumps!"  she   said,   and 

trumps  they  were. 
Now  moved  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord! 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the 

board.  50 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield, 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant 

field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but,  his  fate  more 

hard, 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian 

card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years, 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears,  56 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed; 
The  rest,  his  many-colored  robe  con- 
cealed. 
The  rebel  knave,   who  dares  his  prince 

engage, 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage.    60 
E'en  mighty  Pam,  that  kings  and  queens 

o'erthrew, 
And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of 

Loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war!  now  destitute  of  aid, 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade. 
Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field.  66 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades, 
Th'  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades; 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim 

died, 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,  and  barbarous 

pride.  70 


270 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous 

robe, 

And,   of  all   monarchs,   only   grasps  the 

globe? 

The   baron   now   his    diamonds   pours 

apace;  75 

Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half 

his  face, 
And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  powers  com- 
bined, 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder 

seen, 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level 
green.  80 

Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye, 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall,      85 
In  heaps  on  heaps;  one  fate  o'erwhelms 
them  all. 
The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily 
arts, 
And    wins    (oh    shameful    chance!)    the 

queen  of  hearts. 
At  this  the  blood  the  virgin's  cheek  for- 
sook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look;  90 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching 

Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 
And   now    (as   oft   in   some   distempered 

state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 
An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth;  the  king  un- 
seen 95 
Lurked  in  her  hand,   and  mourned  his 

captive  queen: 
He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager 

pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the 

sky; 
The  walls,   the  woods,   and  long  canals 

reply.  100 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals!  ever  blind  to 

fate, 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden,  these  honors  shall  be  snatched 

away, 
And  cursed  forever  this  victorious  day. 


For  lo!  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons 
is  crowned,  105 

The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns 
round; 

On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 

The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze: 

From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors 
glide, 

While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking 
tide.  no 

At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 

And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 

Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy 
band; 

Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor 
fanned, 

Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  dis- 
played, 115 

Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich 
brocade. 

Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 

And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half- 
shut  eyes) 

Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron's  brain 

New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 

Ah,  cease,  rash  youth!  desist  ere  'tis  too 
late,  121 

Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's 
fate! 

Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 

She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 

will,  125 

How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill! 

Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting 
grace 

A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining 
case: 

So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 

Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the 
fight.  130 

He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  ex- 
tends 

The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends; 

This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 

As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her 
head. 

Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 

A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back 
the  hair;  136 

And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in 
her  ear; 

Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 
drew  near. 


POPE 


271 


Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought; 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined,  141 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power 
expired,  145 

Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 
The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  for- 
fex  wide, 
T'  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed;  150 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in 

twain 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again) . 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dis- 
sever 
From  the  fair  head,  forever,  and  forever! 
Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from 
her  eyes,  155 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affrighted 

skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are 

cast, 
When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe 

their  last; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from 

high, 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments 
lie!  160 

"Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  tem- 
ples twine," 
The  victor  cried;  "the  glorious  prize  is 

mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in 

air, 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read,  165 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed, 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order 

blaze, 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations 

give, 
So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall 
live !  1 7° 

What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  re- 
ceives its  date, 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate! 
Steel  could  the  labor  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  th'  imperial  towers  of 
Troy; 


Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  con- 
found, 175 

And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 

What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph!  thy  hairs 
should  feel 

The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel?" 

Canto  IV 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph 

oppressed, 
And  secret  passions  labored  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive, 
Not   scornful  virgins  who  their   charms 

survive, 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss, 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss,  6 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die, 
Not  Cynthia  when  her  mantua's  pinned 

awry, 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  de- 
spair, 
As  thou,  sad  virgin!  for  thy  ravished  hair. 
For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs 

withdrew,  n 

And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down   to   the  central  earth,   his  proper 

scene,  15 

Repaired  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of 

Spleen. 
Swift   on   his   sooty   pinions   flits    the 

gnome, 
And  in  a  vapor  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No    cheerful    breeze    this    sullen    region 

knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all   the  wind   that 

blows.  20 

Here  in  a  grotto,  sheltered  close  from  air, 
And  screened  in  shades  from  day's  de- 
tested glare, 
She  sighs  forever  on  her  pensive  bed, 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim1  at  her  head. 
Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne,  alike 

in  place,  25 

But  differing  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid, 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white 

arrayed; 
With  store  of  prayers  for  mornings,  nights, 

and  noons 
Her  hand  is  filled;  her  bosom  with  lam- 


poons. 


30 


1  headache. 


272 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien, 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen; 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside, 
Faint  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride; 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming 

woe,  35 

Wrapped  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for 

show. 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new 

disease. 
A  constant  vapor  o'er  the  palace  flies, 
Strange    phantoms    rising    as    the    mists 

arise ;  4° 

Dreadful,  as  hermits'  dreams  in  haunted 

shades, 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids: 
Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling 

spires,1 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple 

fires; 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes,  45 
And  crystal  domes,   and  angels  in  ma- 
chines. 
Unnumbered  throngs  on  every  side  are 

seen, 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by 

Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held 

out, 
One  bent;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the 

spout.  5° 

A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod,  walks; 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pie 

talks; 
Men  prove  with  child,  as  powerful  fancy 

works, 
And  maids,  turned  bottles,  call  aloud  for 

corks. 
Safe   passed    the   gnome   through   this 

fantastic   band,  55 

A   branch   of   healing   spleenwort   in   his 

hand. 
Then  thus  addressed  the  power:  "Hail, 

wayward  queen! 
Who  rule  the  sex,  to  fifty  from  fifteen; 
Parent  of  vapors2  and  of  female  wit; 
Who  give  th'  hysteric,  or  poetic  fit;        60 
On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble 

plays; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray. 


1  coils. 


'  whims. 


A  nymph  there  is  that  all  thy  power  dis- 
dains, 65 
And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  main- 
tains. 
But  oh!  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a 

grace, 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face, 
Like  citron- waters  matrons'  cheeks  inflame, 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game;  70 
If  e'er  with  airy  horns  I  planted  heads, 
Or  rumpled  petticoats,  or  tumbled  beds, 
Or  caused  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lap-dog  gave  disease,    75 
Which  not   the   tears   of   brightest  eyes 

could  ease: 
Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin; 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the 

spleen." 
The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants 

his  prayer.  80 

A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she 

binds, 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the 

winds: 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs, 
Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of 

tongues. 
A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears,    85 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing 

tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away, 
Spreads    his    black    wings,    and    slowly 

mounts  to  day. 
Sunk  in  Thalestris'  arms  the  nymph  he 

found, 
Her  eyes  dejected  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he 

rent,  91 

And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
"0  wretched  maid! "  she  spread  her  hands, 

and  cried,  95 

(While    Hampton's    echoes,    "Wretched 

maid!"  replied) 
"Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant 

care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare? 
For    this   your   locks   in   paper   durance 

bound, 
For  this  with   torturing  irons  wreathed 

around?  100 


POPE 


273 


For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender 

.    head, 
And  bravely  bore   the  double   loads   of 

lead? 
Gods!  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair, 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare! 
Honor  forbid!  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine 
Ease,   pleasure,    virtue,  all,  our   sex    re- 
sign. 106 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast, 
•  And  all  your  honor  in  a  whisper  lost!     no 
How  shall  I,  then,  your  helpless  fame  de- 
fend? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend ! 
j  And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize, 
1  Exposed  through  crystal   to   the  gazing 

eyes, 
And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circling 

rays,  115 

On  that  rapacious  hand  forever  blaze? 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus 

grow, 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of 

Bow: 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 
Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish 

all!"  120 

She  said;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  re- 
pairs, 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious 

hairs 
(Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane). 
With  earnest  eyes,  and  round  unthinking 

face,  125 

He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the 

case, 
And  thus  broke  out — ''My  lord — why — 

what  the  devil ! 
Zounds!  damn  the  lock!  'fore  Gad,  you 

must  be  civil! 
Plague  on't !  'tis  past  a  jest— nay ,  prithee, 

pox! 
Give  her  the  hair." — He  spoke,  and  rapped 

his  box.  130 

"It  grieves  me  much,"  replied  the  peer 

again, 
"Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak 

in  vain. 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted 

hair, 


Which   never  more  its  honors  shall   re- 
new, I3S 

Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late 
it  grew) 

That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 

This  hand,  which  won  it,   shall  forever 
wear." 

He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph 
spread 

The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head.  140 
But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome!  forbears 
not  so; 

He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows 
flow. 

Then  see!  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief 
appears, 

Her  eyes  half  languishing,  half  drowned  in 
tears; 

On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping 
head,  145 

Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised;  and  thus 
she  said: 
"  Forever  cursed  be  this  detested  day, 

Which  snatched  my  best,  my  favorite  curl 
away ! 

Happy!  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been, 

If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never 
seen!  150 

Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid, 

By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  be- 
trayed. 

Oh,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 

In  some  lone  isle  or  distant  northern  land; 

Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the 

way,  155 

Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste 

bohea ! 
There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from 

mortal  eye, 
Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords 

to  roam? 
Oh,  had  I  stayed,  and  said  my  prayers  at 

home!  160 

'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seemed  to 

tell: 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch- 
box  fell ; 
The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind; 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most 

unkind ! 
A  sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of 

fate,  165 

In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late! 


274 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted 

hairs ! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  e'en  thy  rapine 

spares; 
These   in    two   sable   ringlets    taught    to 

break, 
Once   gave   new  beauties   to   the   snowy 

neck;  170 

The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone, 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own; 
Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  de- 
mands, 
And  tempts  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious 

hands. 
Oh,  hadst  thou,  cruel!  been  content  to 

seize  175 

Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these! " 

Canto  V 

She  said:  the  pitying  audience  melt  in 
tears. 

But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's 
ears. 

In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 

For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails? 

Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  re- 
main, 5 

While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in 
vain. 

Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her 
fan; 

Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began : 
"Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and 
honored  most, 

The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain 
man's  toast?  10 

Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and  sea 
afford, 

Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 

Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white- 
gloved  beaux, 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost 
rows? 

How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our 
pains,  15 

Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty 
gains; 

That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front- 
box  grace, 

'Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face!' 

Oh!  if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day, 

Charmed  the  small -pox,  or  chased  old  age 
away,  20 


Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's 
cares  produce, 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of 
use? 

To  patch,  nay,  ogle,  might  become  a  saint, 

Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 

But   since,  alas!  frail    beauty   must   de- 
cay; 25 

Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will  turn 
to  grey; 

Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall 
fade, 

And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a 
maid; 

What  then  remains  but  well  our  power  to 
use, 

And  keep  good  humor  still  whate'er  we 
lose?  30 

And  trust  me,  dear,  good  humor  can  pre- 
vail, 

When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and 
scolding  fail. 

Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may 
roll; 

Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins 
the  soul." 
So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  en- 
sued; 35 

Belinda    frowned,    Thalestris    called   her 
prude. 

"To  arms,   to   arms!"  the  fierce  virago 
cries, 

And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 

All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack; 

Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whale- 
bones crack;  40 

Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confusedly 
rise, 

And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 

No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are 
found; 

Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal 
wound. 
So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods 
engage,  45 

And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  pas- 
sions rage; 

'Gainst    Pallas,    Mars;    Latona,    Hermes 
arms; 

And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms: 

Jove's  thunder  roars,  Heaven  trembles  all 
around, 

Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps 
resound:  50 


POPE 


275 


Earth    shakes    her    nodding    towers,    the 

ground  gives  way, 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of 

day! 
Triumphant    Umbriel    on    a    sconce's 

height 
Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view 

the  fight: 
Propped    on     their    bodkin-spears,     the 

sprites  survey  55 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 
While  through  the  press  enraged  Thales- 

tris  flies, 
And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her 

eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng, 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song.  60 
"O  cruel  nymph!  a  living  death  I  bear," 
Cried   Dapperwit,   and   sunk   beside   his 

chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards 

cast, 
"Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing" — was 

his  last. 
Thus  on  Maeander's  flowery  margin  lies  65 
Th'   expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he 

dies. 
When    bold    Sir    Plume    had    drawn 

Clarissa  down, 
Chloe  stepped  in,  and  killed  him  with  a 

frown ; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again. 
Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in 

air,  71 

Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's 

hair; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side 

to  side; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs 

subside. 
See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  Baron  flies,  75 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her 

eyes; 
Nor  feared  the  chief  th'  unequal  fight  to 

try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to 

die. 
But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength 

endued, 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued : 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils 

drew,  81 

A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw; 


The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'er- 

flows,  85 

And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 
"Now  meet  thy  fate,"  incensed  Belinda 

cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 
Her  great  great  grandsire  wore  about  his 

neck,  90 

In  three  seal-rings;  which  after,  melted 

down, 
Formed   a  vast   buckle   for  his  widow's 

gown ; 
Her   infant   grandame's    whistle    next   it 

grew, 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's 

hairs,  05 

Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda 

wears.) 
"Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "insult- 
ing foe! 
Thou   by   some   other   shalt    be   laid   as 

low; 
Nor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind: 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind!  100 
Rather  than  so,  ah,  let  me  still  survive, 
And  burn  in   Cupid's  flames — but  burn 

alive." 
"Restore  the  lock!"  she  cries;  and  all 

around 
"Restore  the  lock!"  the  vaulted  roofs  re- 
bound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain     105 
Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused 

his  pain. 
But    see    how    oft    ambitious    aims    are 

crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend   till  all  the  prize  is 

lost! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept 

with  pain, 
In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in 

vain:  no 

With   such  a   prize  no  mortal   must  be 

blessed. 
So  Heaven  decrees !  With  Heaven  who  can 

contest? 
Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar 

sphere, 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured 

there. 


276 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous 

vases,  115 

And  beaux'   in  snuff-boxes  and   tweezer 

cases ; 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms 

are  found, 
And  lovers7  hearts  with  ends  of  riband 

bound; 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's 

prayers, 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of 

heirs;  120 

Cages  for  gnats,  and   chains   to  yoke  a 

flea, 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 
But  trust  the  Muse— she  saw  it  upward 

rise, 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick,  poetic 

eyes: 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens 

withdrew,  125 

To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 
The  heavens  bespangling  with  dishevelled 

light.  130 

The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies, 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through 

the   skies. 
This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the 

Mall  survey, 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray; 
This    the    blest    lover    shall    for    Venus 

take,  135 

And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake. 
This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloud- 
less skies, 
When    next   he   looks    through    Galileo's 

eyes; 
And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  fore- 
doom 
The  fate  of  Louis,  and  the  fall  of  Rome.  140 
Then  cease,  bright  nymph!  to  mourn 

thy  ravished  hair, 
Which   adds   new   glory    to   the   shining 

sphere ! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can 

boast, 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the   lock   you 

lost. 
For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye,     145 
When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall 

die; 


When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 

must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust; 
This  lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to 

fame, 
And   'midst   the  stars  inscribe   Belinda's 

name.  150 


AN  ESSAY  ON  MAN 

From  Book  I 

Awake,  my  St.  John!  leave  all  meaner 
things 
To  low  ambition,  and  the  pride  of  kings. 
Let  us  (since  life  can  little  more  supply 
Than  just  to  look  about  us  and  to  die) 
Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man;  5 
A  mighty  maze!  but  not  without  a  plan; 
A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flowers  promis- 
cuous shoot; 
Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Together  let  us  beat 1  this  ample  field, 
Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield; 
The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  ex- 
plore 11 
Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar; 
Eye  nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flies, 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise ; 
Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where 
we  can;                                              15 
But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 
I.  Say  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  be- 
low, 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we 

know? 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here, 
From  which  to  reason,  or  to  which  refer?  20 
Through  worlds  unnumbered  though  the 

God  be  known, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 
He    who    through    vast    immensity    can 

pierce, 
See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  uni- 
verse, 
Observe  how  system  into  system  runs,    25 
What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 
What  varied  being  peoples  every  star, 
May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we 

are: 
But  of  this  frame  the  bearings,  and  the 

ties, 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies, 

1  scour,  range  through. 


POPE 


277 


Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul  31 
Looked  through?  or  can  a  part  contain 

the  whole? 
Is  the  great  chain,  that  draws  all  to  agree, 
And  drawn,  supports,  upheld  by  God,  or 

thee? 
II.  Presumptuous     man!     the     reason 

wouldst  thou  find,  35 

Why  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so 

blind? 
First,  if   thou   canst,   the  harder  reason 

guess, 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no 

less? 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth,  why  oaks  are 

made 
Taller  or  stronger  than  the  weeds  they 

shade ;  40 

Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above, 
Why  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 


Respecting   man,   whatever   wrong   we 
call, 

May,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 

In  human  works,  though  labored  on  with 
pain, 

A  thousand  movements  scarce  one  purpose 
gain; 

In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce;  55 

Yet  serves  to  second  too  some  other  use. 

So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone, 

Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  un- 
known, 

Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some 
goal: 

'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole.    60 
When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why 
man  restrains 

His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the 
plains; 

When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the 
clod, 

Is  now  a  victim,  and  now  Egypt's  god; 

Then  shall  man's  pride  and  dullness  com- 
prehend 65 

His  actions',  passions',  being's,  use  and 
end; 

Why  doing,  suffering,  checked,  impelled; 
and  why 

This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say  not  man's  imperfect,  Heaven 
in  fault; 

Say  rather,  man's  as  perfect  as  he  ought:  70 


His  knowledge  measured  to  his  state  and 

place, 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 
If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere, 
What   matter   soon   or   late,   or  here   or 

there? 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so,       75 
As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 
III.  Heaven   from  all   creatures  hides 

the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present 

state: 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what 

spirits  know: 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below?    80 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and 

play? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery 

food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his 

blood. 
Oh,  blindness  to  the  future!  kindly  given, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by 

Heaven :  86 

Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall, 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled, 
And   now   a   bubble   burst,   and   now   a 

world.  90 

Hope    humbly    then;    with    trembling 

pinions  soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death;  and  God 

adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to 

know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be,  blest.  96 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 
Lo,  the  poor  Indian!  whose  untutored 

mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the 

wind;  100 

His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to 

stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-topped  hill,  an  humbler 

Heaven ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depths  of  woods  em- 
braced, 105 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 


278 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land 

behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst 

for  gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky,  m 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 
IV.  Go,  wiser  thou!  and,  in  thy  scale  of 

sense 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence; 
Call    imperfection    what    thou    fanciest 

such;  115 

Say,  "Here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too 

much;" 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust,1 
Yet  cry,  "If  man's  unhappy,  God's  un- 
just;" 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high 

care, 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there, 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the 

rod,  121 

Re-judge  his  justice,  be  the  god  of  God. 
In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the 

skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes;  125 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be 

gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell, 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel: 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  order,  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause.  130 


IX.  What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust 

to  tread, 
Or  hand  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head?  260 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame; 
Just  as  absurd,   to  mourn  the  tasks  or 

pains,  265 

The  great  directing  Mind  of  All  ordains. 
All   are  but  parts  of  one   stupendous 

whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all 

the  same, 
Great   in    the   earth,   as   in    th'   ethereal 

frame,  270 


Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the 

trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all 

extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent, 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal 

part,  275 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart, 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns. 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no 

small ; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals 

all.  280 

X.  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection 

name: 
Our   proper   bliss   depends   on   what   we 

blame. 
Know  thy  own  point:  this  kind,  this  due 

degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows 

on  thee. 
Submit.— In  this,  or  any  other  sphere,  285 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear: 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not 

see;  290 

All  discord,  harmony  not  understood; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good: 
And,   spite   of   pride,   in   erring   reason's 

spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right. 


From  EPISTLE  TO  DR.  ARBUTHNOT 

— Were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,   and  fair  fame  in- 
spires, 
Blessed  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to 

please,  195 

And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with 

ease; 
Should   such   a   man,    too   fond   to   rule 

alone, 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the 

throne ; 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous 

eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to 

rise ;  200 


POPE 


279 


Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil 
leer, 

And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to 
sneer; 

Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 

Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike; 

Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  com- 
mend, 205 

A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend; 

Dreading  ev'n  fools,  by  flatterers  be- 
sieged, 

And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 

Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws, 

And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause,  210 

While  wits  and  Templars  every  sentence 
raise, 

And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise — 

Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there 
be? 

Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he! 


THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord! 

Thou    Great    First    Cause,    least    under- 
stood :  5 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  Thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill;  10 

And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 
Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun,  15 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  Thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives; 

T'  enjoy  is  to  obey.  20 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 


Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand    25 
Presume  Thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I  deem  Thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  Thy  grace  impart, 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay;  30 

If  I  am  wrong,  oh  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied,       35 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me.  40 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath; 

Oh  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot:  45 

All  else  beneath  the  sun, 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not; 

And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee  whose  temple  is  all  space, 
Whose  altar  earth,  sea,  skies,  50 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise, 
All  nature's  incense  rise! 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  (1728-1774) 
THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the 

plain ; 
Where    health    and    plenty    cheered    the 

laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms 

delayed : 
Dear    lovely    bowers    of    innocence    and 

ease,  5 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could 

please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each 

scene ! 


280 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,     10 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neigh- 
boring hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath 

the  shade 
For   talking   age   and   whispering   lovers 

made! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day,  15 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading 

tree, 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young   contending   as   the   old   sur- 
veyed; 20 
And  many  a  gambol   frolicked  o'er  the 

ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength 

went  round. 
And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  in- 
spired; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  re- 
nown 25 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the 

place; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The   matron's   glance   that   would   those 

looks  reprove.  30 

These   were   thy   charms,   sweet   village! 

sports  like  these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to 

please: 
These   round   thy   bowers   their   cheerful 

influence  shed: 

These   were    thy   charms — but   all    these 

charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the 

lawn,  35 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms 

withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is 

seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And    half    a    tillage    stints    thy    smiling 
plain.  4° 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy 
way; 


Along  the  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow  sounding  bittern  guards  its 

nest; 
Amidst    thy    desert    walks    the    lapwing 

flies,  45 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moulder- 
ing wall; 
And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's 

hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 
Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a 

prey,  51 

Where    wealth    accumulates,    and    men 

decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may 

fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has 

made: 
But   a   bold    peasantry,    their    country's 

pride,  55 

When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  sup- 
plied. 
A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs 

began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained 

its  man; 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome 

store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no 

more :  60 

His    best    companions,     innocence '  and 

health; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 
But  times  are  altered;  trade's  unfeeling 

train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets 

rose,  65 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  re- 
pose, 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied, 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
These  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to 

bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little 

room,  70 

Those  healthful   sports   that  graced   the 

peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the 

green; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 


GOLDSMITH 


Sweet  Auburn!  parent  of  the  blissful 
hour,  75 

Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the   tyrant's 
power. 

Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 

Amidst    thy   tangling   walks   and   ruined 
grounds, 

And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 

Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  haw- 
thorn grew,  So 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy 
train, 

Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to 
pain. 
In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world 
of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my 
share — 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me 
down ;  86 

To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  re- 
pose; 

I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 

Amidst   the   swains   to   show   my   book- 
learned  skill,  90 

Around    my    fire    an    evening    group    to 
draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 

And,  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns 
pursue 

Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first 
she  flew, 

I    still    had    hopes,    my    long    vexations 
past,  95 

Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 
O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  de- 
cline, 

Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be 
mine, 

How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like 
these 

A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease;       100 

Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  tempta- 
tions try, 

And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to 
fly! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and 
weep, 

Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous 
deep; 

No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state,  105 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 


But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend; 

Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  de- 
cay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 

And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the 
last,  in 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be 
past! 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  even- 
ing's close 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 

There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and 

Slow,  115 

The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from 

below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid 

sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their 

young, 
The   noisy  geese   that   gabbled   o'er  the 

pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from 

school,  120 

The   watch-dog's   voice   that   bayed    the 

whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 

mind; — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the 

shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 

made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail,  125 
No   cheerful    murmurs    fluctuate   in    the 

gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway 

tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That    feebly    bends    beside    the    plashy 

spring:  130 

She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for 

bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses 

spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till 

morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train,  135 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 
Near    yonder    copse,    where    once    the 

garden  smiled, 
And   still   where   many  a  garden   flower 

grows  wild; 


282 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place 

disclose, 
The   village   preacher's   modest   mansion 

rose.  140 

A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And   passing   rich  with   forty  pounds   a 

year; 
Remote    from    towns    he   ran   his   godly 

race, 
Nor   e'er   had    changed,    nor   wished    to 

change  his  place; 
Unpractised    he    to    fawn,    or    seek    for 

power,  145 

By   doctrines   fashioned    to   the   varying 

hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to 

prize, 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to 

rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant 

train ; 
He   chid   their   wanderings   but   relieved 

their  pain:  150 

The    long-remembered    beggar    was    his 

guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged 

breast; 
The   ruined   spendthrift,   now   no  longer 

proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims 

allowed; 
The    broken    soldier,    kindly    bade    to 

stay,  155 

Sat  by  the  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away, 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds  or,  tales  of  sorrow 

done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how 

fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,   the  good  man 

learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless   their  merits  or  their  faults   to 

scan,  161 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 
Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his 

pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's 

side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call,      165 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt 

for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the 

skies, 


He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  de- 
lay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the 

way.  170 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was 

laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dis- 
mayed, 
The  reverend   champion   stood.     At  his 

control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling 

soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch 

to  raise,  175 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered 

praise. 
At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected 

grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double 

sway, 
And  fools,  who  come  to  scoff,  remained  to 

pray.  180 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
Even    children    followed   with   endearing 

wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good 

man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a   parent's  warmth  ex- 
pressed; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares 

distressed:  186 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were 

given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in 

heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves 

the  storm,  190, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 

are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 
Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts 

the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,   skilled  to 

rule,  195 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to 

trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face ;  200 


GOLDSMITH 


283 


Full    well    they    laughed    with    counter- 
feited glee 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 

Conveyed    the    dismal    tidings    when    he 
frowned. 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught,  205 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 

The   village  all   declared   how   much   he 
knew: 

'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher 
too; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides 
presage, 

And  even  the  story  ran   that  he  could 
gauge;  210 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 

For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could 
argue  still; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thun- 
dering sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 
grew,  215 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he 
knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.    The  very  spot 

Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  for- 
got. 
Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on 
high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  pass- 
ing eye,  220 

Low    lies    that    house    where    nut-brown 
■  draughts  inspired, 

Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil 
retired, 

Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks 
profound, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 
round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace  225 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place : 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded 
floor, 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind 
the  door; 

The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by 
day;  230 

The   pictures   placed    for   ornament   and 
use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of 
goose; 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled 
the  day, 

With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel 
gay; 

While  broken   tea-cups,   wisely  kept  for 
show,  _  235 

Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a 
row. 
Vain  transitory  splendors!  could  not  all 

Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its 
fall? 

Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 

An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's 
heart.  240 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 

To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 

No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's 
tale, 

No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  pre- 
vail; 

No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall 
clear,  245 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean 
to  hear; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 

Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 

Nor   the   coy   maid,   half   willing   to   be 
pressed, 

Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.  250 
Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  dis- 
dain, 

These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art. 

Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its 
play,  255 

The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born 
sway: 

Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 

Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  mas- 
querade, 

With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  ar- 
rayed—  260 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  ob- 
tain, 

The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 

And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts 
decoy, 

The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 
Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who 
survey  265 

The  rich  man's  joy  increase,  the  poor's 
decay, 


284 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits 

stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  an  happy  land. 
Proud    swells    the    tide    with    loads    of 

freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her 

shore;  270 

Hoards    even    beyond    the    miser's    wish 

abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world 

around. 
Yet  count  our  gains!    This  wealth  is  but 

a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the 

same. 
Not  so  the  loss.    The  man  of  wealth  and 

pride  275 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  sup- 
plied; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended 

bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken 

sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half 

their  growth;  280 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant   spurns   the   cottage   from   the 

green: 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product 

flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies; 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure 

all  285 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 
As   some   fair   female    unadorned   and 

plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her 

reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress 

supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her 

eyes ;  290 

But    when    those    charms   are   past,    for 

charms  are  frail, 
When  time   advances,  and  when    lovers 

fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed:  295 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  ar- 
rayed, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 


While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smil- 
ing land 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble 
band,  300 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to 
save, 

The    country    blooms — a   garden    and   a 
grave. 
Where  then,  ah!  where,  shall  poverty 
reside, 

To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 

If    to    some    common's    fenceless    limits 
strayed  305 

He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty 
blade, 

Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth 
divide, 

And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 
If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him 
there? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share;  310 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 

To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind; 

To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure 

know- 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 

Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  bro- 
cade, _  315 

There  the  pale  artist1  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 

Here  while   the  proud  their  long-drawn 
pomps  display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the 
way. 

The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  mid- 
night reign 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous 
train:  320 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing 
square, 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches 
glare. 

Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  an- 
noy! 

Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts? — Ah,  turn 
thine  eyes  325 

Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female 
lies. 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the 
thorn :  330 

1  artisan. 


GOLDSMITH 


285 


Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue,  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's   door   she   lays   her 

head, 
And,   pinched   with  cold,   and  shrinking 

from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless 

hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town,  335 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country 

brown. 
Do   thine,   sweet   Auburn, — thine,   the 

loveliest  train, — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger 

led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little 

bread !  340 

Ah,  no!     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary 

scene, 
Where   half   the   convex   world   intrudes 

between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps 

they  go, 
Where  wild  x\ltama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed 

before  345 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward 

ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Those  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget 

to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling;  350 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuri- 
ance crowned, 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death 

around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to 

wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless 

prey,  355 

And   savage   men   more   murderous   still 

than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the 

skies. 
Far   different    these    from   every    former 

scene, 
The    cooling    brook,    the    grassy    vested 

green,  360 

The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only   sheltered  thefts  of   harmless 

love. 


Good  Heaven!   what  sorrows  gloomed 

that  parting  day, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks 

away: 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked 

their  last,  •  366 

And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in 

vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western 

main, 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant 

deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to 

weep.  370 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to 

go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  other's 

woe; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the 

grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The    fond    companion    of    his    helpless 

years,  376 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her 

woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure 

rose,  380 

And  kissed  her   thoughtless  babes   with 

many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly 

dear, 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend 

relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 
O  luxury!  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  de- 
cree, 385 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for 

thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms,   by   thee   to   sickly   greatness 

grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own.      390 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large 

they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldly  woe; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part 

unsound, 
Down,  down,  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin 

round. 


286 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun,  395 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I 

stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads 

the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale,  400 
Downward    they    move,    a    melancholy 

band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the 

strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness  are  there; 
And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above,      405 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,   sweet  Poetry,   thou  loveliest 

maid, 
Still  first  to   fly  where   sensual  joys  in- 
vade; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest 

fame;  410 

Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  de- 
cried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my 

woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st 

me  so; 
Thou   guide   by   which    the   nobler   arts 

excel,  415 

Thou   nurse   of   every  virtue,   fare    thee 

well! 
Farewell,  and  oh!  where'er  thy  voice  be 

tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time,  421 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime; 
Aid   slighted   truth  with   thy  persuasive 

strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of 

gain; 
Teach  him  that  states  of  native  strength 

possessed,  425 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift 

decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away; 
While    self-dependent    power    can    time 

defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.  430 


From  THE  RETALIATION 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast, 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the 

last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine!  let  me  sit  while 

I'm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the 

table;  20 

Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling 

my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of 

the  dead. 
Here  lies  the  good  Dean,  reunited  to 

earth, 
Who    mixed   reason    with  pleasure,    and 

wisdom  with  mirth; 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in 

doubt,  25 

At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'em 

out; 
Yet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be 

denied  'em, 
That   Slyboots  was  cursedly  cunning  to 

hide  'em. 
Here   lies    our    good    Edmund,    whose 

genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too 

much;  30 

Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his 

mind, 
And  to  party  gaVe  up  what  was  meant  for 

mankind: 
Though    fraught   with   all   learning,    yet 

straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend 

him  a  vote; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went 

on  refining,  35 

And   thought  of  convincing,   while   they 

thought  of  dining; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things 

unfit; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a 

wit; 
For  a  patriot  too  cool;  for  a  drudge  dis- 
obedient; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the 

expedient.  40 

In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in 

place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a 

razor. 


GOLDSMITH 


2S7 


Here  lies  David   Garrick,  describe  me 

who  can 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant 

in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to 

shine;  95 

As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first 

line; 
Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excel- 
lent heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art; 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty  his  colors  he 

spread, 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  nat- 
ural red.  100 
On    the   stage    he    was    natural,    simple, 

affecting, 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was 

acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his 

way, 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a 

day: 
Though   secure  of  our  hearts,   yet   con- 
foundedly sick  105 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and 

trick; 
He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his 

pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could 

whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed 

what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for 

fame;  no 

Till  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to 

disease, 
Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to 

please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our 

mind: 
If   dunces  applauded,  he   paid   them  in 

kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so 

grave,  115 

What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you 

got  and  you  gave! 
How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts 

that  you  raised, 
When  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were 

bepraised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the 

skies!  120 


Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to 

his  skill, 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he 

will ; 
Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise 

and  with  love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys 

above. 


Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you 

my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind. 
His   pencil   was   striking,   resistless,   and 

grand; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and 

bland;  140 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His   pencil   our   faces,   his   manners   our 

heart ; 
To    coxcombs    averse,    yet    most    civilly 

steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was 

still  hard  of  hearing; 
When    they    talked    of    their    Raphaels, 

Correggios,  and  stuff,  145 

He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took 

snuff. 


From  THE  CITIZEN  OF  THE 
WORLD 

Letter  LV 

BEAU  TIBBS  AT  HOME 

I  am  apt  to  fancy  I  have  contracted  a 
new  acquaintance  whom  it  will  be  no 
easy  matter  to  shake  off.  My  little  beau 
yesterday  overtook  me  again  in  one  of 
the  public  walks,  and  slapping  me  on 
the  shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of 
the  most  perfect  familiarity.  His  dress 
was  the  same  as  usual,  except  that  he 
had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a  dirtier 
shirt,  a  pair  of  temple  spectacles,  and  [10 
his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless  amusing 
little  thing,  I  could  not  return  his  smiles 
with  any  degree  of  severity;  so  we  walked 
forward  on  terms  of  the  utmost  intimacy, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  discussed  all  the 
usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular 
conversation. 


288 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


The  oddities  that  marked  his  character, 
however,  soon  began  to  appear;  he  [20 
bowed  to  several  well-dressed  persons, 
who,  by  their  manner  of  returning  the 
compliment,  appeared  perfect  strangers. 
At  intervals  he  drew  out  a  pocket-book, 
seeming  to  take  memorandums  before 
all  the  company,  with  much  importance 
and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led 
me  through  the  length  of  the  whole  walk, 
fretting  at  his  absurdities,  and  fancying 
myself  laughed  at  not  less  than  him  [30 
by  every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our 
procession,  "Blast  me,"  cries  he,  with 
an  air  of  vivacity,  "I  never  saw  the  Park 
so  thin  in  my  life  before!  There's  no 
company  at  all  to-day;  not  a  single  face 
to  be  seen." — "No  company!"  inter- 
rupted I  peevishly;  "no  company  where 
there  is  such  a  crowd?  why,  man,  there's 
too  much.  What  are  the  thousands  [40 
that  have  been  laughing  at  us  but  com- 
pany?"— "Lord,  my  dear,"  returned  he, 
with  the  utmost  good  humor,  "you 
seem  immensely  chagrined;  but,  blast  me, 
when  the  world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at 
the  world,  and  so  we  are  even.  My  Lord 
Trip,  Bill  Squash  the  Creolian,  and  I, 
sometimes  make  a  party  at  being  ridicu- 
lous; and  so  we  say  and  do  a  thousand 
things  for  the  joke's  sake.  But  I  see  [50 
you  are  grave,  and  if  you  are  for  a  fine 
grave  sentimental  companion,  you  shall 
dine  with  me  and  my  wife  to-day;  I  must 
insist  on  't.  I'll  introduce  you  to  Mrs. 
Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifications 
as  any  in  nature;  she  was  bred  (but  that's 
between  ourselves,)  under  the  inspection 
of  the  Countess  of  All-night.  A  charming 
body  of  voice;  but  no  more  of  that, — she 
will  give  us  a  song.  You  shall  see  my  [60 
little  girl  too,  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Tibbs,  a  sweet  pretty  creature!  I  design 
her  for  my  Lord  Drumstick's  eldest  son; 
but  that's  in  friendship,  let  it  go  no  farther: 
she's  but  six  years  old,  and  yet  she  walks 
a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the  guitar  im- 
mensely already.  I  intend  she  shall  be 
as  perfect  as  possible  in  every  accomplish- 
ment. In  the  first  place,  I'll  make  her  a 
scholar:  I'll  teach  her  Greek  myself,  [70 
and  learn  that  language  purposely  to 
instruct  her;  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 


Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a 
reply,  he  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  hauled 
me  along.  We  passed  through  many 
dark  alleys  and  winding  ways;  for,  from 
some  motives  to  me  unknown,  he  seemed 
to  have  a  particular  aversion  to  every 
frequented  street;  at  last,  however,  we 
got  to  the  door  of  a  dismal-looking  [80 
house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town,  where 
he  informed  me  he  chose  to  reside  for  the 
benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lowTer  door,  which  ever 
seemed  to  lie  most  hospitably  open;  and 
I  began  to  ascend  an  old  and  creaking 
staircase,  when,  as  he  mounted  to  show 
me  the  way,  he  demanded,  whether  I 
delighted  in  prospects;  to  which  answer- 
ing in  the  affirmative,  "Then,"  [90 
says  he,  "I  shall  show  you  one  of  the 
most  charming  in  the  world,  out  of  my 
window;  wre  shall  see  the  ships  sailing,' 
and  the  whole  country  for  twenty  miles 
round,  tip  top,  quite  high.  My  Lord 
Swamp  would  give  ten  thousand  guineas 
for  such  a  one;  but,  as  I  sometimes  pleas- 
antly tell  him,  I  always  love  to  keep  my 
prospects  at  home,  that  my  friends  may 
visit  me  the  oftener."  [100 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as 
the  stairs  would  permit  us  to  ascend,  till 
we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously' 
pleased  to  call  the  first  floor  down  the 
chimney;  and  knocking  at  the  door,  a! 
voice  from  within  demanded,  "Who's 
there?"  My  conductor  answered  that 
it  was  him.  But  this  not  satisfying  the 
querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the 
demand;  to  which  he  answered  louder  [nc 
than  before;  and  now  the  door  was  opened1 
by  an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me: 
to  his  house  with  great  ceremony,  and1 
turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked  where 
was  her  lady?  "Good  troth,"  replied 
she,  in  a  peculiar  dialect,  "she's  washing 
your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because 
they  have  taken  an  oath  against  lending 
out  the  tub  any  longer." — "My  two  [no 
shirts!"  cried  he  in  a  tone  that  faltered 
with  confusion,  "what  does  the  idiot 
mean?" — "I  ken  what  I  mean  weel 
enough,"  replied  the  other;  "she's  wash- 
ing your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door, 
because " — "Fire  and  fury,  no  more 


GOLDSMITH 


of  thy  stupid  explanations!"  cried  he; 
"go  and  inform  her  we  have  got  company. 
Were  that  Scotch  hag,"  continued  he, 
turning  to  me,  "to  be  for  ever  in  my  [130 
family,  she  would  never  learn  politeness, 
nor  forget  that  absurd  poisonous  accent 
of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen 
of  breeding  or  high  life;  and  yet  it  is  very 
surprising  too,  as  I  had  her  from  a  parlia- 
ment man,  a  friend  of  mine  from  the 
Highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men  in  the 
world;  but  that's  a  secret." 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs' 
arrival,  during  which  interval  I  had  [140 
a  full  opportunity  of  surveying  the  cham- 
ber and  all  its  furniture,  which  consisted 
of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought  bottoms, 
that  he  assured  me  were  his  wife's  em- 
broidery; a  square  table  that  had  been 
once  japanned;  a  cradle  in  one  corner,  a 
lumbering  cabinet  in  the  other;  a  broken 
shepherdess,  and  a  mandarin  without  a 
head,  were  stuck  over  the  chimney;  and 
round  the  walls  several  paltry  un-  [150 
framed  pictures,  which,  he  observed, 
were  all  his  own  drawing.  "What  do 
you  think,  sir,  of  that  head  in  the  corner, 
done  in  the  manner  of  Grisoni?  there's 
the  true  keeping  in  it;  it  is  my  own  face, 
and  though  there  happens  to  be  no  like- 
ness, a  Countess  offered  me  a  hundred 
for  its  fellow:  I  refused  her,  for,  hang  it, 
that  would  be  mechanical,  you  know." 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appear-  [160 
ance,  at  once  a  slattern  and  a  coquette; 
much  emaciated,  but  still  carrying  the 
remains  of  beauty.  She  made  twenty 
apologies  for  being  seen  in  such  odious 
dishabille,  but  hoped  to  be  excused,  as 
she  had  stayed  out  all  night  at  the  Gar- 
dens with  the  Countess,  who  was  exces- 
sively fond  of  the  horns.  "And  indeed, 
my  dear,"  added  she,  turning  to  her 
husband,  "his  lordship  drank  your  [170 
health  in  a  bumper."  "Poor  Jack!" 
cries  he,  "a  dear  good-natured  creature, 
I  know  he  loves  me.  But  I  hope,  my 
dear,  you  have  given  orders  for  dinner; 
you  need  make  no  great  preparations 
neither,  there  are  but  three  of  us;  some- 
thing elegant: — a  little  will  do — a  turbot, 

an  ortolan,  a  "     "Or  what  do  you 

think,  my  dear,"  interrupts  the  wife,  "of 
a  nice  pretty  bit  of  ox-cheek,  piping  [180 


hot,  and  dressed  with  a  little  of  my  own 
sauce?"  "The  very  thing,"  replies  he; 
"it  will  eat  best  with  some  smart  bottled 
beer:  but  be  sure  to  let  us  have  the  sauce 
his  Grace  was  so  fond  of.  I  hate  your 
immense  loads  of  meat;  that  is  country 
all  over;  extremely  disgusting  to  those 
who  are  in  the  least  acquainted  with 
high  life." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  [190 
to  abate,  and  my  appetite  to  increase; 
the  company  of  fools  may  at  first  make 
us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of  render- 
ing us  melancholy.  I  therefore  pretended 
to  a  prior  engagement,  and  after  having 
shown  my  respect  to  the  house,  accord- 
ing to  the  fashion  of  the  English,  by  giv- 
ing the  old  servant  a  piece  of  money  at 
the  door,  I  took  my  leave:  Mr.  Tibbs 
assuring  me  that  dinner,  if  I  stayed,  [200 
would  be  ready  at  least  in  less  than  two 
hours. 

Letter  LXXVII 

A  VISIT  TO  A  SILK-MERCHANT 

The  shops  of  London  are  as  well  fur- 
nished as  those  of  Pekin.  Those  of 
London  have  a  picture  hung  at  their  door, 
informing  the  passengers  what  they  have 
to  sell,  as  those  at  Pekin  have  a  board 
to  assure  the  buyer  that  they  have  no 
intention  to  cheat  him. 

I  was  this  morning  to  buy  silk  for  a 
nightcap:  immediately  upon  entering  the 
mercer's  shop,  the  master  and  his  [10 
two  men,  with  wigs  plastered  with  powder, 
appeared  to  ask  my  commands.  They 
were  certainly  the  civilest  people  alive; 
if  I  but  looked,  they  flew  to  the  place 
where  I  cast  my  eye;  every  motion  of 
mine  sent  them  running  round  the  whole 
shop  for  my  satisfaction.  I  informed 
them  that  I  wanted  what  was  good,  and 
they  showed  me  not  less  than  forty  pieces, 
and  each  was  better  than  the  former,  [20 
the  prettiest  pattern  in  nature,  and  the 
fittest  in  the  world  for  nightcaps.  "My 
very  good  friend,"  said  I  to  the  mercer, 
"you  must  not  pretend  to  instruct  me 
in  silks;  I  know  these  in  particular  to  be 
no  better  than  your  mere  flimsy  Bungees." 
— "That    may    be,"    cried    the    mercer, 


2go 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


who,  I  afterwards  found,  had  never  con- 
tradicted a  man  in  his  life;  "I  cannot 
pretend  to  say  but  they  may;  but  I  [30 
can  assure  you,  my  Lady  Trail  has  had  a 
sack  from  this  piece  this  very  morning." — 
"But,  friend,"  said  I,  "though  my  lady 
has  chosen  a  sack  from  it,  I  see  no  neces- 
sity that  I  should  wear  it  for  a  nightcap." 
— "That  may  be,"  returned  he  again, 
"yet  what  becomes  a  pretty  lady,  will 
at  any  time  look  well  on  a  handsome 
gentleman."  This  short  compliment  was 
thrown  in  so  very  seasonably  upon  [40 
my  ugly  face,  that  even  though  I  disliked 
the  silk,  I  desired  him  to  cut  me  off  the 
pattern  of  a  nightcap. 

While  this  business  was  consigned  to 
his  journeymen,  the  master  himself  took 
down  some  pieces  of  silk  still  finer  than 
any  I  had  yet  seen,  and  spreading  them 
before  me,  "There,"  cries  he,  "there's 
beauty;  my  Lord  Snakeskin  has  bespoke 
the  fellow  to  this  for  the  birthnight  [50 
this  very  morning;  it  would  look  charm- 
ingly in  waistcoats." — "But  I  don't  want 
a  waistcoat,"  replied  I.  "Not  want  a 
waistcoat!"  returned  the  mercer,  "then 
I  would  advise  you  to  buy  one;  when 
waistcoats  are  wanted,  you  may  depend 
upon  it  they  will  come  dear.  Always  buy 
before  you  want,  and  you  are  sure  to 
be  well  used,  as  they  say  in  Cheapside." 
There  was  so  much  justice  in  his  ad-  [60 
vice,  that  I  could  not  refuse  taking  it; 
besides,  the  silk,  which  was  really  a  good 
one,  increased  the  temptation;  so  I  gave 
orders  for  that  too. 

As  I  was  waiting  to  have  my  bargains 
measured  and  cut,  which,  I  know  not 
how,  they  executed  but  slowly,  during 
the  interval  the  mercer  entertained  me 
with  the  modern  manner  of  some  of  the 
nobility  receiving  company  in  their  [70 
morning  gowns;  "Perhaps,  sir,"  adds  he, 
"you  have  a  mind  to  see  what  kind  of 
silk  is  universally  worn."  Without  waiting 
for  my  reply,  he  spreads  a  piece  before 
me,  which  might  be  reckoned  beauti- 
ful even  in  China.  "If  the  nobility,"  con- 
tinues he,  "were  to  know  I  sold  this  to 
any  under  a  Right  Honorable,  I  should 
certainly  lose  their  custom;  you  see,  my 
lord,  it  is  at  once  rich,  tasty,  and  quite  [80 
the  thing." — "I  am  no  lord,"  interrupted 


I  I. — "I  beg  pardon,"  cried  he;  "but  be 
j  pleased  to  remember,  when  you  intend 
buying  a  morning  gown,  that  you  had  an 
offer  from  me  of  something  worth  money. 
Conscience,  sir,  conscience  is  my  way  of 
dealing;  you  may  buy  a  morning  gown 
now,  or  you  may  stay  till  they  become 
dearer  and  less  fashionable;  but  it  is  not 
my  business  to  advise."  In  short,  [90 
most  reverend  Fum,  he  persuaded  me 
to  buy  a  morning  gown  also,  and  would 
probably  have  persuaded  me  to  have- 
bought  half  the  goods  in  his  shop,  if  I 
had  stayed  long  enough,  or  was  furnished 
with  sufficient  money. 

Upon  returning  home,  I  could  not  help 
reflecting,  with  some  astonishment,  how 
this  very  man,  with  such  a  confined  edu- 
cation and  capacity,  was  yet  capable  [100 
of  turning  me  as  he  thought  proper,  and 
moulding  me  to  his  inclinations!  I  knew 
he  was  only  answering  his  own  purposes, 
even  while  he  attempted  to  appear  solici- 
tous about  mine:  yet,  by  a  voluntary 
infatuation,  a  sort  of  passion,  compounded 
of  vanity  and  good-nature,  I  walked  into 
the  snare  with  my  eyes  open,  and  put 
myself  to  future  pain  in  order  to  give  him 
immediate  pleasure.  The  wisdom  [no 
of  the  ignorant  somewhat  resembles  the 
instinct  of  animals;  it  is  diffused  in  but 
a  very  narrow  sphere,  but  within  that 
circle  it  acts  with  vigor,  uniformity,  and 
success. 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON    (1709-1784) 

From  THE   RAMBLER 

No.  121.    Tuesday,  May  14,  1751. 

0  imitator es,  servum  pecus! 

Hor. 
Away,  ye  imitators,  servile  herd! 
Elphinston. 

I  have  been  informed  by  a  letter  from 
one  of  the  universities,  that  among  the 
youth  from  whom  the  next  swarm  of 
reasoners  is  to  learn  philosophy,  and  the 
next  flight  of  beauties  to  hear  elegies  and 
sonnets,  there  are  many  who,  instead  of 
endeavoring    by    books    and    meditation 


JOHNSON 


2QI 


to  form  their  own  opinions,  content  them- 
selves with  the  secondary  knowledge 
which  a. convenient  bench  in  a  coffee  [10 
house  can  supply;  and,  without  any 
examination  or  distinction,  adopt  the 
criticisms  and  remarks  which  happen  to 
drop  from  those  who  have  risen,  by  merit 
or  fortune,  to  reputation  and  authority. 

These  humble  retailers  of  knowledge 
my  correspondent  stigmatizes  with  the 
name  of  Echoes;  and  seems  desirous  that 
they  should  be  made  ashamed  of  lazy 
submission,  and  animated  to  attempts  [20 
after  new  discoveries  and  original  senti- 
ments. 

It  is  very  natural  for  young  men  to  be 
vehement,  acrimonious,  and  severe.  For, 
as  they  seldom  comprehend  at  once  all 
the  consequences  of  a  position,  or  perceive 
the  difficulties  by  which  cooler  and  more 
experienced  reasoners  are  restrained  from 
confidence,  they  form  their  opinions  with 
great  precipitance.  Seeing  nothing  [30 
that  can  darken  or  embarrass  the  ques- 
tion, they  expect  to  find  their  own  opinion 
universally  prevalent,  and  are  inclined 
to  impute  uncertainty  and  hesitation  to 
want  of  honesty  rather  than  to  knowledge. 
I  may  perhaps,  therefore,  be  reproached 
by  my  lively  correspondent,  when  it  shall 
be  found  that  I  have  no  inclination  to 
persecute  these  collectors  of  fortuitous 
knowledge  with  the  severity  re-  [40 
quired;  yet,  as  I  am  now  too  old  to  be 
much  pained  by  hasty  censure,  I  shall 
not  be  afraid  of  taking  into  protection 
those  whom  I  think  condemned  without 
a  sufficient  knowledge  of  their  cause. 

He  that  adopts  the  sentiments  of  an- 
other, whom  he  has  reason  to  believe 
wiser  than  himself,  is  only  to  be  blamed 
when  he  claims  the  honors  that  are  not 
due  but  to  the  author,  and  endeavors  [50 
to  deceive  the  world  into  praise  and  vener- 
ation; for  to  learn  is  the  proper  business 
of  youth;  and  whether  we  increase  our 
knowledge  by  books  or  by  conversation, 
we  are  equally  indebted  to  foreign  as- 
sistance. 

The  greater  part  of  students  are  not 
born  with  abilities  to  construct  systems, 
or  advance  knowledge;  nor  can  have  any 
hope  beyond  that  of  becoming  intelli-  [60 
gent  hearers  in  the  schools  of  art,  of  being 


able  to  comprehend  what  others  dis- 
cover, and  to  remember  what  others  teach. 
Even  those  to  whom  Providence  hath 
allotted  greater  strength  of  understand- 
ing, can  expect  only  to  improve  a  single 
science.  In  every  other  part  of  learning, 
they  must  be  content  to  follow  opinions 
which  they  are  not  able  to  examine;  and, 
even  in  that  which  they  claim  as  pe-  [70 
culiarly  their  own,  can  seldom  add  more 
than  some  small  particle  of  knowledge 
to  the  hereditary  stock  devolved  to  them 
from  ancient  times,  the  collective  labor  of 
a  thousand  intellects. 

In  science,  which,  being  fixed  and 
limited,  admits  of  no  other  variety  than 
such  as  arises  from  new  methods  of  dis- 
tribution, or  new  arts  of  illustration,  the 
necessity  of  following  the  traces  of  [80 
our  predecessors  is  indisputably  evident; 
but  there  appears  no  reason  why  imagina- 
tion should  be  subject  to  the  same  re- 
straint. It  might  be  conceived,  that  of 
those  who  profess  to  forsake  the  narrow 
paths  of  truth,  every  one  may  deviate 
towards  a  different  point;  since,  though 
rectitude  is  uniform  and  fixed,  obliquity 
may  be  infinitely  diversified.  The  roads 
of  science  are  narrow,  so  that  they  [90 
who  travel  them  must  either  follow  or 
meet  one  another;  but  in  the  boundless 
regions  of  possibility  which  fiction  claims 
for  her  dominion,  there  are  surely  a 
thousand  recesses  unexplored,  a  thousand 
flowers  unexhausted,  combinations  of  im- 
agery yet  unobserved,  and  races  of  ideal 
inhabitants  not  hitherto  described. 

Yet,  whatever  hope  may  persuade  or 
reason  evince,  experience  can  boast  [100 
of  very  few  additions  to  ancient  fable. 
The  wars  of  Troy,  and  the  travels  of 
Ulysses,  have  furnished  almost  all  suc- 
ceeding poets  with  incidents,  characters, 
and  sentiments.  The  Romans  are  con- 
fessed to  have  attempted  little  more 
than  to  display  in  their  own  tongue  the 
inventions  of  the  Greeks.  There  is  in  all 
their  writings  such  a  perpetual  recur- 
rence of  allusions  to  the  tales  of  the  [no 
fabulous  age,  that  they  must  be  confessed 
often  to  want  that  power  of  giving  pleas- 
ure which  novelty  supplies;  nor  can  we 
wonder  that  they  excelled  so  much  in 
the  graces  of  diction,  when  we  consider 


292 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


how  rarely  they  were  employed  in  search 
of  new  thoughts. 

The  warmest  admirers  of  the  great 
Mantuan  poet  can  extol  him  for  little 
more  than  the  skill  with  which  he  has,  [120 
by  making  his  hero  both  a  traveller  and  a 
warrior,  united  the  beauties  of  the  Iliad 
and  the  Odyssey  in  one  composition: 
yet  his  judgment  was  perhaps  sometimes 
overborne  by  his  avarice  of  the  Homeric 
treasures;  and,  for  fear  of  suffering  a 
sparkling  ornament  to  be  lost,  he  has 
inserted  it  where  it  cannot  shine  with  its 
original  splendor. 

When  Ulysses  visited  the  infernal  [130 
regions,  he  found  among  the  heroes  that 
perished  at  Troy,  his  competitor  Ajax, 
who,  when  the  arms  of  Achilles  were 
adjudged  to  Ulysses,  died  by  his  own 
hand  in  the  madness  of  disappointment. 
He  still  appeared  to  resent,  as  on  earth, 
his  loss  and  disgrace.  Ulysses  endeavored 
to  pacify  him  with  praises  and  submis- 
sion; but  Ajax  walked  away  without 
reply.  This  passage  has  always  been  [140 
considered  as  eminently  beautiful;  be- 
cause Ajax,  the  haughty  chief,  the  un- 
lettered soldier,  of  unshaken  courage,  of 
immovable  constancy,  but  without  the 
power  of  recommending  his  own  virtues 
by  eloquence,  or  enforcing  his  assertions 
by  any  other  argument  than  the  sword, 
had  no  way  of  making  his  anger  known 
but  by  gloomy  sullenness  and  dumb 
ferocity.  His  hatred  of  a  man  whom  [150 
he  conceived  to  have  defeated  him  only 
by  volubility  of  tongue,  was  therefore 
naturally  shown  by  silence,  more  con- 
temptuous and  piercing  than  any  words 
that  so  rude  an  orator  could  have  found, 
and  by  which  he  gave  his  enemy  no  op- 
portunity of  exerting  the  only  power  in 
which  he  was  superior. 

When  ^neas  is  sent  by  Virgil  to  the 
shades,  he  meets  Dido,  the  queen  of  [160 
Carthage,  whom  his  perfidy  had  hurried 
to  the  grave;  he  accosts  her  with  tender- 
ness and  excuses;  but  the  lady  turns  away 
like  Ajax  in  mute  disdain.  She  turns  away 
like  Ajax;  but  she  resembles  him  in  none 
of  those  qualities  which  give  either  dig- 
nity or  propriety  to  silence.  She  might, 
without  any  departure  from  the  tenor  of 
her  conduct,  have  burst  out,  like  other 


injured  women,  into  clamor,  re-  [170 
proach,  and  denunciation;  but  Virgil  had 
his  imagination  full  of  Ajax,  and  therefore 
could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  teach 
Dido  any  other  mode  of  resentment. 

If  Virgil  could  be  thus  seduced  by  imi- 
tation, there  will  be  little  hope  that  com- 
mon wits  should  escape;  and  accordingly 
we  find  that,  besides  the  universal  and 
acknowledged  practice  of  copying  the 
ancients,  there  has  prevailed  in  [180 
every  age  a  particular  species  of  fiction. 
At  one  time  all  truth  was  conveyed  in 
allegory;  at  another,  nothing  was  seen  but 
in  a  vision;  at  one  period,  all  the  poets 
followed  sheep,  and  every  event  produced 
a  pastoral;  at  another,  they  busied  them- 
selves wholly  in  giving  directions  to  a 
painter. 

It  is  indeed  easy  to  conceive  why  any 
fashion  should  become  popular,  by  [190 
which  idleness  is  favored  and  imbecility 
assisted;  but  surely  no  man  of  genius  can 
much  applaud  himself  for  repeating  a 
tale  with  which  the  audience  is  already 
tired,  and  which  could  bring  no  honor  to 
any  but  its  inventor. 

There  are,  I  think,  two  schemes  of 
writing  on  which  the  laborious  wits  of  the 
present  time  employ  their  faculties.  One 
is  the  adaptation  of  sense  to  all  the  [200 
rhymes  which  our  language  can  supply 
to  some  word  that  makes  the  burden  of 
the  stanza;  but  this,  as  it  has  been  only 
used  in  a  kind  of  amorous  burlesque,  can 
scarcely  be  censured  with  much  acrimony. 
The  other  is  the  imitation  of  Spenser, 
which,  by  the  influence  of  some  men  of 
learning  and  genius,  seems  likely  to  gain 
upon  the  age,  and  therefore  deserves  to 
be  more  attentively  considered.  [210 

To  imitate  the  fictions  and  sentiments 
of  Spenser  can  incur  no  reproach,  for 
allegory  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  pleas- 
ing vehicles  of  instruction.  But  I  am 
very  far  from  extending  the  same  respect 
to  his  diction  or  his  stanza.  His  style  was 
in  his  own  time  allowed  to  be  vicious,  so 
darkened  with  old  words  and  peculiarities 
of  phrase,  and  so  remote  from  common 
use,  that  Jonson  boldly  pronounces  [220 
him  to  have  written  no  language.  His 
stanza  is  at  once  difficult  and  unpleasing; 
tiresome   to   the  ear  by  its   uniformity, 


JOHNSON 


293 


and  to  the  attention  by  its  length.  It 
was  at  first  formed  in  imitation  of  the 
Italian  poets,  without  due  regard  to  the 
genius  of  our  language.  The  Italians  have 
little  variety  of  termination,  and  were 
forced  to  contrive  such  a  stanza  as  might 
admit  the  greatest  number  of  similar  [230 
rhymes;  but  our  words  end  with  so  much 
diversity,  that  it  is  seldom  convenient  for 
us  to  bring  more  than  two  of  the  same 
sound  together.  If  it  be  justly  observed 
by  Milton,  that  rhyme  obliges  poets  to 
express  their  thoughts  in  improper  terms, 
these  improprieties  must  always  be  multi- 
plied as  the  difficulty  of  rhyme  is  increased 
by  long  concatenations. 

The  imitators  of  Spenser  are  in-  [240 
deed  not  very  rigid  censors  of  themselves, 
for  they  seem  to  conclude  that,  when  they 
have  disfigured  their  lines  with  a  few  ob- 
solete syllables,  they  have  accomplished 
their  design,  without  considering  that 
they  ought  not  only  to  admit  old  words, 
but  to  avoid  new.  The  laws  of  imitation 
are  broken  by  every  word  introduced 
since  the  time  of  Spenser,  as  the  character 
of  Hector  is  violated  by  quoting  Aris-  [250 
totle  in  the  play.  It  would  indeed  be 
difficult  to  exclude  from  a  long  poem  all 
modern  phrases,  though  it  is  easy  to 
sprinkle  it  with  gleanings  of  antiquity. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  style  of  Spenser 
might  by  long  labor  be  justly  copied; 
but  life  is  surely  given  us  for  higher  pur- 
poses than  to  gather  what  our  ancestors 
have  wisely  thrown  away,  and  to  learn 
what  is  of  no  value  but  because  it  has  [260 
been  forgotten. 


LETTER  TO  THE  EARL  OF 
CHESTERFIELD 

February  7,  1755. 
To   the   Right  Honorable  the   Earl 
of  Chesterfield. 

my  LORD, 

I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the 
proprietor  of  the  World,  that  two  papers, 
in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended 
to  the  public,  were  written  by  your  Lord- 
ship. To  be  so  distinguished,  is  an  honor, 
which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to 
favors  from  the  great,  I  know  not  well 


how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  ac- 
knowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encour-  [10 
agement,  I  first  visited  your  Lordship, 
I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of 
mankind,  by  the  enchantment  of  your 
address;  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish 
that  I  might  boast  myself  Le  vainqueur 
du  vainqueur  de  la  terre; — that  I  might 
obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the 
world  contending;  but  I  found  my  at- 
tendance so  little  encouraged,  that  neither 
pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  [20 
to  continue  it.  When  I  had  once  ad- 
dressed your  Lordship  in  public,  I  had 
exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a 
retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess. 
I  had  done  all  that  I  could;  and  no  man 
is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected, 
be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  now  past, 
since  I  waited  in  your  outward  rooms, 
or  was  repulsed  from  your  door;  dur-  [30 
ing  which  time  I  have  been  pushing  on 
my  work  through  difficulties,  of  which  it 
is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought 
it,  at  last,  to  the  verge  of  publication, 
without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor. 
Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I 
never  had  a  Patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  ac- 
quainted with  Love,  and  found  him  a  [40 
native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord,  one  who 
looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man  struggling 
for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has 
reached  ground,  encumbers  him  with 
help?  The  notice  which  you  have  been 
pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been 
early,  had  been  kind;  but  it  has  been  de- 
layed till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot 
enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  [50 
impart  it;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not 
want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  as- 
perity, not  to  confess  obligations  where  no 
benefit  has  been  received,  or  to  be  un- 
willing that  the  Public  should  consider 
me  as  owing  that  to  a  Patron,  which 
Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for 
myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far 
with  so  little  obligation  to  any  favorer  [60 
of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed 


2Q4 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


though  I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be 
possible,  with  less;  for  I  have  been  long 
wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in 
which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so  much 
exultation, 

My  Lord, 
Your  Lordship's  most  humble 
Most  obedient  servant, 
Sam.  Johnson. 

LETTER  TO  JAMES  MACPHERSON 

Mr.  James  Macpherson, 

I  received  your  foolish  and  impudent 
letter.  Any  violence  offered  me  I  shall 
do  my  best  to  repel;  and  what  I  cannot 
do  for  myself,  the  law  shall  do  for  me.  I 
hope  I  shall  never  be  deterred  from  de- 
tecting what  I  think  a  cheat,  by  the 
menaces  of  a  ruffian. 

What  would  you  have  me  retract? 
I  thought  your  book  an  imposture;  I 
think  it  an  imposture  still.  For  this  [10 
opinion  I  have  given  my  reasons  to  the 
public,  which  I  here  dare  you  to  refute. 
Your  rage  I  defy.  Your  abilities,  since 
your  Homer,  are  not  so  formidable;  and 
what  I  hear  of  your  morals  inclines  me  to 
pay  regard  not  to  what  you  shall  say,  but 
to  what  you  shall  prove.  You  may  print 
this  if  you  will. 

Sam.  Johnson. 

THE  LIVES  OF  THE  ENGLISH 
POETS 

From   MILTON 

The  English  poems,  though  they  make 
no  promises  of  Paradise  Lost,  have  this 
evidence  of  genius,  that  they  have  a  cast 
original  and  unborrowed.  But  their 
peculiarity  is  not  excellence:  if  they  differ 
from  verses  of  others,  they  differ  for  the 
worse;  for  they  are  too  often  distinguished 
by  repulsive  harshness;  the  combinations 
of  words  are  new,  but  they  are  not  pleas- 
ing; the  rhymes  and  epithets  seem  to  fio 
be  laboriously  sought,  and  violently  ap- 
plied. 

That  in  the  early  parts  of  his  life  he 
wrote  with  much  care  appears  from  his 
manuscripts,  happily  preserved  at  Cam- 
bridge, in  which  many  of  his  smaller  works 
are  found  as  they  were  first  written,  with 


the  subsequent  corrections.  Such  reliques 
show  how  excellence  is  acquired:  what  we 
hope  ever  to  do  with  ease,  we  may  learn  [20 
first  to  do  with  diligence. 

Those  who  admire  the  beauties  of  this 
great  poet,  sometimes  force  their  own 
judgment  into  false  approbation  of  his 
little  pieces,  and  prevail  upon  themselves 
to  think  that  admirable  which  is  only 
singular.  All  that  short  compositions  can 
commonly  attain  is  neatness  and  elegance. 
Milton  never  learned  the  art  of  doing 
little  things  with  grace;  he  overlooked  [30 
the  milder  excellence  of  suavity  and 
softness:  he  was  a  "lion"  that  had  no 
skill  "in  dandling  the  kid." 

One  of  the  poems  upon  which  most 
praise  has  been  bestowed  is  Lycidas;  of 
which  the  diction  is  harsh,  the  rhymes 
uncertain,  and  the  numbers  unpleasing. 
What  beauty  there  is  we  must  therefore 
seek  in  the  sentiments  and  images.  It 
is  not  to  be  considered  as  the  effusion  [40 
of  real  passion;  for  passion  runs  not  after 
remote  allusions  and  obscure  opinions. 
Passion  plucks  no  berries  from  the  myrtle 
and  ivy,  nor  calls  upon  Arethuse  and 
Mincius,  nor  tells  of  "rough  satyrs  and 
fauns  with  cloven  heel."  Where  there  is 
leisure  for  fiction  there  is  little  grief. 

In  this  poem  there  is  no  nature,  for 
there  is  no  truth;  there  is  no  art,  for  there 
is  nothing  new.  Its  form  is  that  of  a.  [50 
pastoral,  easy,  vulgar,  and  therefore  dis- 
gusting: whatever  images  it  can  supply 
are  long  ago  exhausted;  and  its  inherent 
improbability  always  forces  dissatisfac- 
tion on  the  mind.  When  Cowley  tells  of 
Hervey  that  they  studied  together,  it  is 
easy  to  suppose  how  much  he  must  miss 
the  companion  of  his  labors,  and  the 
partner  of  his  discoveries;  but  what 'image 
of  tenderness  can  be  excited  by  these  [60 
lines! 

"We  drove  afield,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  grey  fly  winds  her  sultry 

horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews 

of  night." 

We  know  that  they  never  drove  afield, 
and  that  they  had  no  flocks  to  batten; 
and  though  it  be  allowed  that  the  repre- 
sentation   may   be   allegorical,    the    true 


JOHNSON 


29S 


meaning  is  so  uncertain  and  remote,  that 
it  is  never  sought  because  it  cannot  [70 
be  known  when  it  is  found. 

Among  the  flocks  and  copses  and 
flowers  appear  the  heathen  deities,  Jove 
and  Phoebus,  Neptune  and  ^Eolus,  with 
a  long  train  of  mythological  imagery,  such 
as  a  college  easily  supplies.  Nothing  can 
less  display  knowledge,  or  less  exercise 
invention,  than  to  tell  how  a  shepherd 
has  lost  his  companion,  and  must  now  feed 
his  flocks  alone,  without  any  judge  [80 
of  his  skill  in  piping;  and  how  one  god 
asks  another  god  what  has  become  of 
Lycidas,  and  how  neither  god  can  tell. 
He  who  thus  grieves  will  excite  no  sym- 
pathy; he  who  thus  praises  will  confer  no 
honor. 

This  poem  has  yet  a  grosser  fault. 
With  these  trifling  fictions  are  mingled 
the  most  awful  and  sacred  truths,  such 
as  ought  never  to  be  polluted  with  [90 
such  irreverent  combinations.  The  shep- 
herd likewise  is  now  a  feeder  of  sheep, 
and  afterwards  an  ecclesiastical  pastor,  a 
superintendent  of  a  Christian  flock.  Such 
equivocations  are  always  unskilful;  but 
here  they  are  indecent,  and  at  least  ap- 
proach to  impiety,  of  which,  however,  I 
believe  the  writer  not  to  have  been 
conscious. 

Such  is  the  power  of  reputation  [100 
justly  acquired,  that  its  blaze  drives 
away  the  eye  from  nice  examination. 
Surely  no  man  could  have  fancied  that 
he  read  Lycidas  with  pleasure,  had  he 
not  known  its  author. 

Of  the  two  pieces,  L' Allegro  and  77 
Pcnseroso,  I  believe  opinion  is  uniform; 
every  man  that  reads  them,  reads  them 
with  pleasure.  The  author's  design  is 
not  .  .  .  merely  to  show  how  objects  [no 
derive  their  colors  from  the  mind,  by 
representing  the  operation  of  the  same 
things  upon  the  gay  and  the  melancholy 
temper,  or  upon  the  same  man  as  he  is 
differently  disposed;  but  rather  how, 
among  the  successive  variety  of  appear- 
ances, every  disposition  of  mind  takes 
hold  on  those  by  which  it  may  be  gratified. 


By  the  general  consent  of  critics,  the 
first  praise  of  genius  is  due  to  the  [120 


writer  of  an  epic  poem,  as  it  requires  an 
assemblage  of  all  the  powers  which  are 
singly  sufficient  for  other  compositions. 
Poetry  is  the  art  of  uniting  pleasure  with 
truth,  by  calling  imagination  to  the  help 
of  reason.  Epic  poetry  undertakes  to 
teach  the  most  important  truths  by  the 
most  pleasing  precepts,  and  therefore 
relates  some  great  event  in  the  most 
affecting  manner.  History  must  sup-  [130 
ply  the  writer  with  the  rudiments  of 
narration,  which  he  must  improve  and 
exalt  by  a  nobler  art,  must  animate  by 
dramatic  energy,  and  diversify  by  retro- 
spection and  anticipation;  morality  must 
teach  him  the  exact  bounds  and  different 
shades  of  vice  and  virtue;  from  policy 
and  the  practise  of  life  he  has  to  learn 
the  discriminations  of  character,  and  the 
tendency  of  the  passions,  either  single  [140 
or  combined;  and  physiology  must  supply 
him  with  illustrations  and  images.  To 
put  these  materials  to  poetical  use,  is 
required  an  imagination  capable  of  paint- 
ing nature  and  realizing  fiction.  Nor  is  he 
yet  a  poet  till  he  has  attained  the  whole 
extension  of  his  language,  distinguished 
all  the  delicacies  of  phrase,  and  all  the 
colors  of  words,  and  learned  to  adjust 
their  different  sounds  to  all  the  [150 
varieties  of  metrical  modulation. 

****** 

The  subject  of  an  epic  poem  is  naturally 
an  event  of  great  importance.  That  of 
Milton  is  not  the  destruction  of  a  city, 
the  conduct  of  a  colony,  or  the  foundation 
of  an  empire.  His  subject  is  the  fate  of 
worlds,  the  revolutions  of  heaven  and 
of  earth;  rebellion  against  the  Supreme 
King,  raised  by  the  highest  order  of 
created  beings;  the  overthrow  of  their  [160 
host  and  the  punishment  of  their  crime; 
the  creation  of  a  new  race  of  reasonable 
creatures;  their  original  happiness  and 
innocence,  their  forfeiture  of  immortality, 
and  their  restoration  to  hope  and  peace. 

Of  his  moral  sentiments  it  is  hardly 
praise  to  affirm  that  they  excel  those  of 
all  other  poets;  for  this  superiority  he  was 
indebted  to  his  acquaintance  with  the 
sacred  writings.  The  ancient  epic  [170 
poets,   wanting  the  light  of   Revelation, 


2g6 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


were  very  unskilful  teachers  of  virtue:  their 
principal  characters  may  be  great,  but 
they  are  not  amiable.  The  reader  may 
rise  from  their  works  with  a  greater  degree 
of  active  or  passive  fortitude,  and  some- 
times of  prudence;  but  he  will  be  able  to 
carry  away  few  precepts  of  justice,  and 
none  of  mercy. 


In  Milton  every  line  breathes  sane-  [180  [ 
tity  of  thought  and  purity  of  manners, 
except  when  the  train  of  the  narration  | 
requires  the  introduction  of  the  rebellious 
spirits;  and  even  they  are  compelled  to 
acknowledge  their  subjection  to  God  in 
such  a  manner  as  excites  reverence,  and 
confirms  piety. 


Something  must  be  said  of  his  ver- 
sification. "The  measure,"  he  says,  "is 
the  English  heroic  verse  without  [190 
rhyme."  .  .  . 

"Rhyme,"  he  says,  and  says  truly, 
"is  no  necessary  adjunct  of  true  poetry." 
But  perhaps  of  poetry  as  a  mental  opera- 
tion metre  or  music  is  no  necessary  ad- 
junct; it  is  however  by  the  music  of  metre 
that  poetry  has  been  discriminated  in  all 
languages,  and  in  languages  melodiously 
constructed  with  a  due  proportion  of 
long  and  short  syllables,  metre  is  [200 
sufficient.  But  one  language  cannot 
communicate  its  rules  to  another;  where 
metre  is  scanty  and  imperfect  some  help 
is  necessary.  The  music  of  the  English 
heroic  line  strikes  the  ear  so  faintly  that  it 
is  easily  lost,  unless  all  the  syllables  of 
every  line  co-operate  together;  this  co- 
operation can  only  be  obtained  by  the 
preservation  of  every  verse  unmingled 
with  another,  as  a  distinct  system  [210 
of  sounds,  and  this  distinctness  is  ob- 
tained and  preserved  by  the  artifice  of 
rhyme.  The  variety  of  pauses,  so  much 
boasted  by  the  lovers  of  blank  verse, 
changes  the  measures  of  an  English  poet 
to  the  periods  of  a  declaimer;  and  there 
are  only  a  few  skilful  and  happy  readers 
of  Milton,  who  enable  their  audience  to 
perceive  where  the  lines  end  or  begin. 
"Blank  verse,"  says  an  ingenious  [220 
critic,  "seems  to  be  verse  only  to  the  eye." 


Poetry  may  subsist  without  rhyme, 
but  English  poetry  will  not  often  please; 
nor  can  rhyme  ever  be  safely  spared  but 
where  the  subject  is  able  to  support  itself. 
Blank  verse  makes  some  approach  to  that 
which  is  called  the  lapidary  style;  has 
neither  the  easiness  of  prose,  nor  the 
melody  of  numbers,  and  therefore  tires 
by  long  continuance.  Of  the  Italian  [230 
writers  without  rhyme,  whom  Milton 
alleges  as  precedents,  not  one  is  popu- 
lar; what  reason  could  urge  in  its  defence, 
has  been  confuted  by  the  ear. 

But,  whatever  be  the  advantage  of 
rhyme,  I  cannot  prevail  on  myself  to  wish 
that  Milton  had  been  a  rhymer,  for  I 
cannot  wish  his  work  to  be  other  than 
it  is;  yet,  like  other  heroes,  he  is  to  be 
admired  rather  than  imitated.  He  [240 
that  thinks  himself  capable  of  astonish- 
ing, may  write  blank  verse;  but  those 
that  hope  only  to  please,  must  condescend 
to  rhyme. 

The  highest  praise  of  genius  is  original 
invention.  Milton  cannot  be  said  to 
have  contrived  the  structure  of  an  epic 
poem,  and  therefore  owes  reverence  to 
that  vigor  and  amplitude  of  mind  to  which 
all  generations  must  be  indebted  for  [250 
the  art  of  poetical  narration,  for  the  tex- 
ture of  the  fable,  the  variation  of  inci- 
dents, the  interposition  of  dialogue,  and 
all  the  stratagems  that  surprise  and 
enchain  attention.  But  of  all  the  bor- 
rowers from  Homer,  Milton  is  perhaps  the 
least  indebted.  He  was  naturally  a  thinker 
for  himself,  confident  of  his  own  abilities, 
and  disdainful  of  help  and  hindrance; 
he  did  not  refuse  admission  to  the  [260 
thoughts  or  images  of  his  predecessors, 
but  he  did  not  seek  them.  From  his 
contemporaries  he  neither  courted  nor 
received  support;  there  is  in  his  writings 
nothing  by  which  the  pride  of  other  au- 
thors might  be  gratified,  or  favor  gained; 
no  exchange  of  praise,  nor  solicitation 
of  support.  His  great  works  were  per- 
formed under  discountenance,  and  in 
blindness,  but  difficulties  vanished  at  [270 
his  touch;  he  was  born  for  whatever  is 
arduous;  and  his  work  is  not  the  greatest 
of  heroic  poems,  only  because  it  is  not  the 
first. 


JOHNSON 


297 


From  DRYDEN 

Criticism,  either  didactic  or  defensive, 
occupies  almost  all  his  prose,  except 
those  pages  which  he  has  devoted  to  his 
patrons;  but  none  of  his  prefaces  were 
ever  thought  tedious.  They  have  not 
the  formality  of  a  settled  style,  in  which 
the  first  half  of  a  sentence  betrays  the 
other.  The  clauses  are  never  balanced, 
nor  the  periods  modelled;  every  word 
seems  to  drop  by  chance,  though  it  [10 
falls  into  its  proper  place.  Nothing  is 
cold  or  languid;  the  whole  is  airy,  ani- 
mated, and  vigorous:  what  is  little,  is 
gay;  what  is  great,  is  splendid.  He  may 
be  thought  to  mention  himself  too  fre- 
quently; but  while  he  forces  himself  upon 
our  esteem,  we  cannot  refuse  him  to  stand 
high  in  his  own.  Everything  is  excused 
by  the  play  of  images  and  the  sprightli- 
ness  of  expression.  Though  all  is  [20 
easy,  nothing  is  feeble;  though  all  seems 
careless,  there  is  nothing  harsh;  and 
though  since  his  earlier  works  more  than 
a  century  has  passed,  they  have  nothing 
yet  uncouth  or  obsolete. 

He  who  writes  much  will  not  easily 
escape  a  manner,  such  a  recurrence  of 
particular  modes  as  may  be  easily  noted. 
Dryden  is  always  "another  and  the 
same;"  he  does  not  exhibit  a  second  [30 
time  the  same  elegances  in  the  same  form, 
nor  appears  to  have  any  art  other  than 
that  of  expressing  with  clearness  what  he 
thinks  with  vigor.  His  style  could  not 
easily  be  imitated,  either  seriously  or 
ludicrously;  for,  being  always  equable  and 
always  varied,  it  has  no  prominent  or 
discriminative  characters.  The  beauty 
who  is  totally  free  from  disproportion  of 
parts  and  features,  cannot  be  ridiculed  [40 
by  an  overcharged  resemblance. 

From  his  prose,  however,  Dryden  de- 
rives only  his  accidental  and  secondary 
praise;  the  veneration  with  which  his 
name  is  pronounced  by  every  cultivator 
of  English  literature  is  paid  to  him  as  he 
refined  the  language,  improved  the  senti- 
ments, and  tuned  the  numbers  of  English 
Poetry. 

After  about  half  a  century  of  forced  [50 
thoughts  and  rugged  metre,  some  ad- 
vances towards  nature  and  harmony  had 


been  already  made  by  Waller  and  Den- 
ham  ;  they  had  shown  that  long  discourses 
in  rhyme  grew  more  pleasing  when  they 
were  broken  unto  couplets,  and  that 
verse  consisted  not  only  in  the  number 
but  the  arrangement  of  syllables. 

But  though  they  did  much,  who  can 
deny  that  they  left  much  to  do?  [60 
Their  works  were  not  many,  nor  were 
their  minds  of  very  ample  comprehension. 
More  examples  of  more  modes  of  composi- 
tion were  necessary  for  the  establishment 
of  regularity,  and  the  introduction  of 
propriety  in  word  and  thought. 

Every  language  of  a  learned  nation 
necessarily  divides  itself  into  diction 
scholastic  and  popular,  grave  and  familiar, 
elegant  and  gross;  and  from  a  nice  [70 
distinction  of  these  different  parts  arises 
a  great  part  of  the  beauty  of  style.  But 
if  we  except  a  few  minds,  the  favorites 
of  nature,  to  whom  their  original  rectitude 
was  in  the  place  of  rules,  this  delicacy  of 
selection  was  little  known  to  our  authors: 
our  speech  lay  before  them  in  a  heap  of 
confusion,  and  every  man  took  for  every 
purpose  what  chance  might  offer  him. 

There  was  therefore  before  the  time  [80 
of  Dryden  no  poetical  diction:  no  system 
of  words  at  once  refined  from  the  gross- 
ness  of  domestic  use,  and  free  from  the 
harshness  of  terms  appropriated  to  par- 
ticular arts.  Words  too  familiar,  or  too 
remote,  defeat  the  purpose  of  a  poet. 
From  those  sounds  which  we  hear  on 
small  or  on  coarse  occasions,  we  do  not 
easily  receive  strong  impressions,  or 
delightful  images;  and  words  to  which  [90 
we  are  nearly  strangers,  whenever  they 
occur,  draw  that  attention  on  themselves 
which  they  should  transmit  to  things. 

Those  happy  combinations  of  words 
which  distinguish  poetry  from  prose  had 
been  rarely  attempted;  we  had  few  ele- 
gances or  flowers  of  speech:  the  roses  had 
not  yet  been  plucked  from  the  bramble, 
or  different  colors  had  not  yet  been  joined 
to  enliven  one  another.  [100 

It  may  be  doubted  whether  Waller  and 
Denham  could  have  overborne  the  prej- 
udices which  had  long  prevailed,  and 
which  even  then  were  sheltered  by  the 
protection  of  Cowley.  The  new  versifica- 
tion, as  it  was  called,  may  be  considered 


298 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


as  owing  its  establishment  to  Dryden; 
from  whose  time  it  is  apparent  that  Eng- 
lish poetry  has  had  no  tendency  to  re- 
lapse to  its  former  savageness.  [no 


From  ADDISON 

At  the  school  of  the  Chartreux  .  .  . 
he  .  .  .  contracted  that  intimacy  with  Sir 
Richard  Steele,  which  their  joint  labors 
have  so  effectually  recorded. 

Of  this  memorable  friendship  the  greater 
praise  must  be  given  to  Steele.  It  is  not 
hard  to  love  those  from  whom  nothing 
can  be  feared,  and  Addison  never  con- 
sidered Steele  as  a  rival;  but  Steele  lived, 
as  he  confesses,  under  an  habitual  [10 
subjection  to  the  predominating  genius 
of  Addison,  whom  he  always  mentioned 
with  reverence,  and  treated  with  obse- 
quiousness. 

Addison,   who  knew  his  own  dignity, 

could  not  always  forbear  to  show  it,  by 

playing  a  little  upon  his  admirer;  but  he 

,  was  in  no  danger  of  retort:  his  jests  were 

endured  without  resistance  or  resentment. 


Before  the  Taller  and  Spectator,  if  [20 
the  writers  for  the  theatre  are  excepted, 
England  had  no  masters  of  common  life. 
No  writers  had  yet  undertaken  to  reform 
either  the  savageness  of  neglect  or  the 
impertinence  of  civility;  to  show  when 
to  speak,  or  to  be  silent;  how  to  refuse,  or 
how  to  comply.  We  had  many  books  to 
teach  us  our  more  important  duties,  and 
to  settle  opinions  in  philosophy  or  politics ; 
but  an  Arbiter  elegantiarum,  a  judge  of  [30 
propriety,  was  yet  wanting,  who  should 
survey  the  track  of  daily  conversation 
and  free  it  from  thorns  and  prickles, 
which  tease  the  passer,  though  they  do 
not  wound  him. 

For  this  purpose  nothing  is  so  proper 
as  the  frequent  publication  of  short  papers, 
which  we  read  not  as  study  but  amuse- 
ment. If  the  subject  be  slight,  the  trea- 
tise likewise  is  short.  The  busy  may  [40 
find  time,  and  the  idle  may  find  patience. 

That  he  always  wrote  as  he  would 
think  it  necessary  to  write  now,  cannot 


be  affirmed;  his  instructions  were  such  as 
the  characters  of  his  readers  made  proper. 
That  general  knowledge  which  now  cir- 
culates in  common  talk,  was  in  his  time 
rarely  to  be  found.  Men  not  professing 
learning  were  not  ashamed  of  ignorance; 
and  in  the  female  world,  any  acquaint-  [50 
ance  with  books  was  distinguished  only 
to  be  censured.  His  purpose  was  to  infuse 
literary  curiosity,  by  gentle  and  unsus- 
pected conveyance,  into  the  gay,  the 
idle,  and  the  wealthy;  he  therefore  pre- 
sented knowledge  in  the  most  alluring 
form,  not  lofty  and  austere,  but  accessible 
and  familiar.  When  he  showed  them 
their  defects,  he  showed  them  likewise 
that  they  might  be  easily  supplied.  [60 
His  attempt  succeeded;  enquiry  was 
awakened,  and  comprehension  expanded. 
An  emulation  of  intellectual  elegance  was 
excited,  and  from  his  time  to  our  own, 
life  has  been  gradually  exalted,  and  con- 
versation purified  and  enlarged. 


As  a  describer  of  life  and  manners,  he 
must  be  allowed  to  stand  perhaps  the  first 
of  the  first  rank.  His  humor,  which,  as 
Steele  observes,  is  peculiar  to  himself,  [70 
is  so  happily  diffused  as  to  give  the  grace 
of  novelty  to  domestic  scenes  and  daily 
occurrences.  He  never  "outsteps  the 
modesty  of  nature,"  nor  raises  merriment 
or  wonder  by  the  violation  of  truth.  His 
figures  neither  divert  by  distortion,  nor 
amaze  by  aggravation.  He  copies  life 
with  so  much  fidelity,  that  he  can  be 
hardly  said  to  invent;  yet  his  exhibitions 
have  an  air  so  much  original  that  it  [80 
is  difficult  to  suppose  them  not  merely 
the  product  of  imagination. 

As  a  teacher  of  wisdom,  he  may  be 
confidently  followed.  His  religion  has 
nothing  in  it  enthusiastic  or  superstitious: 
he  appears  neither  weakly  credulous  nor 
wantonly  sceptical;  his  morality  is  neither 
dangerously  lax,  nor  impracticably  rigid. 
All  the  enchantment  of  fancy  and  all  the 
cogency  of  argument  are  employed  [go 
to  recommend  to  the  reader  his  real  in- 
terest, the  care  of  pleasing  the  Author 
of  his  being.  Truth  is  shown  sometimes 
as  the  phantom  of  a  vision,  sometimes 
appears  half- veiled  in  an  allegory;  some- 


JOHNSON 


299 


times  attracts  regard  in  the  robes  of  fancy, 
and  sometimes  steps  forth  in  the  confi- 
dence of  reason.  She  wears  a  thousand 
dresses,  and  all  is  pleasing. 

Mille  habet  omatus,  mille  decenter  habet.  [100 

His  prose  is  the  model  of  the  middle 
style;  on  grave  subjects  not  formal,  on 
light  occasions  not  groveling;  pure  with- 
out scrupulosity,  and  exact  without  ap- 
parent elaboration;  always  equable,  and 
always  easy,  without  glowing  words  or 
pointed  sentences.  Addison  never  de- 
viates from  his  track  to  snatch  a  grace; 
he  seeks  no  ambitious  ornaments,  and 
tries  no  hazardous  inventions.  His  [no 
page  is  always  luminous,  but  never  blazes 
in  unexpected  splendor. 

It  was  apparently  his  principal  endeavor 
to  avoid  all  harshness  and  severity  of 
diction;  he  is  therefore  sometimes  verbose 
in  his  transitions  and  connections,  and 
sometimes  descends  too  much  to  the 
language  of  conversation;  yet  if  his  lan- 
guage had  been  less  idiomatical  it  might 
have  lost  somewhat  of  its  genuine  [120 
Anglicism.  What  he  attempted,  he  per- 
formed ;  he  is  never  feeble,  and  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  energetic;  he  is  never  rapid, 
and  he  never  stagnates.  His  sentences 
have  neither  studied  amplitude,  nor  af- 
fected brevity;  his  periods,  though  not 
diligently  rounded,  are  voluble  and  easy. 
Whoever  wishes  to  attain  an  English 
style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant 
but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  [130 
days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison. 


From  POPE 

[Pope]  professed  to  have  learned  his 
poetry  from  Dryden,  whom,  whenever 
an  opportunity  was  presented,  he  praised 
through  his  whole  life  with  unvaried 
liberality;  and  perhaps  his  character  may 
receive  some  illustration  if  he  be  com- 
pared with  his  master. 


Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy;  he 
desired  to  excel,  and  therefore  always 
endeavored  to  do  his  best:  he  did  not  [10 
court  the  candor,  but  dared  the  judgment 


of  his  reader,  and,  expecting  no  indul- 
gence from  others,  he  showed  none  to 
himself.  He  examined  lines  and  words 
with  minute  and  punctilious  observation, 
and  retouched  every  part  with  inde- 
fatigable diligence,  till  he  had  left  nothing 
to  be  forgiven. 


In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority 
must  be  allowed  to  Dryden,  whose  [20 
education  was  more  scholastic,  and  who 
before  he  became  an  author  had  been 
allowed  more  time  for  study,  with  better 
means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a 
larger  range,  and  he  collects  his  images 
and  illustrations  from  a  more  extensive 
circumference  of  science.  Dryden  knew 
more  of  man  in  his  general  nature,  and 
Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions 
of  Dryden  were  formed  by  compre-  [30 
hensive  speculation,  and  those  of  Pope 
by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dig- 
nity in  the  knowledge  of  Dryden,  and 
more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either, 
for  both  excelled  likewise  in  prose;  but 
Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his 
predecessor.  The  style  of  Dryden  is 
capricious  and  varied,  that  of  Pope  is 
cautious  and  uniform;  Dryden  obeys  [40 
the  motions  of  his  own  mind,  Pope  con- 
strains his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of  com- 
position. Dryden  is  sometimes  vehement 
and  rapid;  Pope  is  always  smooth,  uni- 
form, and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a 
natural  field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and 
diversified  by  the  varied  exuberance  of 
abundant  vegetation;  Pope's  is  a  velvet 
lawn,  shaven  by  the  scythe,  and  levelled 
by  the  roller.  [50 

Of  genius,  that  power  which  consti- 
tutes a  poet;  that  quality  without  which 
judgment  is  cold  and  knowledge  is  inert; 
that  energy  which  collects,  combines, 
amplifies,  and  animates — the  superiority 
must,  with  some  hesitation,  be  allowed 
to  Dryden.  It  is  not  to  be  inferred  that 
of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope  had  only  a 
little,  because  Dryden  had  more;  for 
every  other  writer  since  Milton  must  [60 
give  place  to  Pope;  and  even  of  Dryden 
it  must  be  said,  that  if  he  has  brighter 
paragraphs,    he    has    not    better    poems. 


3oo 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Dryden's  performances  were  always  hasty, 
either  excited  by  some  external  occasion, 
or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity;  he 
composed  without  consideration,  and  pub- 
lished without  correction.  What  his 
mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in 
one  excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  [70 
and  all  that  he  gave.  The  dilatory  cau- 
tion of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his 
sentiments,  to  multiply  his  images,  and 
to  accumulate  all  that  study  might  pro- 
duce, or  chance  might  supply.  If  the 
flights  of  Dryden  therefore  are  higher, 
Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of 
Dryden's  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of 
Pope's  the  heat  is  more  regular  and  con- 
stant. Dryden  often  surpasses  ex-  [80 
pectation,  and  Pope  never  falls  below  it. 
Dryden  is  read  with  frequent  astonish- 
ment, and  Pope  with  perpetual  delight. 


From  GRAY 

Gray's  poetry  is  now-  to  be  considered, 
and  I  hope  not  to  be  looked  on  as  an 
enemy  to  his  name  if  I  confess  that  I 
contemplate  it  with  less  pleasure  than  his 
life. 


The  Prospect  of  Eton  College  suggests 
nothing  to  Gray  which  every  beholder  does 
not  equally  think  and  feel.  His  supplica- 
tion to  Father  Thames,  to  tell  him  who 
drives  the  hoop  or  tosses  the  ball,  is  [10 
useless  and  puerile.  Father  Thames  has 
no  better  means  of  knowing  than  himself. 
His  epithet  "buxom  health"  is  not  ele- 
gant; he  seems  not  to  understand  the  word. 
Gray  thought  his  language  more  poetical 
as  it  was  more  remote  from  common  use: 
finding  in  Dryden  "honey  redolent  of 
Spring,"  an  expression  that  reaches  the 
utmost  limits  of  our  language,  Gray 
drove  it  a  little  more  beyond  com-  [20 
mon  apprehension,  by  making  "gales" 
to  be  "redolent  of  joy  and  youth." 

Of  the  Ode  on  Adversity,  the  hint  was 
at  first  taken  from  O  Diva,  gratum  quae 
regis  Antium;  but  Gray  has  excelled  his 
original  by  the  variety  of  his  sentiments, 
and  by  their  moral  application.  Of  this 
piece,   at   once  poetical   and   rational,   I 


will  not  by  slight  objections  violate  the 
dignity.  [30 

My  process  has  now  brought  me  to  the 
"Wonderful  Wonder  of  Wonders,"  the 
two  Sister  Odes;  by  which,  though  either 
vulgar  ignorance  or  common  sense  at  first 
universally  rejected  them,  many  have  been 
since  persuaded  to  think  themselves  de- 
lighted. I  am  one  of  those  that  are  will- 
ing to  be  pleased,  and  therefore  would 
gladly  find  the  meaning  of  the  first  stanza 
of  The  Progress  of  Poesy.  [40 

Gray  seems  in  his  rapture  to  confound 
the  images  of  "spreading  sound"  and 
"running  water."  A  "stream  of  music" 
may  be  allowed;  but  where  does  music, 
however  "smooth  and  strong,"  after 
having  visited  the  "verdant  vales,"  "roll 
down  the  steep  amain,"  so  as  that  "rocks 
and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the 
roar"?  If  this  be  said  of  music,  it  is 
nonsense;  if  it  be  said  of  water,  it  is  [50 
nothing  to  the  purpose. 

The  second  stanza,  exhibiting  Mars's 
car  and  Jove's  eagle,  is  unworthy  of 
further  notice.  Criticism  disdains  to 
chase  a  schoolboy  to  his  commonplaces. 


The  third  stanza  sounds  big  with  Delphi, 
and  Egean,  and  Ilissus,  and  Meander, 
and  "hallowed  fountain",  and  "solemn 
sound";  but  in  all  Gray's  odes  there  is  a 
kind  of  cumbrous  splendor  which  we  [60 
wish  away.  His  position  is  at  last  false:  in 
the  time  of  Dante  and  Petrarch,  from 
whom  he  derives  our  first  school  of  poetry, 
Italy  was  overrun  by  "tyrant  power"  and 
"coward  vice";  nor  was  our  state  much 
better  when  we  first  borrowed  the  Italian 
arts. 


The  Bard  appears,  at  first  view,  to 
be  ...  an  imitation  of  the  prophecy  of 
Nereus.  ...  [70 

To  select  a  singular  event,  and  swell  it 
to  a  giant's  bulk  by  fabulous  appendages 
of  spectres  and  predictions,  has  little 
difficulty,  for  he  that  forsakes  the  probable 
may  always  find  the  marvellous.  And 
it  has  little  use:  we  are  affected  only  as 
we  believe;  wre  are  improved  only  as 
we  find  something  to  be  imitated  or  de- 


BOSWELL 


301 


clined.     I  do  not  see  that  The  Bard  pro- 
motes any  truth,  moral  or  political.       [80 


These  odes  are  marked  by  glittering 
accumulations  of  ungraceful  ornaments: 
they  strike,  rather  than  please;  the  images 
are  magnified  by  affectation;  the  language 
is  labored  into  harshness.  The  mind  of 
the  writer  seems  to  work  with  unnatural 
violence.  "Double,  double,  toil  and 
trouble."  He  has  a  kind  of  strutting 
dignity,  and  is  tall  by  walking  on  tiptoe. 
His  art  and  his  struggle  are  too  [90 
visible,  and  there  is  too  little  appearance 
of  ease  and  nature. 

To  say  that  he  has  no  beauties,  would 
be  unjust:  a  man  like  him,  of  great  learn- 
ing, and  great  industry,  could  not  but 
produce  something  valuable.  When  he 
pleases  least,  it  can  only  be  said  that  a 
good  design  was  ill  directed. 

His  translations  of  Northern  and 
Welsh  poetry  deserve  praise:  the  im-  [100 
agery  is  preserved,  perhaps  often  im- 
proved; but  the  language  is  unlike  the 
language  of  other  poets. 

In  the  character  of  his  Elegy  I  rejoice  to 
concur  with  the  common  reader;  for  by 
the  common  sense  of  readers  uncor- 
rupted  with  -literary  prejudices,  after  all 
the  refinements  of  subtility  and  the  dog- 
matism of  learning,  must  be  finally  de- 
cided all  claim  to  poetical  honors.  The  [no 
Church-yard  abounds  with  images  which 
find  a  mirror  in  every  mind,  and  with 
sentiments  to  which  every  bosom  returns 
an  echo.  The  four  stanzas  beginning 
"  Yet  even  these  bones,"  are  to  me  original : 
I  have  never  seen  the  notions  in  any  other 
place;  yet  he  that  reads  them  here,  per- 
suades himself  that  he  has  always  felt 
them.  Had  Gray  written  often  thus  it 
had  been  vain  to  blame,  and  useless  [120 
to  praise  him. 

JAMES  BOSWELL  (1740-1796) 
THE   LIFE   OF   SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

From  The  Year  1763 

This  is  to  me  a  memorable  year;  for  in 
it  I  had  the  happiness  to  obtain  the  ac- 
quaintance   of    that    extraordinary    man 


whose  memoirs  I  am  now  writing;  an 
acquaintance  which  I  shall  ever  esteem 
as  one  of  the  most  fortunate  circumstances 
in  my  life.  Though  then  but  two-and- 
twenty,  I  had  for  several  years  read  his 
works  with  delight  and  instruction,  and 
had  the  highest  reverence  for  their  au-  [10 
thor,  which  had  grown  up  in  my  fancy 
into  a  kind  of  mysterious  veneration,  by 
figuring  to  myself  a  state  of  solemn  ele- 
vated abstraction,  in  which  I  supposed 
him  to  five  in  the  immense  metropolis  of 
London.  Mr.  Gentleman,  a  native  of 
Ireland,  who  passed  some  years  in  Scot- 
land as  a  player,  and  as  an  instructor  in 
the  English  language,  a  man  whose  talents 
and  worth  were  depressed  by  misfor-  [20 
tunes,  had  given  me  a  representation  of 
the  figure  and  manner  of  Dictionary 
Johnson  !  as  he  was  then  generally  called ; 
and  during  my  first  visit  to  London, 
which  was  for  three  months  in  1760,  Mr. 
Derrick,  the  poet,  who  was  Gentleman's 
friend  and  countryman,  flattered  me  with 
hopes  that  he  would  introduce  me  to 
Johnson,  an  honor  of  which  I  was  very 
ambitious.  But  he  never  found  an  [30 
opportunity;  which  made  me  doubt  that 
he  had  promised  to  do  what  was  not  in 
his  power;  till  Johnson  some  years  after- 
wards told  me,  "Derrick,  Sir,  might  very 
well  have  introduced  you.  I  had  a  kind- 
ness for  Derrick,  and  am  sorry  he  is  dead." 

In  the  summer  of  1761  Mr.  Thomas 
Sheridan  was  at  Edinburgh,  and  delivered 
lectures  upon  the  English  Language  and 
Public  Speaking  to  large  and  respect-  [40 
able  audiences.  I  was  often  in  his  com- 
pany, and  heard  him  frequently  expatiate 
upon  Johnson's  extraordinary  knowledge, 
talents,  and  virtues,  repeat  his  pointed 
sayings,  describe  his  particularities,  and 
boast  of  his  being  his  guest  sometimes 
till  two  or  three  in  the  morning.  At  his 
house  I  hoped  to  have  many  opportunities 
of  seeing  the  sage,  as  Mr.  Sheridan  oblig- 
ingly assured  me  I  should  not  be  dis-  [50 
appointed. 

When  I  returned  to  London  in  the  end 
of  1762,  to  my  surprise  and  regret  I  found 
an  irreconcilable  difference  had  taken 
place  between  Johnson  and  Sheridan.  A 
pension  of  two  hundred  pounds  a  year 
had  been  given  to  Sheridan.     Johnson, 


302 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


who,  as  has  been  already  mentioned, 
thought  slightingly  of  Sheridan's  art, 
upon  hearing  that  he  was  also  pen-  [60 
sioned,  exclaimed,  "What!  have  they 
given  him  a  pension?  Then  it  is  time 
for  me  to  give  up  mine."  Whether  this 
proceeded  from  a  momentary  indignation, 
as  if  it  were  an  affront  to  his  exalted  merit 
that  a  player  should  be  awarded  in  the 
same  manner  with  him,  or  was  the  sudden 
effect  of  a  fit  of  peevishness,  it  was  un- 
luckily said,  and,  indeed,  cannot  be  justi- 
fied. Mr.  Sheridan's  pension  was  [70 
granted  to  him  not  as  a  player,  but  as  a 
sufferer  in  the  cause  of  government,  when 
he  was  manager  of  the  Theatre  Royal  in 
Ireland,  when  parties  ran  high  in  1753. 
And  it  must  also  be  allowed  that  he  was 
a  man  of  literature,  and  had  considerably 
improved  the  arts  of  reading  and  speaking 
with  distinctness  and  propriety. 


Johnson  complained  that  a  man  who 
disliked  him  repeated  his  sarcasm  to  [80 
Mr.  Sheridan,  without  telling  him  what 
followed,  which  was,  that  after  a  pause 
he  added,  "However,  I  am  glad  that 
Mr.  Sheridan  has  a  pension,  for  he  is  a 
very  good  man."  Sheridan  could  never 
forgive  this  hasty  contemptuous  expres- 
sion. It  rankled  in  his  mind;  and  though 
I  informed  him  of  all  that  Johnson  said, 
and  that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  meet 
him  amicably,  he  positively  declined  [90 
repeated  offers  which  I  made,  and  once 
went  off  abruptly  from  a  house  where  he 
and  I  were  engaged  to  dine,  because  he 
was  told  that  Dr.  Johnson  was  to  be 
there.  I  have  no  sympathetic  feeling 
with  such  persevering  resentment.  It  is 
painful  when  there  is  a  breach  between 
those  wHo  have  lived  together  socially 
and  cordially;  and  I  wonder  that  there 
is  not,  in  all  such  cases,  a  mutual  [100 
wish  that  it  should  be  healed.  I  could 
perceive  that  Mr.  Sheridan  was  by  no 
means  satisfied  with  Johnson's  acknowl- 
edging him  to  be  a  good  man.  That  could 
not  soothe  his  injured  vanity.  I  could 
not  but  smile,  at  the  same  time  that  I 
was  offended,  to  observe  Sheridan  in  the 
Life  of  Swift,  which  he  afterwards  pub- 
lished,  attempting,   in   the   writhings   of 


his  resentment,  to  depreciate  Johnson,  [no 
by  characterising  him  as  "A  writer  of 
gigantic  fame,  in  these  days  of  little  men; " 
that  very  Johnson  whom  he  once  so 
highly  admired  and  venerated. 

This  rupture  with  Sheridan  deprived 
Johnson  of  one  of  his  most  agreeable 
resources  for  amusement  in  his  lonely 
evenings;  for  Sheridan's  well-informed, 
animated,  and  bustling  mind  never  suf- 
fered conversation  to  stagnate;  and  [120 
Mrs.  Sheridan  was  a  most  agreeable 
companion  to  an  intellectual  man.  She 
was  sensible,  ingenious,  unassuming,  yet 
communicative.  I  recollect,  with  satis- 
faction, many  pleasing  hours  which  I 
passed  with  her  under  the  hospitable  roof 
of  her  husband,  who  was  to  me  a  very 
kind  friend.  Her  novel,  entitled  Memoirs 
of  Miss  Sydney  Biddulph,  contains  an  ex- 
cellent moral,  while  it  inculcates  a  [130 
future  state  of  retribution;  and  what  it 
teaches  is  impressed  upon  the  mind  by  a 
series  of  as  deep  distress  as  can  affect 
humanity,  in  the  amiable  and  pious 
heroine  who  goes  to  her  grave  unrelieved, 
but  resigned,  and  full  of  hope  of  "heaven's 
mercy."  Johnson  paid  her  this  high 
compliment  upon  it: "  I  know  not,  Madam, 
that  you  have  a  right,  upon  moral  prin- 
ciples, to  make  your  readers  suffer  so  [140 
much." 

Mr.  Thomas  Davies  the  actor,  who 
then  kept  a  bookseller's  shop  in  Russel- 
street,  Covent-garden,  told  me  that 
Johnson  was  very  much  his  friend,  and 
came  frequently  to  his  house,  where  he 
more  than  once  invited  me  to  meet 
him;  but  by  some  unlucky  accident  or 
other  he  was  prevented  from  coming  to 
us.  [150 

Mr.  Thomas  Davies  was  a  man  of  good 
understanding  and  talents,  with  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  liberal  education.  Though 
somewhat  pompous,  he  was  an  entertain- 
ing companion;  and  his  literary  perform- 
ances have  no  inconsiderable  share  of 
merit.  He  was  a  friendly  and  very  hos- 
pitable man.  Both  he  and  his  wife  (who 
has  been  celebrated  for  her  beauty), 
though  upon  the  stage  for  many  years,  [160 
maintained  an  uniform  decency  of  char- 
acter; and  Johnson  esteemed  them,  and 
lived  in  as  easy  an  intimacy  with  them 


BOS  WELL 


3°3 


as  with  any  family  which  he  used  to  visit. 
Mr.  Davies  recollected  several  of  John- 
son's remarkable  sayings,  and  was  one 
of  the  best  of  the  many  imitators  of  his 
voice  and  manner,  while  relating  them. 
He  increased  my  impatience  more  and 
more  to  see  the  extraordinary  man  [170 
whose  works  I  highly  valued,  and  whose 
conversation  was  reported  to  be  so  pe- 
culiarly excellent. 

At  last,  on  Monday  the  16th  of  May, 
when  I  was  sitting  in  Mr.  Davies's  back- 
parlor,  after  having  drunk  tea  with  him 
and  Mrs.  Davies,  Johnson  unexpectedly 
came  into  the  shop;  and  Mr.  Davies  hav- 
ing perceived  him  through  the  glass-door 
in  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting,  [180 
advancing  towards  us, — he  announced 
his  awful  approach  to  me,  somewhat  in 
the  manner  of  an  actor  in  the  part  of 
Horatio,  when  he  addresses  Hamlet  on 
the  appearance  of  his  father's  ghost: 
"Look,  my  Lord,  it  comes."  I  found 
that  I  had  a  very  perfect  idea  of  Johnson's 
figure,  from  the  portrait  of  him  painted 
by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  soon  after  he  had 
published  his  Dictionary,  in  the  [190 
attitude  of  sitting  in  his  easy  chair  in 
deep  meditation;  which  was  the  first  pic- 
ture his  friend  did  for  him,  which  Sir 
Joshua  very  kindly  presented  to  me, 
and  from  which  an  engraving  has  been 
made  for  this  work.  Mr.  Davies  men- 
tioned my  name,  and  respectfully  intro- 
duced me  to  him.  I  was  much  agitated; 
and  recollecting  his  prejudice  against  the 
Scotch,  of  which  I  had  heard  much,  I  [200 
said  to  Davies,  "Don't  tell  where  I  come 
from."— "From  Scotland,"  cried  Davies, 
roguishly.  "Mr.  Johnson  (said  I),  I  do 
indeed  come  from  Scotland,  but  I  cannot 
help  it."  I  am  willing  to  flatter  myself 
that  I  meant  this  as  light  pleasantry  to 
soothe  and  conciliate  him,  and  not  as  an 
humiliating  abasement  at  the  expense  of 
my  country.  But  however  that  might 
be,  this  speech  was  somewhat  un-  [210 
lucky;  for  with  that  quickness  of  wit  for 
which  he  was  so  remarkable,  he  seized 
the  expression  "come  from  Scotland," 
which  I  used  in  the  sense  of  being  of  that 
country;  and,  as  if  I  had  said  that  I  had 
come  away  from  it,  or  left  it,  retorted, 
"That,  Sir,  I  find,  is  what  a  very  great 


many  of  your  countrymen  cannot  help." 
This  stroke  stunned  me  a  good  deal;  and 
when  we  had  sat  down,  I  felt  myself  [220 
not  a  little  embarrassed,  and  apprehen- 
sive of  what  might  come  next.  He  then 
addressed  himself  to  Davies:  "What  do 
you  think  of  Garrick?  He  has  refused  me 
an  order  for  the  play  for  Miss  Williams, 
because  he  knows  the  house  will  be  full, 
and  that  an  order  would  be  worth  three 
shillings."  Eager  to  take  any  opening 
to  get  into  conversation  with  him,  I  ven- 
tured to  say,  "Oh,  Sir,  I  cannot  think  [230 
Mr.  Garrick  would  grudge  such  a  trifle  to 
you."  "Sir,  (said  he,  with  a  stern  look,) 
I  have  known  David  Garrick  longer  than 
you  have  done:  and  I  know  no  right  you 
have  to  talk  to  me  on  the  subject."  Per- 
haps I  deserved  this  check;  for  it  was 
rather  presumptuous  in  me,  an  entire 
stranger,  to  express  any  doubt  of  the 
justice  of  his  animadversion  upon  his 
old  acquaintance  and  pupil.  I  now  [240 
felt  myself  much  mortified,  and  began  to 
think  that  the  hope  which  I  had  long 
indulged  of  obtaining  his  acquaintance 
was  blasted.  And,  in  truth,  had  not 
my  ardor  been  uncommonly  strong,  and 
my  resolution  uncommonly  persevering, 
so  rough  a  reception  might  have  deterred 
me  for  ever  from  making  any  further 
attempts.  Fortunately,  however,  I  re- 
mained upon  the  field  not  wholly  dis-  [250 
comfited;  and  was  soon  rewarded  by 
hearing  some  of  his  conversation. 


I  was  highly  pleased  with  the  extraor- 
dinary vigor  of  his  conversation,  and  re- 
gretted that  I  was  drawn  away  from  it 
by  an  engagement  at  another  place,  I 
had,  for  a  part  of  the  evening,  been  left 
alone  with  him,  and  had  ventured  to 
make  an  observation  now  and  then, 
which  he  received  very  civilly;  so  [260 
that  I  was  satisfied  that  though  there 
was  a  roughness  in  his  manner,  there  was 
no  ill-nature  in  his  disposition.  Davies 
followed  me  to  the  door,  and  when  I 
complained  to  him  a  little  of  the  hard 
blows  which  the  great  man  had  given 
me,  he  kindly  took  upon  him  to  console 
me  by  saying,  "Don't  be  uneasy.  I  can 
see  he  likes  you  very  well." 


3°4 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


A  few  days  afterwards  I  called  on  [270 
Davies,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  I 
might  take  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  Mr. 
Johnson  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple. 
He  said  I  certainly  might,  and  that  Mr. 
Johnson  would  take  it  as  a  compliment. 
So  on  Tuesday  the  24th  of  May,  after 
having  been  enlivened  by  the  witty  sallies 
of  Messieurs  Thornton,  Wilkes,  Churchill, 
and  Lloyd,  with  whom  I  had  passed  the 
morning,  I  boldly  repaired  to  Johnson.  [280 
His  chambers  were  on  the  first  floor  of 
No.  1,  Inner-Temple-lane,  and  I  entered 
them  with  an  impression  given  me  by  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Blair,  of  Edinburgh,  who 
had  been  introduced  to  him  not  long 
before,  and  described  his  having  "found 
the  Giant  in  his  den;"  an  expression 
which,  when  I  came  to  be  pretty  well 
acquainted  with  Johnson,  I  repeated  to 
him,  and  he  was  diverted  at  this  pic-  [290 
turesque  account  of  himself.  Dr.  Blair 
had  been  presented  to  him  by  Dr.  James 
Fordyce.  At  this  time  the  controversy 
concerning  the  pieces  published  by  Mr. 
James  Macpherson,  as  translations  of 
Ossian,  was  at  its  height.  Johnson  had 
all  along  denied  their  authenticity;  and, 
what  was  still  more  provoking  to  their 
admirers,  maintained  that  they  had  no 
merit.  The  subject  having  been  in-  [300 
troduced  by  Dr.  Fordyce,  Dr.  Blair, 
relying  on  the  internal  evidence  of  their 
antiquity,  asked  Dr.  Johnson  whether  he 
thought  any  man  of  a  modern  age  could 
have  written  such  poems?  Johnson  re- 
plied, "Yes,  Sir;  many  men,  many  women, 
and  many  children."  Johnson  at  this 
time,  did  not  know  that  Dr.  Blair  had 
just  published  a  Dissertation,  not  only 
defending  their  authenticity,  but  seri-  [310 
ously  ranking  them  with  the  poems  of 
Homer  and  Virgil;  and  when  he  was 
afterwards  informed  of  this  circumstance, 
he  expressed  some  displeasure  at  Dr. 
Fordyce's  having  suggested  the  topic, 
and  said,  "I  am  not  sorry  that  they  got 
thus  much  for  their  pains.  Sir,  it  was 
like  leading  one  to  talk  of  a  book,  when 
the  author  is  concealed  behind  the  door." 

He  received  me  very  courteously:  [320 
but,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  his  apart- 
ment, and  furniture,  and  morning  dress, 
were    sufficiently    uncouth.      His    brown 


suit  of  clothes  looked  very  rusty;  he  had 
on  a  little  old  shrivelled  unpowdered  wig, 
which  was  too  small  for  his  head ;  his  shirt- 
neck  and  knees  of  his  breeches  were  loose; 
his  black  worsted  stockings  ill  drawn  up; 
and  he  had  a  pair  of  unbuckled  shoes  by 
way  of  slippers.  But  all  these  slovenly  [330 
particularities  were  forgotten  the  moment 
that  he  began  to  talk.  Some  gentlemen, 
whom  I  do  not  recollect,  were  sitting 
with  him;  and  when  they  went  away,  I 
also  rose;  but  he  said  to  me,  "Nay,  don't 
go." — "Sir  (said  I),  I  am  afraid  that  I 
intrude  upon  you.  It  is  benevolent  to 
allow  me  to  sit  and  hear  you."  He  seemed 
pleased  with  this  compliment,  which  I 
sincerely  paid  him,  and  answered,  [340 
"Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  any  man  who 
visits  me." — I  have  preserved  the  fol- 
lowing short  minute  of  what  passed  this 
day: — 

"Madness  frequently  discovers  itself 
merely  by  unnecessary  deviation  from 
the  usual  modes  of  the  world.  My  poor 
friend  Smart  showed  the  disturbance  of 
his  mind,  by  falling  upon  his  knees,  and 
saying  his  prayers  in  the  street,  or  in  [350 
any  other  unusual  place.  Now  although, 
rationally  speaking,  it  is  greater  madness 
not  to  pray  at  all,  than  to  pray  as  Smart 
did,  I  am  afraid  there  are  so  many  who 
do  not  pray,  that  their  understanding  is 
not  called  in  question." 

Concerning  this  unfortunate  poet,  Chris- 
topher Smart,  who  was  confined  in  a  mad- 
house, he  had,  at  another  time,  the  follow- 
ing conversation  with  Dr.  Burney: —  [360 
Burney.  "How  does  poor  Smart  do, 
Sir;  is  he  likely  to  recover?"  Johnson. 
"It  seems  as  if  his  mind  had  ceased  to 
struggle  with  the  disease;  for  he  grows 
fat  upon  it."  Burney.  "Perhaps,  Sir, 
that  may  be  from  want  of  exercise." 
Johnson.  "No,  Sir;  he  has  partly  as 
much  exercise  as  he  used  to  have,  for  he 
digs  in  the  garden.  Indeed,  before  his 
confinement,  he  used  for  exercise  to  [370 
Avalk  to  the  alehouse;  but  he  was  carried 
back  again.  I  did  not  think  he  ought  to 
be  shut  up.  His  infirmities  were  not 
noxious  to  society.  He  insisted  on  people 
praying  with  him;  and  I'd  as  lief  pray 
with  Kit  Smart  as  any  one  else.  Another 
charge  was,  that  he  did  not  love  clean 


BOSWELL 


3°5 


linen;  and  I  have  no  passion  for  it." 
Johnson  continued.  "Mankind  have  a 
great  aversion  to  intellectual  labor;  [380 
but  even  supposing  knowledge  to  be  easily 
attainable,  more  people  would  be  content 
to  be  ignorant  than  would  take  even  a 
little  trouble  to  acquire  it. 

"The  morality  of  an  action  depends  on 
the  motive  from  which  we  act.  If  I  fling 
half  a  crown  to  a  beggar  with  intention 
to  break  his  head,  and  he  picks  it  up  and 
buys  victuals  with  it,  the  physical  effect 
is  good;  but,  with  respect  to  me,  the  [390 
action  is  very  wrong.  So,  religious  exer- 
cises, if  not  performed  with  an  intention 
to  please  God,  avail  us  nothing.  As  our 
Savior  says  of  those  who  perform  them 
from  other  motives,  'Verily  they  have 
their  reward.' 

"The  Christian  religion  has  very  strong 
evidences.  It,  indeed,  appears  in  some 
degree  strange  to  reason;  but  in  History 
we  have  undoubted  facts,  against  [400 
which,  in  reasoning  a  priori,  we  have 
more  arguments  than  we  have  for  them; 
but  then,  testimony  has  great  weight,  and 
casts  the  balance."  .  .  . 

Talking  of  Garrick,  he  said,  "He  is 
the  first  man  in  the  world  for  sprightly 
conversation." 

When  I  rose  a  second  time,  he  again 
pressed  me  to  stay,  which  I  did. 

He  told  me,  that  he  generally  went  [410 
abroad  at  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  sel- 
dom came  home  till  two  in  the  morning. 
I  took  the  liberty  to  ask  if  he  did  not  think 
it  wrong  to  live  thus,  and  not  make  more 
use  of  his  great  talents.  He  owned  it  was 
a  bad  habit.  On  reviewing,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  many  years,  my  journal  of  this 
period,  I  wonder  how,  at  my  first  visit,  I 
ventured  to  talk  to  him  so  freely,  and 
that  he  bore  it  with  so  much  indul-  [420 
gence. 

Before  we  parted,  he  was  so  good  as 
to  promise  to  favor  me  with  his  company 
one  evening  at  my  lodgings:  and,  as  I  took 
my  leave,  shook  me  cordially  by  the  hand. 
It  is  almost  needless  to  add,  that  I  felt 
no  little  elation  at  having  now  so  happily 
established  an  acquaintance  of  which  I 
had  been  so  long  ambitious. 

My  readers  will,  I  trust,  excuse  me  [430 
for  being  thus  minutely  circumstantial, 


when  it  is  considered  that  the  acquaintance 
of  Dr.  Johnson  was  to  me  a  most  valuable 
acquisition,  and  laid  the  foundation  of 
whatever  instruction  and  entertainment 
they  may  receive  from  my  collections 
concerning  the  great  subject  of  the  work 
which  they  are  now  perusing. 

I  did  not  visit  him  again  till  Monday, 
June  13,  at  which  time  I  recollect  [440 
no  part  of  his  conversation,  except  that 
when  I  told  him  I  had  been  to  see  Johnson 
ride  upon  three  horses,  he  said,  "Such  a 
man,  Sir,  should  be  encouraged;  for  his 
performances  show  the  extent  of  the 
human  power  in  one  instance,  and  thus 
tend  to  raise  our  opinion  of  the  faculties  of 
man.  He  shows  what  may  be  attained 
by  persevering  application;  so  that  every 
man  may  hope,  that  by  giving  as  [450 
much  application,  although  perhaps  he 
may  never  ride  three  horses  at  a  time, 
or  dance  upon  a  wire,  yet  he  may  be 
equally  expert  in  whatever  profession  he 
has  chosen  to  pursue." 

He  again  shook  me  by  the  hand  at 
parting,  and  asked  me  why  I  did  not 
come  oftener  to  him.  Trusting  that  I 
was  now  in  his  good  graces,  I  answered, 
that  he  had  not  given  me  much  [460 
encouragement,  and  reminded  him  of 
the  check  I  had  received  from  him  at 
our  first  interview.  "Poh,  poh!  (said 
he,  with  a  complacent  smile,)  never 
mind  these  things.  Come  to  me  as 
often  as  you  can.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

I  had  learned  that  his  place  of  frequent 
resort  was  the  Mitre  tavern  in  Fleet- 
street,  where  he  loved  to  sit  up  late,  [470 
and  I  begged  I  might  be  allowed  to  pass 
an  evening  with  him  there  soon,  which 
he  promised  I  should.  A  few  days  after- 
wards I  met  him  near  Temple-bar,  about 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  asked 
him  if  he  would  then  go  to  the  Mitre. 
"Sir  (said  he),  it  is  too  late;  they  won't 
let  us  in.  But  I'll  go  with  you  another 
night  with  all  my  heart." 

A  revolution  of  some  importance  [480 
in  my  plan  of  life  had  just  taken  place; 
for  instead  of  procuring  a  commission  in 
the  foot-guards,  which  was  my  own  in- 
clination, I  had,  in  compliance  with  my 
father's  wishes,  agreed  to  study  the  law, 


3°6 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


and  was  soon  to  set  out  for  Utrecht,  to 
hear  the  lectures  of  an  excellent  Civilian 
in  that  University,  and  then  to  proceed 
on  my  travels.  Though  very  desirous  of 
obtaining  Dr.  Johnson's  advice  and  [490 
instructions  on  the  mode  of  pursuing  my 
studies,  I  was  at  this  time  so  occupied, 
shall  I  call  it?  or  so  dissipated,  by  the 
amusements  of  London,  that  our  next 
meeting  was  not  till  Saturday,  June  25, 
when  happening  to  dine  at  Clifton's 
eating-house,  in  Butcher-row,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  perceive  Johnson  come  in  and 
take  his  seat  at  another  table.  The 
mode  of  dining,  or  rather  being  fed,  [500 
at  such  houses  in  London,  is  well  known 
to  many  to  be  particularly  unsocial,  as 
there  is  no  Ordinary,  or  united  company, 
but  each  person  has  his  own  mess,  and  is 
under  no  obligation  to  hold  any  inter- 
course with  any  one.  A  liberal  and  full- 
minded  man,  however,  who  loves  to  talk, 
will  break  through  this  churlish  and  un- 
social restraint.  Johnson  and  an  Irish 
gentleman  got  into  a  dispute  concern-  [510 
ing  the  cause  of  some  part  of  mankind 
being  black.  "Why,  Sir"  (said  Johnson), 
it  has  been  accounted  for  in  three  ways: 
either  by  supposing  that  they  are  the  pos- 
terity of  Ham,  who  was  cursed;  or  that 
God  at  first  created  two  kinds  of  men, 
one  black  and  another  white;  or  that  by 
the  heat  of  the  sun  the  skin  is  scorched, 
and  so  acquires  a  sooty  hue.  This  matter 
has  been  much  canvassed  among  [520 
naturalists,  but  has  never  been  brought 
to  any  certain  issue."  What  the  Irish- 
man said  is  totally  obliterated  from  my 
mind;  but  I  remember  that  he  became 
very  warm  and  intemperate  in  his  ex- 
pressions: upon  which  Johnson  rose,  and 
quietly  walked  away.  When  he  had 
retired,  his  antagonist  took  his  revenge, 
as  he  thought,  by  saying,  "He  has  a  most 
ungainly  figure,  and  an  affectation  [530 
of  pomposity,  unworthy  of  a  man  of 
genius." 

Johnson  had  not  observed  that  I  was 
in  the  room.  I  followed  him,  however, 
and  he  agreed  to  meet  me  in  the  evening 
at  the  Mitre.  I  called  on  him,  and  we 
went  thither  at  nine.  We  had  a  good 
supper,  and  port  wine,  of  which  he  then 
sometimes  drank  a  bottle.    The  orthodox 


high-church  sound  of  the  Mitre, —  [540 
the  figure  and  manner  of  the  celebrated 
Samuel  Johnson, — the  extraordinary 
power  and  precision  of  his  conversation, 
and  the  pride  arising  from  finding  myself 
admitted  as  his  companion,  produced  a 
variety  of  sensations,  and  a  pleasing  ele- 
vation of  mind  beyond  what  I  had  ever 
before  experienced.  I  find  in  my  Journal 
the  following  minute  of  our  conversation, 
which,  though  it  will  give  but  a  very  [550 
faint  notion  of  what  passed,  is,  in  some 
degree  a  valuable  record;  and  it  will  be 
curious  in  this  view,  as  showing  how 
habitual  to  his  mind  were  some  opinions 
which  appear  in  his  works. 

"Colley  Cibber,  Sir,  was  by  no  means  a 
blockhead;  but  by  arrogating  to  himself 
too  much,  he  was  in  danger  of  losing  that 
degree  of  estimation  to  which  he  was 
entitled.  His  friends  gave  out  that  [560 
he  intended  his  birth-day  Odes  should  be 
bad:  but  that  was  not  the  case,  Sir;  for 
he  kept  them  many  months  by  him,  and 
a  few  years  before  he  died  he  showed  me 
one  of  them,  with  great  solicitude  to 
render  it  as  perfect  as  might  be,  and  I 
made  some  corrections,  to  which  he  was 
not  very  willing  to  submit.  I  remember 
the  following  couplet  in  allusion  to  the 
King  and  himself:  [570 

'  Perched  on  the  eagle's  soaring  wing, 
The  lowly  linnet  loves  to  sing.' 

Sir,  he  had  heard  something  of  the  fabu- 
lous tale  of  the  wren  sitting  upon  the 
eagle's  wing,  and  he  had  applied  it  to  a 
linnet.  Cibber's  familiar  style,  however, 
was  better  than  that  which  Whitehead 
has  assumed.  Grand  nonsense  is  insup- 
portable. Whitehead  is  but  a  little  man 
to  inscribe  verses  to  players."  [580 

I  did  not  presume  to  controvert  this 
censure,  which  was  tinctured  with  his 
prejudice  against  players,  but  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  a  dramatic  poet  might 
with  propriety  pay  a  compliment  to  an 
eminent  performer,  as  Whitehead  has 
very  happily  done  in  his  verses  to  Mr. 
Garrick. 

"Sir,  I  do  not  think  Gray  a  first-rate 
poet.  He  has  not  a  bold  imagination,  [590 
nor  much  command  of  words.  The  ob- 
scurity in  which  he  has  involved  himself 


BOSWELL 


307 


will  not  persuade  us  that  he  is  sublime. 
His  Elegy  in  a  church-yard  has  a  happy 
selection  of  images,  but  I  don't  like  what 
are  called  his  great  things.  His  ode 
which  begins 

'  Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King, 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ! ' 

has  been  celebrated  for  its  abruptness,  [600 
and  plunging  into  the  subject  all  at  once. 
But  such  arts  as  these  have  no  merit, 
unless  when  they  are  original.  We  ad- 
mire them  only  once;  and  this  abruptness 
has  nothing  new  in  it.  We  have  had 
it  often  before.  Nay,  we  have  it  in  the 
old  song  of  Johnny  Armstrong: 

'  Is  there  ever  a  man  in  all  Scotland, 
From  the  highest  estate  to  the  lowest 
degree,  &c.' 

And  then,  Sir,  [610 

'Yes,  there  is  a  man  in  Westmoreland, 
And  Johnny  Armstrong  they  do  him  call. ' 

There,  now,  you  plunge  at  once  into  the 
subject.  You  have  no  previous  narration 
to  lead  you  to  it. — The  two  next  lines  in 
that  Ode  are,  I  think,  very  good: 

'Though  fanned  by  conquest's  crimson 

wing, 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state.'  " 

Here  let  it  be  observed,  that  although 
his  opinion  of  Gray's  poetry  was  [620 
widely  different  from  mine,  and  I  believe 
from  that  of  most  men  of  taste,  by  whom 
it  is  with  justice  highly  admired,  there  is 
certainly  much  absurdity  in  the  clamor 
which  has  been  raised,  as  if  he  had  been 
culpably  injurious  to  the  merit  of  that 
bard,  and  had  been  actuated  by  envy. 
Alas!  ye  little  short-sighted  critics,  could 
Johnson  be  envious  of  the  talents  of  any 
of  his  contemporaries?  That  his  opin-  [630 
ion  on  this  subject  was  what  in  private 
and  in  public  he  uniformly  expressed,  re- 
gardless of  what  others  might  think,  we 
may  wonder,  and  perhaps  regret;  but  it  is 
shallow  and  unjust  to  charge  him  with 
expressing  what  he  did  not  think. 

Finding  him  in  a  placid  humor,  and 
wishing  to  avail  myself  of  the  opportunity 
which  I  fortunately  had  of  consulting  a 
sage,  to  hear  whose  wisdom,  I  con-  [640 


ceived,  in  the  ardor  of  youthful  imagina- 
tion, that  men  filled  with  a  noble  en- 
thusiasm for  intellectual  improvement 
would  gladly  have  resorted  from  distant 
lands; — I  opened  my  mind  to  him  in- 
genuously, and  gave  him  a  little  sketch 
of  my  life,  to  which  he  was  pleased  to 
listen  with  great  attention. 

I  acknowledged,  that  though  educated 
very  strictly  in  the  principles  of  re-  [650 
ligion,  I  had  for  some  time  been  misled 
into  a  certain  degree  of  infidelity;  but 
that  I  was  come  now  to  a  better  way  of 
thinking,  and  was  fully  satisfied  of  the 
truth  of  the  Christian  revelation,  though 
I  was  not  clear  as  to  every  point  con- 
sidered to  be  orthodox.  Being  at  all 
times  a  curious  examiner  of  the  human 
mind,  and  pleased  with  an  undisguised 
display  of  what  had  passed  in  it,  [660 
he  called  to  me  with  warmth,  "Give  me 
your  hand;  I  have  taken  a  liking  to  you." 
He  then  began  to  descant  upon  the  force 
of  testimony,  and  the  little  we  could 
know  of  final  causes;  so  that  the  objec- 
tions of,  why  was  it  so?  or  why  was  it 
not  so?  ought  not  to  disturb  us:  adding, 
that  he  himself  had  at  one  period  been 
guilty  of  a  temporary  neglect  of  religion, 
but  that  it  was  not  the  result  of  argu-  [670 
ment,  but  mere  absence  of  thought. 

After  having  given  credit  to  reports  of 
his  bigotry,  I  was  agreeably  surprised 
when  he  expressed  the  following  very 
liberal  sentiment,  which  has  the  addi- 
tional value  of  obviating  an  objection  to 
our  holy  religion,  founded  upon  the  dis- 
cordant tenets  of  Christians  themselves: 
"For  my  part,  Sir,  I  think  all  Christians, 
whether  Papists  or  Protestants,  agree  [680 
in  the  essential  articles,  and  that  their 
differences  are  trivial,  and  rather  political 
than  religious." 

We  talked  of  belief  in  ghosts.  He 
said,  "Sir,  I  make  a  distinction  between 
what  a  man  may  experience  by  the  mere 
strength  of  his  imagination,  and  what 
imagination  cannot  possibly  produce. 
Thus,  suppose  I  should  think  that  I  saw 
a  form,  and  heard  a  voice  cry,  'John-  [690 
son,  you  are  a  very  wicked  fellow,  and 
unless  you  repent  you  will  certainly  be 
punished;'  my  own  unworthiness  is  so 
deeply  impressed  upon  my  mind,  that  I 


3o8 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


might  imagine  I  thus  saw  and  heard,  and 
therefore  I  should  not  believe  that  an 
external  communication  had  been  made 
to  me.  But  if  a  form  should  appear,  and 
a  voice  should  tell  me  that  a  particular 
man  had  died  at  a  particular  place,  [700 
and  a  particular  hour,  a  fact  which  I  had 
no  apprehension  of,  nor  any  means  of 
knowing,  and  this  fact,  with  all  its  cir- 
cumstances, should  afterwards  be  unques- 
tionably proved,  I  should,  in  that  case, 
be  persuaded  that  I  had  supernatural 
intelligence  imparted  to  me." 

Here  it  is  proper,  once  for  all,  to  give 
a  true  and  fair  statement  of  Johnson's 
way  of  thinking  upon  the  question,  [710 
whether  departed  spirits  are  ever  per- 
mitted to  appear  in  this  world,  or  in  any 
way  to  operate  upon  human  life.  He  has 
been  ignorantly  misrepresented  as  weakly 
credulous  upon  that  subject;  and,  there- 
fore, though  I  feel  an  inclination  to  disdain 
and  treat  with  silent  contempt  so  foolish 
a  notion  concerning  my  illustrious  friend, 
yet  as  I  find  it  has  gained  ground,  it  is 
necessary  to  refute  it.  The  real  fact  [720 
then  is,  that  Johnson  had  a  very  philosoph- 
ical mind,  and  such  a  rational  respect 
for  testimony,  as  to  make  him  submit 
his  understanding  to  what  was  authen- 
tically proved,  though  he  could  not  com- 
prehend why  it  was  so.  Being  thus  dis- 
posed, he  was  willing  to  inquire  into  the 
truth  of  any  relation  of  supernatural 
agency,  a  general  belief  of  which  has  pre- 
vailed in  all  nations  and  ages.  But  [730 
so  far  was  he  from  being  the  dupe  of  im- 
plicit faith,  that  he  examined  the  matter 
with  a  jealous  attention,  and  no  man 
was  more  ready  to  refute  its  falsehood 
when  he  had  discovered  it.  Churchill  in 
his  poem  entitled  The  Ghost,  availed  him- 
self of  the  absurd  credulity  imputed  to 
Johnson,  and  drew  a  caricature  of  him 
under  the  name  of  "Pomposo,"  repre- 
senting him  as  one  of  the  believers  of  [740 
the  story  of  a  Ghost  in  Cock-lane,  which, 
in  the  year  1762,  had  gained  very  general 
credit  in  London.  Many  of  my  readers, 
I  am  convinced,  are  to  this  hour  under 
an  impression  that  Johnson  was  thus 
foolishly  deceived.  It  will  therefore  sur- 
prise them  a  good  deal  when  they  are  in- 
formed upon  undoubted  authority,  that 


Johnson  was  one  of  those  by  whom  the 
imposture  was  detected.  The  story  [750 
had  become  so  popular,  that  he  thought 
it  should  be  investigated;  and  in  this 
research  he  was  assisted  by  the  Reverend 
Dr.  Douglas,  now  Bishop  of  Salisbury, 
the  great  detecter  of  impostures;  who 
informs  me,  that  after  the  gentlemen 
who  went  and  examined  into  the  evi- 
dence were  satisfied  of  its  falsity,  Johnson 
wrote  in  their  presence  an  account  of  it, 
which  was  published  in  the  news-  [760 
papers  and  Gentleman's  Magazine,  and 
undeceived  the  world. 


As  Dr.  Oliver  Goldsmith  will  frequently 
appear  in  this  narrative,  I  shall  endeavor 
to  make  my  readers  in  some  degree  ac- 
quainted with  his  singular  character.  He 
was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and  a  contem- 
porary with  Mr.  Burke,  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  but  did  not  then  give  much 
promise  of  future  celebrity.  He,  [770 
however,  observed  to  Mr.  Malone,  that 
"though  he  made  no  great  figure  in 
mathematics,  which  was  a  study  in  much 
repute  there,  he  could  turn  an  Ode  of 
Horace  into  English  better  than  any  of 
them."  He  afterwards  studied  physic  at 
Edinburgh,  and  upon  the  Continent:  and 
I  have  been  informed,  was  enabled  to 
pursue  his  travels  on  foot,  partly  by  de- 
manding at  Universities  to  enter  the  [780 
lists  as  a  disputant,  by  which,  according 
to  the  custom  of  many  of  them,  he  was 
entitled  to  the  premium  of  a  crowm, 
when  luckily  for  him  his  challenge  was 
not  accepted;  so  that,  as  I  once  observed 
to  Dr.  Johnson,  he  disputed  his  passage 
through  Europe.  He  then  came  to  Eng- 
land, and  was  employed  successively  in 
the  capacities  of  an  usher  to  an  academy, 
a  corrector  of  the  press,  a  reviewer,  [790 
and  a  writer  for  a  newspaper.  He  had 
sagacity  enough  to  cultivate  assiduously 
the  acquaintance  of  Johnson,  and  his 
faculties  were  gradually  enlarged  by  the 
contemplation  of  such  a  model.  To  me 
and  many  others  it  appeared  that  he 
studiously  copied  the  manner  of  John- 
son, though,  indeed,  upon  a  smaller 
scale. 

At  this  time  I  think  he  had  pub-  [800 


BOSWELL 


309 


lished  nothing  with  his  name,  though  it 
was  pretty  generally  known  that  one 
Dr.  Goldsmith  was  the  author  of  "An 
Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe,"  and  of  "The  Citizen 
of  the  World,"  a  series  of  letters  supposed 
to  be  written  from  London  by  a  Chinese. 
No  man  had  the  art  of  displaying  with 
more  advantage  as  a  writer,  whatever 
literary  acquisitions  he  made.  "  Nihil  [810 
quod  tetigit  non  ornavit."  His  mind  re- 
sembled a  fertile,  but  thin  soil.  There 
was  a  quick,  but  not  a  strong  vegetation, 
of  whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown  upon 
it.  No  deep  root  could  be  struck.  The 
oak  of  the  forest  did  not  grow  there:  but 
the  elegant  shrubbery  and  the  fragrant 
parterre  appeared  in  gay  succession.  It 
has  been  generally  circulated  and  be- 
lieved that  he  was  a  mere  fool  in  con-  [820 
versation;  but,  in  truth,  this  has  been 
greatly  exaggerated.  He  had,  no  doubt, 
a  more  than  common  share  of  that  hurry 
of  ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  coun- 
trymen, and  which  sometimes  produces  a 
laughable  confusion  in  expressing  them. 
He  was  very  much  what  the  French  call 
un  etonrdi,  and  from  vanity  and  an  eager 
desire  of  being  conspicuous  wherever  he 
was,  he  frequently  talked  carelessly  [830 
without  knowledge  of  the  subject,  or 
even  without  thought.  His  person  was 
short,  his  countenance  coarse  and  vulgar, 
his  deportment  that  of  a  scholar  awk- 
wardly affecting  the  easy  gentleman. 
Those  who  were  in  any  way  distinguished, 
excited  envy  in  him  to  so  ridiculous  an 
excess,  that  the  instances  of  it  are  hardly 
credible.  When  accompanying  two  beau- 
tiful young  ladies  with  their  mother  [840 
on  a  tour  in  France,  he  was  seriously 
angry  that  more  attention  was  paid  to 
them  than  to  him;  and  once  at  the  exhi- 
bition of  the  Fantoccini  in  London,  when 
those  who  sat  next  him  observed  with 
what  dexterity  a  puppet  was  made  to 
toss  a  pike,  he  could  not  bear  that  it 
should  have  such  praise,  and  exclaimed 
with  some  warmth,  "Pshaw!  I  can  do  it 
better  myself."  [850 

He,  I  am  afraid,  had  no  settled  system 
of  any  sort,  so  that  his  conduct  must  not 
be  strictly  scrutinized;  but  his  affections 
were  social  and  generous,  and  when  he 


had  money  he  gave  it  away  very  liberally. 
His  desire  of  imaginary  consequence  pre- 
dominated over  his  attention  to  truth. 
When  he  began  to  rise  into  notice,  he 
said  he  had  a  brother  who  was  Dean  of 
Durham,  a  fiction  so  easily  detected,  [860 
that  it  is  wronderful  how  he  should  have 
been  so  inconsiderate  as  to  hazard  it.  He 
boasted  to  me  at  this  time  of  the  power 
of  his  pen  in  conmianding  money,  which 
I  believe  was  true  in  a  certain  degree, 
though  in  the  instance  he  gave  he  was  by 
no  means  correct.  He  told  me  that  he 
had  sold  a  novel  for  four  hundred  pounds. 
This  was  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  But 
Johnson  informed  me,  that  he  had  [870 
made  the  bargain  for  Goldsmith,  and  the 
price  was  sixty  pounds.  "And,  Sir  (said 
he),  a  sufficient  price  too,  when  it  was 
sold;  for  then  the  fame  of  Goldsmith  had 
not  been  elevated,  as  it  afterwards  was, 
by  his  Traveller;  and  the  bookseller  had 
such  faint  hopes  of  profit  by  his  bargain, 
that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by  him  a  long 
time,  and  did  not  publish  it  till  after  the 
Traveller  had  appeared.  Then,  to  [880 
be  sure,  it  was  accidentally  worth  more 
money." 

Mrs.  Piozzi  and  Sir  John  Hawkins  have 
strangely  misstated  the  history  of  Gold- 
smith's situation  and  Johnson's  friendly 
interference,  when  this  novel  was  sold. 
I  shall  give  it  authentically  from  Johnson's 
own  exact  narration: 

"I  received  one  morning  a  message 
from  poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  [890 
great  distress,  and  as  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I 
would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come 
to  him  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as 
soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and  found  that  his 
landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent, 
at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion.  I 
perceived  that  he  had  already  changed 
my  guinea,  and  had  got  a  bottle  of  [900 
Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him.  I  put 
the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would 
be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the 
means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated. 
He  then  told  me  that  he  had  a  novel  ready 
for  the  press,  which  he  produced  to  me. 
I  looked  into  it,  and  saw  its  merit;  told 
the  landlady  I  should  soon  return,  and 


3io 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for 
sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  [910 
the  money,  and  he  discharged  his  rent, 
not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high 
tone  for  having  used  him  so  ill." 

My  next  meeting  with  Johnson  was  on 
Friday  the  1st  of  July,  when  he  and  I  and 
Dr.  Goldsmith  supped  at  the  Mitre.  I 
was  before  this  time  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  Goldsmith,  who  was  one  of  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  the  Johnsonian 
school.  Goldsmith's  respectful  at-  [920 
tachment  to  Johnson  was  then  at  its 
height;  for  his  own  literary  reputation 
had  not  yet  distinguished  him  so  much  as 
to  excite  a  vain  desire  of  competition  with 
his  great  Master.  He  had  increased  my 
admiration  of  the  goodness  of  Johnson's 
heart,  by  incidental  remarks  in  the 
course  of  conversation,  such  as,  when  I 
mentioned  Mr.  Levet,  whom  he  enter- 
tained under  his  roof,  "He  is  poor  [930 
and  honest,  which  is  recommendation 
enough  to  Johnson;"  and  when  I  won- 
dered that  he  was  very  kind  to  a  man  of 
whom  I  had  heard  a  very  bad  character, 
"He  is  now  become  miserable,  and  that 
insures  the  protection  of  Johnson." 

Goldsmith  attempting  this  evening  to 
maintain,  I  suppose  from  an  affectation 
of  paradox,  "that  knowledge  was  not 
desirable  on  its  own  account,  for  it  [940 
often  was  a  source  of  unhappiness." 
Johnson.  "Why,  Sir,  that  knowledge 
may  in  some  cases  produce  unhappiness, 
I  allow.  But,  upon  the  whole,  knowledge, 
per  se,  is  certainly  an  object  which  every 
man  would  wish  to  attain,  although, 
perhaps,  he  may  not  take  the  trouble 
necessary  for  attaining  it." 

Dr.  John  Campbell,  the  celebrated 
political  and  biographical  writer,  be-  [950 
ing  mentioned,  Johnson  said,  "Campbell 
is  a  man  of  much  knowledge,  and  has  a 
good  share  of  imagination.  His  '  Hermip- 
pus  Redivivus'  is  very  entertaining,  as 
an  account  of  the  Hermetic  philosophy, 
and  as  furnishing  a  curious  history  of  the 
extravagances  of  the  human  mind.  If  it 
were  merely  imaginary,  it  would  be  noth- 
ing at  all.  Campbell  is  not  always  rigidly 
careful  of  truth  in  his  conversation;  [960 
but  I  do  not  believe  there  is  any  thing  of 
this  carelessness  in  his  books.     Campbell 


is  a  good  man,  a  pious  man.  I  am  afraid 
he  has  not  been  in  the  inside  of  a  church 
for  many  years;  but  he  never  passes  a 
church  without  pulling  off  his  hat.  This 
shows  that  he  has  good  principles.  I  used 
to  go  pretty  often  to  Campbell's  on  a 
Sunday  evening  till  I  began  to  consider 
that  the  shoals  of  Scotchmen  who  [970 
flocked  about  him  might  probably  say, 
when  any  thing  of  mine  was  well  done, 
'Ay,  ay,  he  has  learnt  this  of  Cawmell!'" 

He  talked  very  contemptuously  of 
Churchill's  poetry,  observing,  that  "it 
had  a  temporary  currency,  only  from  its 
audacity  of  abuse,  and  being  filled  with 
living  names,  that  it  would  sink  into 
oblivion."  I  ventured  to  hint  that  he 
was  not  quite  a  fair  judge,  as  Churchill  [980 
had  attacked  him  violently.  Johnson. 
"Nay,  Sir,  I  am  a  very  fair  judge.  He 
did  not  attack  me  violently  till  he  found 
I  did  not  like  his  poetry;  and  his  attack 
on  me  shall  not  prevent  me  from  con- 
tinuing to  say  what  I  think  of  him,  from 
an  apprehension  that  it  may  be  ascribed 
to  resentment.  No,  Sir,  I  called  the  fel- 
low a  blockhead  at  first,  and  I  will  call 
him  a  blockhead  still.  However,  I  [990 
will  acknowledge  that'  I  have  a  better 
opinion  of  him  now,  than  I  once  had;  for 
he  has  shown  more  fertility  than  I  ex- 
pected. To  be  sure,  he  is  a  tree  that 
cannot  produce  good  fruit:  he  only  bears 
crabs.  But,  Sir,  a  tree  that  produces  a 
great  many  crabs  is  better  than  a  tree 
which  produces  only  a  few." 

In  this  depreciation  of  Churchill's 
poetry  I  could  not  agree  with  him.  [1000 
It  is  very  true  that  the  greatest  part  of  it 
is  upon  the  topics  of  the  day,  on  which 
account,  as  it  brought  him  great  fame  and 
profit  at  the  time,  it  must  proportionably 
slide  out  of  the  public  attention  as  other 
occasional  objects  succeed.  But  Churchill 
had  extraordinary  vigor  both  of  thought 
and  expression.  His  portraits  of  the 
players  will  ever  be  valuable  to  the  true 
lovers  of  the  drama;  and  his  strong  [1010 
caricatures  of  several  eminent  men  of  his 
age,  will  not  be  forgotten  by  the  curious. 
Let  me  add,  that  there  are  in  his  works 
many  passages  which  are  of  a  general 
nature;  and  his  Prophecy  of  Famine  is 
a  poem  of  no  ordinary  merit.    It  is,  indeed, 


BOSWELL 


3" 


falsely  injurious  to  Scotland;  but  there- 
fore may  be  allowed  a  greater  share  of 
invention. 

Bonnell  Thornton  had  just  pub-  [1020 
lished  a  burlesque  "Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's 
day,  adapted  to  the  ancient  British  music, 
viz.  the  salt-box,  the  jews-harp,  the 
marrow-bones  and  cleaver,  the  hum-strum 
or  hurdy-gurdy,  &c."  Johnson  praised 
its  humor,  and  seemed  much  diverted 
with  it.  He  repeated  the  following  pas- 
sage: 

"In    strains    more    exalted    the    salt-box  | 

shall  join, 
And  clattering  and  battering  and  clapping 

combine;  [1030 

With  a  rap  and  a  tap  while  the  hollow 

side  sounds, 
Up  and  down  leaps  the  flap,  and  with 

rattling  rebounds." 

I  mentioned  the  periodical  paper  called 
The  Connoisseur.  He  said  it  wanted 
matter. — No  doubt  it  had  not  the  deep 
thinking  of  Johnson's  writings.  But  surely 
it  has  just  views  of  the  surface  of  life, 
and  a  very  sprightly  manner.  His  opinion 
of  The  World  was  not  much  higher  than 
of  The  Connoisseur.  [1040 

Let  me  here  apologize  for  the  imperfect 
manner  in  which  I  am  obliged  to  exhibit 
Johnson's  conversation  at  this  period.  In 
the  early  part  of  my  acquaintance  with 
him,  I  was  so  wrapt  in  admiration  of  his 
extraordinary  colloquial  talents,  and  so 
little  accustomed  to  his  peculiar  mode  of 
expression,  that  I  found  it  extremely 
difficult  to  recollect  and  record  his  con- 
versation with  its  genuine  vigor  and  [1050 
vivacity.  In  progress  of  time,  when  my 
mind  was,  as  it  were,  strongly  impregnated 
with  the  Johnsonian  cether,  I  could  with 
much  more  facility  and  exactness,  carry 
in  my  memory  and  commit  to  paper  the 
exuberant  variety  of  his  wisdom  and  wit. 

At  this  time  Miss  Williams,  as  she  was 
then  called,  though  she  did  not  reside 
with  him  in  the  Temple  under  his  roof, 
but  had  lodgings  in  Bolt-court,  [1060 
Fleet-street,  had  so  much  of  his  attention, 
that  he  every  night  drank  tea  with  her 
before  he  went  home,  however  late  it 
might  be,  and  she  always  sat  up  for 
him.     This,  it  may  be  fairly  conjectured, 


was  not  alone  a  proof  of  his  regard  for  her, 
but  of  his  own  unwillingness  to  go  into 
solitude,  before  that  unseasonable  hour  at 
which  he  had  habituated  himself  to  ex- 
pect the  oblivion  of  repose.  Dr.  Gold-  [1070 
smith,  being  a  privileged  man,  went  with 
him  this  night,  strutting  away,  and  calling 
to  me  with  an  air  of  superiority,  like 
that  of  an  esoteric  over  an  exoteric 
disciple  of  a  sage  of  antiquity,  "I  go  to 
see  Miss  Williams."  I  confess,  I  then 
envied  him  this  mighty  privilege,  of  which 
he  seemed  so  proud;  but  it  was  not  long 
before  I  obtained  the  same  mark  of  dis- 
tinction. [1080 


On  Wednesday,  July  6,  he  was  engaged 
to  sup  with  me  at  my  lodgings  in  Down- 
ing-street,  Westminster.  But  on  the  pre- 
ceding night  my  landlord  having  be- 
haved very  rudely  to  me  and  some  com- 
pany who  were  with  me,  I  had  resolved 
not  to  remain  another  night  in  his  house. 
I  was  exceedingly  uneasy  at  the  awkward 
appearance  I  supposed  I  should  make 
to  Johnson  and  the  other  gentleman  [1090 
whom  I  had  invited,  not  being  able  to 
receive  them  at  home,  and  being  obliged 
to  order  supper  at  the  Mitre.  I  went  to 
Johnson  in  the  morning,  and  talked 
of  it  as  of  a  serious  distress.  He  laughed, 
and  said,  "Consider,  Sir,  how  insignificant 
this  will  appear  a  twelvemonth  hence." — 
Were  this  consideration  to  be  applied  to 
most  of  the  little  vexatious  incidents  of 
life,  by  which  our  quiet  is  too  often  [noo 
disturbed,  it  would  prevent  many  painful 
sensations.  I  have  tried  it  frequently 
with  good  effect.  "There  is  nothing  (con- 
tinued he)  in  this  mighty  misfortune;  nay, 
we  shall  be  better  at  the  Mitre."  I  told 
him  that  I  had  been  at  Sir  John  Fielding's 
office,  complaining  of  my  landlord,  and 
had  been  informed,  that  though  I  had 
taken  my  lodgings  for  a  year,  I  might, 
upon  proof  of  his  bad  behavior,  quit  [mo 
them  when  I  pleased,  without  being  under 
an  obligation  to  pay  rent  for  any  longer 
time  than  while  I  possessed  them.  The 
fertility  of  Johnson's  mind  could  show 
itself  even  upon  so  small  a  matter  as  this. 
"Why,  Sir  (said  he),  I  suppose  this  must 
be  the  law,  since  you  have  been  told  so  in 


312 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Bow-street.  But,  if  your  landlord  could 
hold  you  to  your  bargain,  and  the  lodgings 
should  be  yours  for  a  year,  you  may  [1120 
certainly  use  them  as  you  think  fit.  So, 
Sir,  you  may  quarter  two  life-guardmen 
upon  him;  or  you  may  send  the  greatest 
scoundrel  you  can  find  into  your  apart- 
ments; or  you  may  say  that  you  want  to 
make  some  experiments  in  natural  philos- 
ophy, and  may  burn  a  large  quantity 
of  assafcetida  in  his  house." 

I  had  as  my  guests  this  evening  at  the 
Mitre  tavern,  Dr.  Johnson,  Dr.  Gold-  [1130 
smith,  Mr.  Thomas  Davies,  Mr.  Eccles, 
an  Irish  gentleman,  for  whose  agreeable 
company  I  was  obliged  to  Mr.  Davies, 
and  the  Reverend  Mr.  John  Ogilvie,  who 
was  desirous  of  being  in  company  with 
my  illustrious  friend,  while  I  in  my  turn 
was  proud  to  have  the  honor  of  showing 
one  of  my  countrymen  upon  what  easy 
terms  Johnson  permitted  me  to  five  with 
him.  [1140 

Goldsmith,  as  usual,  endeavored,  with 
too  much  eagerness,  to  shine,  and  dis- 
puted very  warmly  with  Johnson  against 
the  well  known  maxim  of  the  British  con- 
stitution, "the  King  can  do  no  wrong;" 
affirming,  that  "what  was  morally  false 
could  not  be  politically  true;  and  as  the 
King  might,  in  the  exercise  of  his  regal 
power,  command  and  cause  the  doing  of 
what  was  wrong,  it  certainly  might  [1150 
be  said,  in  sense  and  in  reason,  that  he 
could  do  wrong."  Johnson.  "Sir,  you 
are  to  consider,  that  in  our  constitution, 
according  to  its  true  principles,  the  King 
is  the  head,  he  is  supreme:  he  is  above 
everything,  and  there  is  no  power  by 
which  he  can  be  tried.  Therefore,  it  is, 
Sir,  that  we  hold  the  King  can  do  no 
wrong;  that  whatever  may  happen  to  be 
wrong  in  government  may  not  be  [1160 
above  our  reach,  by  being  ascribed  to 
Majesty.  Redress  is  always  to  be  had 
against  oppression,  by  punishing  the  im- 
mediate agents.  The  King,  though  he 
should  command,  cannot  force  a  Judge  to 
condemn  a  man  unjustly;  therefore  it  is 
the  Judge  whom  we  prosecute  and  punish. 
Political  institutions  are  formed  upon  the 
consideration  of  what  will  most  frequently 
tend  to  the  good  of  the  whole,  al-  [1170 
though    now    and    then    exceptions    may 


occur.  Thus  it  is  better  in  general  that  a 
nation  should  have  a  supreme  legislative 
power,  although  it  may  at  times  be  abused. 
And  then,  Sir,  there  is  this  consideration, 
that  if  the  abuse  be  enormous,  Nature  will 
rise  up,  and  claiming  her  original  rights, 
overturn  a  corrupt  political  system."  I 
mark  this  animated  sentence  with  pe- 
culiar pleasure,  as  a  noble  instance  [1180 
of  that  truly  dignified  spirit  of  freedom 
which  ever  glowed  in  his  heart,  though 
he  was  charged  with  slavish  tenets  by 
superficial  observers;  because  he  was  at 
all  times  indignant  against  that  false 
patriotism,  that  pretended  love  of  free- 
dom, that  unruly  restlessness  which  is 
inconsistent  with  the  stable  authority  of 
any  good  government. 

This  generous  sentiment,  which  he  [1190 
uttered  with  great  fervor,  struck  me  ex- 
ceedingly, and  stirred  my  blood  to  that 
pitch  of  fancied  resistance,  the  possibility 
of  which  I  am  glad  to  keep  in  mind,  but 
to  which  I  trust  I  never  shall  be  forced. 

"Great  abilities  (said  he)  are  not  req- 
uisite for  an  Historian;  for  in  historical 
composition,  all  the  greatest  powers  of  the 
human  mind  are  quiescent.  He  has  facts 
ready  to  his  hand;  so  there  is  no  [1200 
exercise  of  invention.  Imagination  is  not 
required  in  any  high  degree;  only  about 
as  much  as  is  used  in  the  lower  kinds  of 
poetry.  Some  penetration,  accuracy,  and 
coloring,  will  fit  a  man  for  the  task,  if 
he  can  give  the  application  which  is 
necessary." 

"Bayle's  Dictionary  is  a  very  useful 
work  for  those  to  consult  who  love  the 
biographical  part  of  literature,  which  [1210 
is  what  I  love  most." 

Talking  of  the  eminent  writers  in  Queen 
Anne's  reign,  he  observed,  "I  think  Dr. 
Arbuthnot  the  first  man  among  them. 
He  was  the  most  universal  genius,  being 
an  excellent  physician,  a  man  of  deep 
learning,  and  a  man  of  much  humor.  Mr. 
Addison  was,  to  be  sure,  a  great  man;  his 
learning  was  not  profound;  but  his 
morality,  his  humor,  and  his  elegance  [1220 
of  writing,  set  him  very  high." 

Mr.  Ogilvie  was  unlucky  enough  to 
choose  for  the  topic  of  his  conversation 
the  praises  of  his  native  country.  He 
began  with  saying,  that  there  was  very 


BOSWELL 


3i3 


rich  land  around  Edinburgh.  Goldsmith, 
who  had  studied  physic  there,  contra- 
dicted this,  very  untruly,  with  a  sneering 
laugh.  Disconcerted  a  little  by  this, 
Mr.  Ogilvie  then  took  a  new  ground,  [1230 
where,  I  suppose,  he  thought  himself 
perfectly  safe;  for  he  observed,  that  Scot- 
land had  a  great  many  noble  wild  pros- 
pects. Johnson.  "I  believe,  Sir,  you 
have  a  great  many.  Norway,  too,  has 
noble  wild  prospects;  and  Lapland  is  re- 
markable for  prodigious  noble  wild  pros- 
pects. But,  Sir,  let  me  tell  you,  the 
noblest  prospect  which  a  Scotchman  ever 
sees,  is  the  high  road  that  leads  him-  [1240 
to  England!"  This  unexpected  and 
pointed  sally  produced  a  roar  of  applause. 
After  all,  however,  those  who  admire  the 
rude  grandeur  of  Nature,  cannot  deny  it 
to  Caledonia. 

On  Saturday,  July  9,  I  found  Johnson 
surrounded  with  a  numerous  levee,  but 
have  not  preserved  any  part  of  his  con- 
versation. On  the  14th  we  had  another 
evening  by  ourselves  at  the  Mitre.  It  [1250 
happening  to  be  a  very  rainy  night,  I 
made  some  common-place  observations 
on  the  relaxation  of  nerves  and  depression 
of  spirits  which  such  weather  occasioned; 
adding,  however,  that  it  was  good  for  the 
vegetable  creation.  Johnson,  who,  as  we 
have  already  seen,  denied  that  the  tem- 
perature of  the  air  had  any  influence  on 
the  human  frame,  answered,  with  a  smile 
of  ridicule,  "Why,  yes,  Sir,  it  is  good  [1260 
for  vegetables,  and  for  the  animals  who 
eat  those  vegetables,  and  for  the  animals 
who  eat  those  animals."  This  observation 
of  his  aptly  enough  introduced  a  good 
supper;  and  I  soon  forgot,  in  Johnson's 
company,  the  influence  of  a  moist  at- 
mosphere. 

Feeling  myself  now  quite  at  ease  as  his 
companion,  though  I  had  all  possible 
reverence  for  him,  I  expressed  a  re-  [1270 
gret  that  I  could  not  be  so  easy  with  my 
father,  though  he  was  not  much  older 
than  Johnson,  and  certainly  however  re- 
spectable had  not  more  learning  and 
greater  abilities  to  depress  me.  I  asked 
him  the  reason  of  this.  Johnson.  "Why, 
Sir,  I  am  a  man  of  the  world.  I  live  in 
the  world,  and  I  take,  in  some  degree,  the 
color  of  the  world  as  it  moves  along.    Your 


father  is  a  Judge  in  a  remote  part  of  [1280 
the  island,  and  all  his  notions  are  taken 
from  the  old  world.  Besides,  Sir,  there 
must  always  be  a  struggle  between  a 
father  and  son,  while  one  aims  at  power 
and  the  other  at  independence."  I  said, 
I  was  afraid  my  father  would  force  me  to 
be  a  lawyer.  Johnson.  "Sir,  you  need 
not  be  afraid  of  his  forcing  you  to  be  a 
laborious  practising  lawyer;  that  is  not 
in  his  power.  For  as  the  proverb  [1290 
says,  'One  man  may  lead  a  horse  to  the 
water,  but  twenty  cannot  make  him  drink.' 
He  may  be  displeased  that  you  are  not 
what  he  wishes  you  to  be;  but  that  dis- 
pleasure will  not  go  far.  If  he  insists 
only  on  your  having  as  much  law  as  is 
necessary  for  a  man  of  property,  and  then 
endeavors  to  get  you  into  Parliament,  he 
is  quite  in  the  right." 

He  enlarged  very  convincingly  [1300 
upon  the  excellence  of  rhyme  over  blank 
verse  in  English  poetry.  I  mentioned  to 
him  that  Dr.  Adam  Smith,  in  his  lectures 
upon  composition,  when  I  studied  under 
him  in  the  College  of  Glasgow,  had  main- 
tained the  same  opinion  strenuously,  and 
I  repeated  some  of  his  arguments.  John- 
son. "Sir,  I  was  once  in  company  with 
Smith,  and  we  did  not  take  to  each  other; 
but  had  I  known  that  he  loved  [1310 
rhyme  as  much  as  you  tell  me  he  does, 
I  should  have  hugged  him." 

Talking  of  those  who  denied  the  truth 
of  Christianity,  he  said,  "It  is  always 
easy  to  be  on  the  negative  side.  If  a  man 
were  now  to  deny  that  there  is  salt  upon 
the  table,  you  could  not  reduce  him  to  an 
absurdity.  Come,  let  us  try  this  a  little 
further.  I  deny  that  Canada  is  taken; 
and  I  can  support  my  denial  by  [1320 
pretty  good  arguments.  The  French  are 
a  much  more  numerous  people  than  we; 
and  it  is  not  likely  that  they  would  allow 
us  to  take  it.  'B,ut  the  ministry  have 
assured  us,  in  all  the  formality  of  the 
Gazette,  that  it  is  taken.' — Very  true. 
But  the  ministry  have  put  us  to  an  enor- 
mous expense  by  the  war  in  America,  and 
it  is  their  interest  to  .persuade  us  that  we 
have  got  something  for  our  money. —  [1330 
'But  the  fact  is  confirmed  by  thousands 
of  men  who  were  at  the  taking  of  it.' — 
Ay,  but  these  men  have  still  more  in- 


3i4 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


terest  in  deceiving  us.  They  don't  want 
that  you  should  think  the  French  have 
beat  them,  but  that  they  have  beat  the 
French.  Now  suppose  you  should  go 
over  and  find  that  it  really  is  taken,  that 
would  only  satisfy  yourself;  for  when  you 
come  home  we  will  not  believe  you.  [1340 
We  will  say,  you  have  been  bribed. — 
Yet,  Sir,  notwithstanding  all  these  plau- 
sible objections,  we  have  no  doubt  that 
Canada  is  really  ours.  Such  is  the  weight 
of  common  testimony.  How  much 
stronger  are  the  evidences  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion? 

"Idleness  is  a  disease  which  must  be 
combated;  but  I  would  not  advise  a  rigid 
adherence  to  a  particular  plan  of  [1350 
study.  I  myself  have  never  persisted  in 
any  plan  for  two  days  together.  A  man 
ought  to  read  just  as  inclination  leads 
him;  for  what  he  reads  as  a  task  will  do 
him  little  good.  A  young  man  should 
read  five  hours  in  a  day,  and  so  may 
acquire  a  great  deal  of  knowledge." 

To  a  man  of  vigorous  intellect  and 
ardent  curiosity  like  his  own,  reading 
without  a  regular  plan  may  be  bene-  [1360 
ficial;  though  even  such  a  man  must  sub- 
mit to  it,  if  he  would  attain  a  full  under- 
standing of  any  of  the  sciences. 

To  such  a  degree  of  unrestrained  frank- 
ness had  he  now  accustomed  me,  that  in 
the  course  of  this  evening  I  talked  of  the 
numerous  reflections  which  had  been 
thrown  out  against  him  on  account  of 
his  having  accepted  a  pension  from  his 
present  Majesty.  "Why,  Sir  (said  [1370 
he,  with  a  hearty  laugh),  it  is  a  mighty 
foolish  noise  that  they  make.  I  have 
accepted  of  a  pension  as  a  reward  which 
has  been  thought  due  to  my  literary 
merit;  and  now  that  I  have  this  pension, 
I  am  the  same  man  in  every  respect  that 
I  have  ever  been;  I  retain  the  same  prin- 
ciples. It  is  true,  that  I  cannot  now  curse 
(smiling)  the  House  of  Hanover;  nor 
would  it  be  decent  for  me  to  drink  [1380 
King  James's  health  in  the  wine  that  King 
George  gives  me  money  to  pay  for.  But, 
Sir,  I  think  that  the  pleasure  of  cursing 
the  House  of  Hanover,  and  drinking  King 
James's  health,  are  amply  overbalanced 
by  three  hundred  pounds  a  year." 

There    was    here,    most    certainly,    an 


affectation  of  more  Jacobitism  than  he 
really  had;  and  indeed  an  intention  of 
admitting,  for  the  moment,  in  a  [1390 
much  greater  extent  than  it  really  ex- 
isted, the  charge  of  disaffection  imputed 
to  him  by  the  world,  merely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  showing  how  dexterously  he  could 
repel  an  attack,  even  though  he  were 
placed  in  the  most  disadvantageous  posi- 
tion; for  I  have  heard  him  declare,  that 
if  holding  up  his  right  hand  would  have 
secured  victory  at  Culloden  to  Prince 
Charles's  army,  he  was  not  sure  he  [1400 
would  have  held  it  up;  so  little  confidence 
had  he  in  the  right  claimed  by  the  House 
of  Stuart,  and  so  fearful  was  he  of  the 
consequences  of  another  revolution  on 
the  throne  of  Great  Britain;  and  Mr. 
Topham  Beau  clerk  assured  me,  he  had 
heard  him  say  this  before  he  had  his  pen- 
sion. At  another  time  he  said  to  Mr. 
Langton,  "Nothing  has  ever  offered,  that 
has  made  it  worth  my  while  to  con-  [1410 
sider  the  question  fully."  He,  however, 
also  said  to  the  same  gentleman,  talking 
of  King  James  the  Second,  "It  was  be- 
come impossible  for  him  to  reign  any 
longer  in  this  country."  He  no  doubt 
had  an  early  attachment  to  the  House  of 
Stuart;  but  his  zeal  had  cooled  as  his 
reason  strengthened.  Indeed,  I  heard 
him  once  say,  "that  after  the  death  of  a 
violent  Whig,  with  whom  he  used  [1420 
to  contend  with  great  eagerness,  he  felt 
his  Toryism  much  abated."  I  suppose  he 
meant  Mr.  Walmsley. 

Yet  there  is  no  doubt  that  at  earlier 
periods  he  was  wont  often  to  exercise 
both  his  pleasantry  and  ingenuity  in 
talking  Jacobitism.  My  much  respected 
friend,  Dr.  Douglas,  now  Bishop  of  Salis- 
bury, has  favored  me  with  the  following 
admirable  instance  from  his  Lord-  [1430 
ship's  own  recollection.  One  day  when 
dining  at  old  Mr.  Langton's,  where  Miss 
Roberts,  his  niece,  was  one  of  the  com- 
pany, Johnson,  with  his  usual  complacent 
attention  to  the  fair  sex,  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  said,  "My  dear,  I  hope  you  are 
a  Jacobite."  Old  Mr.  Langton,  who, 
though  a  high  and  steady  Tory,  was  at- 
tached to  the  present  Royal  Family, 
seemed  offended,  and  asked  Johnson,  [1440 
with  great  warmth,  what  he  could  mean 


BOSWELL 


3i5 


by  putting  such  a  question  to  his  niece! 
"Why,  Sir  (said  Johnson),  I  meant  no 
offence  to  your  niece,  I  meant  her  a  great 
compliment.  A  Jacobite,  Sir,  believes  in 
the  divine  right  of  Kings.  He  that  be- 
lieves in  the  divine  right  of  Kings  believes 
in  a  Divinity.  A  Jacobite  believes  in  the 
divine  right  of  Bishops.  He  that  believes 
in  the  divine  right  of  Bishops  be-  [1450 
lieves  in  the  divine  authority  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion.  Therefore,  Sir,  a  Jacobite 
is  neither  an  Atheist  nor  a  Deist.  That 
cannot  be  said  of  a  Whig;  for  Whiggism 
is  a  negation  of  all  principle." 


Next  morning  I  found  him  alone,  and 
have  preserved  the  following  fragments 
of  his  conversation.  Of  a  gentleman 
who  was  mentioned,  he  said,  "I  have  not 
met  with  any  man  for  a  long  time  [1460 
who  has  given  me  such  general  displeas- 
ure. He  is  totally  unfixed  in  his  prin- 
ciples, and  wants  to  puzzle  other  people." 
I  said  his  principles  had  been  poisoned 
by  a  noted  infidel  writer,  but  that  he  was, 
nevertheless,  a  benevolent  good  man. 
Johnson.  "We  can  have  no  dependance 
upon  that  instinctive,  that  constitutional 
goodness,  which  is  not  founded  upon 
principle.  I  grant  you  that  such  a  [1470 
man  may  be  a  very  amiable  member  of 
society.  I  can  conceive  him  placed  in 
such  a  situation  that  he  is  not  much 
tempted  to  deviate  from  what  is  right; 
and  as  every  man  prefers  virtue,  when 
there  is  not  some  strong  incitement  to 
transgress  its  precepts,  I  can  conceive 
him  doing  nothing  wrong.  But  if  such 
a  man  stood  in  need  of  money,  I  should 
not  like  to  trust  him;  and  I  should  [1480 
certainly  not  trust  him  with  young  ladies, 
for  there  there  is  always  temptation. 
Hume,  and  other  sceptical  innovators, 
are  vain  men,  and  will  gratify  themselves 
at  any  expense.  Truth  will  not  afford 
sufficient  food  to  their  vanity;  so  they 
have  betaken  themselves  to  error.  Truth, 
Sir,  is  a  cow  which  will  yield  such  people 
no  more  milk,  and  so  they  are  gone  to 
milk  the  bull.  If  I  could  have  al-  [1400 
lowed  myself  to  gratify  my  vanity  at  the 
expense  of  truth,  what  fame  might  I  have 
acquired.     Everything  which  Hume  has 


advanced  against  Christianity  had  passed 
through  my  mind  long  before  he  wrote. 
Always  remember  this,  that  after  a  sys- 
tem is  well  settled  upon  positive  evidence, 
a  few  partial  objections  ought  not  to 
shake  it.  The  human  mind  is  so  limited, 
that  it  cannot  take  in  all  the  parts  [1500 
of  a  subject,  so  that  there  may  be  objec- 
tions raised  against  any  thing."  .  .  . 

I  mentioned  Hume's  argument  against 
the  belief  of  miracles,  that  it  is  more  prob- 
able that  the  witnesses  to  the  truth  of 
them  are  mistaken,  or  speak  falsely,  than 
that  the  miracles  should  be  true.  John- 
son. "Why,  Sir,  the  great  difficulty  of 
proving  miracles  should  make  us  very 
cautious  in  believing  them.  But  let  [1510 
us  consider;  although  God  has  made 
Nature  to  operate  by  certain  fixed  laws, 
yet  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  think  that 
he  may  suspend  those  laws,  in  order  to 
establish  a  system  highly  advantageous 
to  mankind.  Now  the  Christian  Religion 
is  a  most  beneficial  system,  as  it  gives  us 
light  and  certainty  where  we  were  before 
in  darkness  and  doubt.  The  miracles 
which  prove  it  are  attested  by  men  [1520 
who  had  no  interest  in  deceiving  us;  but 
who,  on  the  contrary,  were  told  that 
they  should  suffer  persecution,  and  did 
actually  lay  down  their  lives  in  confirma- 
tion of  the  truth  of  the  facts  which  they 
asserted.  Indeed,  for  some  centuries  the 
heathens  did  not  pretend  to  deny  the 
miracles;  but  said  they  were  performed 
by  the  aid  of  evil  spirits.  This  is  a  cir- 
cumstance of  great  weight.  Then,  [1530 
Sir,  when  we  take  the  proofs  derived 
from  prophecies  which  have  been  so  ex- 
actly fulfilled,  we  have  most  satisfactory 
evidence.  Supposing  a  miracle  possible, 
as  to  which,  in  my  opinion,  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  we  have  as  strong  evidence  for 
the  miracles  in  support  of  Christianity, 
as  the  nature  of  the  thing  admits." 

At  night,  Mr.  Johnson  and  I  supped 
in  a  private  room  at  the  Turk's  Head  [1540 
coffee-house,  in  the  Strand.  "  I  encourage 
this  house  (said  he),  for  the  mistress  of 
it  is  a  good  civil  woman,  and  has  not 
much  business. 

"Sir,  I. love  the  acquaintance  of  young 
people;  because,  in  the  first  place,  I  don't 
like   to   think   myself   growing    old.      In 


316 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


the  next  place,  young  acquaintances  must 
last  longest,  if  they  do  last;  and  then,  Sir, 
young  men  have  more  virtue  than  [1550 
old  men;  they  have  more  generous  senti- 
ments in  every  respect.  I  love  the  young 
dogs  of  this  age,  they  have  more  wit  and 
humor  and  knowledge  of  life  than  we  had ; 
but  then  the  dogs  are  not  so  good  scholars. 
Sir,  in  my  early  years  I  read  very  hard. 
It  is  a  sad  reflection  but  a  true  one,  that 
I  knew  almost  as  much  at  eighteen  as  I 
do  now.  My  judgment,  to  be  sure,  was 
not  so  good;  but  I  had  all  the  facts.  [1560 
I  remember  very  well,  when  I  was  at 
Oxford,  an  old  gentleman  said  to  me, 
'Young  man,  ply  your  book  diligently 
now,  and  acquire  a  stock  of  knowledge; 
for  when  years  come  upon  you,  you  will 
find  that  poring  upon  books  will  be  but 
an  irksome  task.'" 

This  account  of  his  reading,  given  by 
himself  in  plain  words,  sufficiently  con- 
firms what  I  have  already  ad-  [1570 
vanced  upon  the  disputed  question  as 
to  his  application.  It  reconciles  any 
seeming  inconsistency  in  his  way  of  talk- 
ing upon  it  at  different  times;  and  shows 
that  idleness  and  reading  hard  were  with 
him  relative  terms,  the  import  of  which, 
as  used  by  him,  must  be  gathered  from  a 
comparison  with  what  scholars  of  differ- 
ent degrees  of  ardor  and  assiduity  have 
been  known  to  do.  And  let  it  be  re-  [1580 
membered,  that  he  was  now  talking  spon- 
taneously, and  expressing  his  genuine 
sentiments;  whereas  at  other  times  he 
might  be  induced,  from  his  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction, or  more  properly  from  his  love 
of  argumentative  contest,  to  speak  lightly 
of  his  own  application  to  study.  It  is 
pleasing  to  consider  that  the  old  gentle- 
man's gloomy  prophecy  as  to  the  irk- 
someness  of  books  to  men  of  an  ad-  [1590 
vanced  age,  which  is  too  often  fulfilled, 
was  so  far  from  being  verified  in  Johnson, 
that  his  ardor  for  literature  never  failed, 
and  his  last  writings  had  more  ease  and 
vivacity  than  any  of  his  earlier  produc- 
tions. 

He  mentioned  to  me  now,  for  the  first 
time,  that  he  had  been  distressed  by  mel- 
ancholy, and  for  that  reason  had  been 
obliged  to  fly  from  study  and  medita-  [1600 
tion,   to   the  dissipating   variety  of   life. 


Against  melancholy  he  recommended  con- 
stant occupation  of  mind,  a  great  deal  of 
exercise,  moderation  in  eating  and  drink- 
ing, and  especially  to  shun  drinking  at 
night.  He  said  melancholy  people  were 
apt  to  fly  to  intemperance  for  relief,  but 
that  it  sunk  them  much  deeper  in  misery. 
He  observed,  that  laboring  men  who 
work  hard,  and  live  sparingly,  are  [1610 
seldom  or  never  troubled  with  low  spirits. 
He  again  insisted  on  the  duty  of  main- 
taining subordination  of  rank.  "Sir,  I 
would  no  more  deprive  a  nobleman  of  his 
respect,  than  of  his  money.  I  consider 
myself  as  acting  a  part  in  the  great  sys- 
tem of  society,  and  I  do  to  others  as  I 
would  have  them  to  do  to  me.  I  would 
behave  to  a  nobleman  as  I  should  expect 
he  would  behave  to  me,  were  I  a  [1620 
nobleman  and  he  Sam.  Johnson.  Sir, 
there  is  one  Mrs.  Macaulay  in  this  town, 
a  great  republican.  One  day  when  I  was 
at  her  house,  I  put  on  a  very  grave  coun- 
tenance, and  said  to  her,  'Madam,  I  am 
now  become  a  convert  to  your  way  of 
thinking.  I  am  convinced  that  all  man- 
kind are  upon  an  equal  footing;  and 
to  give  you  an  unquestionable  proof, 
Madam,  that  I  am  in  earnest,  here  [1630 
is  a  very  sensible,  civil,  well-behaved  fel- 
low citizen,  your  footman;  I  desire  that  he 
may  be  allowed  to  sit  down  and  dine 
with  us.'  I  thus,  Sir,  showed  her  the 
absurdity  of  the  levelling  doctrine.  She 
has  never  liked  me  since.  Sir,  your 
levellers  wish  to  level  down  as  far  as  them- 
selves; but  they  cannot  bear  levelling 
up  to  themselves.  They  would' all  have 
some  people  under  them;  why  not  [1640 
then  have  some  people  above  them?"  I 
mentioned  a  certain  author  who  dis- 
gusted me  by  his  forwardness,  and  by 
showing  no  deference  to  noblemen  into 
whose  company  he  was  admitted.  John- 
son. "Suppose  a  shoemaker  should 
claim  an  equality  with  him,  as  he  does 
with  a  Lord:  how  he  would  stare.  'Why, 
Sir,  do  you  stare?  (says  the  shoemaker,) 
I  do  great  service  to  society.  'Tis  [1650 
true,  I  am  paid  for  doing  it;  but  so  are 
you,  Sir:  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  better 
paid  than  I  am,  for  doing  something  not 
so  necessary.  For  mankind  could  do 
better  without  your  books,  than  without 


BOSWELL 


3*7 


my  shoes.'  Thus,  Sir,  there  would  be  a 
perpetual  struggle  for  precedence,  were 
there  no  fixed  invariable  rules  for  the  dis- 
tinction of  rank,  which  creates  no  jealousy, 
as  it  is  allowed  to  be  accidental."       fi66o 


I  again  begged  his  advice  as  to  my 
method  of  study  at  Utrecht.  "Come, 
(said  he)  let  us  make  a  day  of  it.  Let  us 
go  down  to  Greenwich  and  dine,  and 
talk  of  it  there."  The  following  Saturday 
was  fixed  for  this  excursion. 

As  we  walked  along  the  Strand  to-night, 
arm  in  arm,  a  woman  of  the  town  ac- 
costed us,  in  the  usual  enticing  manner. 
"No,  no,  my  girl  (said  Johnson),  it  [1670 
won't  do."  He,  however,  did  not  treat 
her  with  harshness;  and  we  talked  of  the 
wretched  life  of  such  women,  and  agreed, 
that  much  more  misery  than  happiness, 
upon  the  whole,  is  produced  by  illicit 
commerce  between  the  sexes. 

On  Saturday,  July  30,  Dr.  Johnson 
and  I  took  a  sculler  at  the  Temple-stairs, 
and  set  out  for  Greenwich.  I  asked  him 
if  he  really  thought  a  knowledge  of  [1680 
the  Greek  and  Latin  languages  an  essen- 
tial requisite  to  a  good  education.  John- 
son. "Most  certainly,  Sir;  for  those  who 
know  them  have  a  very  great  advantage 
over  those  who  do  not.  Nay,  Sir,  it  is 
wonderful  what  a  difference  learning 
makes  upon  people  even  in  the  common 
intercourse  of  life,  which  does  not  appear 
to  be  much  connected  with  it."  "And 
yet  (said  I),  people  go  through  the  [1690 
world  very  well,  and  carry  on  the  business 
of  life  to  good  advantage,  without  learn- 
ing." "Johnson.  "Why,  Sir,  that  may 
be  true  in  cases  where  learning  cannot 
possibly  be  of  any  use;  for  instance,  this 
boy  rows  us  as  well  without  learning,  as 
if  he  could  sing  the  song  of  Orpheus  to  the 
Argonauts,  who  were  the  first  sailors." 
He  then  called  to  the  boy,  "What  would 
you  give,  my  lad,  to  know  about  [1700 
the  Argonauts?"  "Sir  (said  the  boy),  I 
would  give  what  I  have."  Johnson  was 
much  pleased  with  his  answer,  and  we 
gave  him  a  double  fare.  Dr.  Johnson 
then  turning  to  me,  "Sir  (said  he),  a 
desire  of  knowledge  is  the  natural  feeling 
of   mankind;    and    every    human    being, 


whose  mind  is  not  debauched,  will  be 
willing  to  give  all  that  he  has,  to  get 
knowledge."  [1710 

We  landed  at  the  Old  Swan,  and  walked 
to  Billingsgate,  where  we  took  oars  and 
moved  smoothly  along  the  silver  Thames. 
It  was  a  very  fine  day.  We  were  enter- 
tained with  the  immense  number  and 
variety  of  ships  that  were  lying  at  anchor, 
and  with  the  beautiful  country  on  each 
side  of  the  river. 

I  talked  of  preaching,  and  of  the  great 
success  which  those  called  Metho-  [1720 
dists  have.  Johnson.  "Sir,  it  is  owing 
to  their  expressing  themselves  in  a  plain 
and  familiar  manner,  which  is  the  only 
way  to  do  good  to  the  common  people, 
and  which  clergymen  of  genius  and  learn- 
ing ought  to  do  from  a  principle  of  duty, 
when  it  is  suited  to  their  congregations;  a 
practice,  for  which  they  will  be  praised 
by  men  of  sense.  To  insist  against  drunk- 
enness as  a  crime,  because  it  de-  [1730 
bases  reason,  the  noblest  faculty  of  man, 
would  be  of  no  service  to  the  common 
people;  but  to  tell  them  that  they  may 
die  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness,  and  show  them 
how  dreadful  that  would  be,  cannot  fail 
to  make  a  deep  impression.  Sir,  when 
your  Scotch  clergy  give  up  their  homely 
manner,  religion  will  soon  decay  in  that 
country."  Let  this  observation,  as  John- 
son meant  it,  be  ever  remembered.      [1740 

I  was  much  pleased  to  find  myself  with 
Johnson  at  Greenwich,  which  he  cele- 
brates in  his  "London"  as  a  favorite 
scene.  I  had  the  poem  in  my  pocket,  and 
read  the  lines  aloud  with  enthusiasm: 

"On  Thames's  banks  in  silent  thought  we 

stood, 
Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver 

flood: 
Pleased  with  the  seat  which  gave  Eliza 

birth, 
We    kneel,    and    kiss    the    consecrated 

earth." 

He  remarked  that  the  structure  of  [1750 
Greenwich  hospital  was  too  magnificent 
for  a  place  of  charity,  and  that  its  parts 
were  too  much  detached,  to  make  one 
great  whole. 

Buchanan,  he  said,  was  a  very  fine 
poet;  and  observed,  that  he  was  the  first 


;i8 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


who  complimented  a  lady,  by  ascribing 
to  her  the  different  perfections  of  the 
heathen  goddesses;  but  that  Johnston 
improved  upon  this,  by  making  his  [1760 
lady,  at  the  same  time,  free  from  their 
defects. 

He  dwelt  upon  Buchanan's  elegant 
verses  to  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  Nympha 
Caledonia,  &c.  and  spoke  with  enthusiasm 
of  the  beauty  of  Latin  verse.  "All  the 
modern  languages  (said  he)  cannot  fur- 
nish so  melodious  a  line  as 

Formosam      resonare      doces      Amarillida 
silvas.  [177° 

Afterwards  he  entered  upon  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day,  which  was  to  give 
me  his  advice  as  to  a  course  of  study. 
And  here  I  am  to  mention  with  much 
regret,  that  my  record  of  what  he  said 
is  miserably  scanty.  I  recollect  with 
admiration  an  animating  blaze  of  elo- 
quence, which  roused  every  intellectual 
power  in  me  to  the  highest  pitch,  but 
must  have  dazzled  me  so  much,  [1780 
that  my  memory  could  not  preserve  the 
substance  of  his  discourse;  for  the  note 
which  I  find  of  it  is  no  more  than  this: — 
"He  ran  over  the  grand  scale  of  human 
knowledge;  advised  me  to  select  some 
particular  branch  to  excel  in,  but  to  ac- 
quire a  little  of  every  kind."  The  defect 
of  my  minutes  will  be  fully  supplied  by  a 
long  letter  upon  the  subject,  which  he 
favored  me  with,  after  I  had  been  [1790 
some  time  at  Utrecht,  and  which  my 
readers  will  have  the  pleasure  to  peruse 
in  its  proper  place. 

We  walked  in  the  evening  in  Greenwich 
Park.  He  asked  me  I  suppose,  by  way  of 
trying  my  disposition,  "Is  not  this  very 
fine?"  Having  no  exquisite  relish  of  the 
beauties  of  Nature,  and  being  more  de- 
lighted with  "the  busy  hum  of  men,"  I 
answered,  "Yes,  Sir;  but  not  equal  [1800 
to  Fleet-street."  Johnson.  "You  are 
right,  Sir." 

I  am  aware  that  many  of  my  readers 
may  censure  my  want  of  taste.  Let  me, 
however,  shelter  myself  under  the  au- 
thority of  a  very  fashionable  Baronet  in 
the  brilliant  world,  who,  on  his  attention 
being  called  to  the  fragrance  of  a  May 
evening  in  the  country,  observed,  "This 


may  be  very  well;  but  for  my  part,  [1810 
I  prefer  the  smell  of  a  flambeau  at  the 
play-house." 

We  stayed  so  long  at  Greenwich,  that 
our  sail  up  the  river,  in  our  return  to 
London,  was  by  no  means  so  pleasant 
as  in  the  morning;  for  the  night  air  was 
so  cold  that  it  made  me  shiver.  I  was  the 
more  sensible  of  it  from  having  sat  up  all 
the  night  before  recollecting  and  writing 
in  my  Journal  what  I  thought  [1820 
worthy  of  preservation;  an  exertion, 
which,  during  the  first  part  of  my  ac- 
quaintance with  Johnson,  I  frequently 
made.  I  remember  having  sat  up  four 
nights  in  one  week,  without  being  much 
incommoded  in  the  day  time. 

Johnson,  whose  robust  frame  was  not 
in  the  least  affected  by  the  cold,  scolded 
me,  as  if  my  shivering  had  been  a  paltry 
effeminacy,  saying,  "Why  do  you  [1830 
shiver?"  Sir  William  Scott,  of  the  Com- 
mons, told  me,  that  when  he  complained 
of  a  head-ache  in  the  post-chaise,  as  they 
were  travelling  together  to  Scotland, 
Johnson  treated  him  in  the  same  manner: 
"At  your  age,  Sir,  I  had  no  head-ache." 
It  is  not  easy  to  make  allowance  for  sen- 
sations in  others,  which  we  ourselves  have 
not  at  the  time.  We  must  all  have  ex- 
perienced how  very  differently  we  [1840 
are  affected  by  the  complaints  of  our 
neighbors,  when  we  are  well  and  when 
we  are  ill.  In  full  health,  we  can  scarcely 
believe  that  they  suffer  much;  so  faint 
is  the  image  of  pain  upon  our  imagina- 
tion: when  softened  by  sickness,  we 
readily  sympathize  with  the  sufferings  of 
others. 

We  concluded  the  day  at  the  Turk's 
Head  coffee-house  very  socially.  [1850 
He  was  pleased  to  listen  to  a  particular 
account  which  I  gave  him  of  my  family, 
and  of  its  hereditary  estate,  as  to  the 
extent  and  population  of  which  he  asked 
questions,  and  made  calculations;  recom- 
mending, at  the  same  time,  a  liberal 
kindness  to  the  tenantry,  as  people  over 
whom  the  proprietor  was  placed  by 
Providence.  He  took  delight  in  hearing 
my  description  of  the  romantic  seat  [i860 
of  my  ancestors.  "I  must  be  there,  Sir 
(said  he),  and  we  will  live  in  the  old 
castle;  and  if  there  is  not  a  room  in  it 


BOSWELL 


3i9 


remaining,  we  will  build  one."  I  was 
highly  flattered,  but  could  scarcely  indulge 
a  hope  that  Auchinleck  would  indeed  be 
honored  by  his  presence,  and  celebrated 
by  a  description,  as  it  afterwards  was,  in 
his  Journey  to  the  Western  Islands. 

After  we  had  again  talked  of  my  [1870 
setting  out  for  Holland,  he  said,  "I 
must  see  thee  out  of  England;  I  will  ac- 
company you  to  Harwich."  I  could  not 
find  words  to  express  what  I  felt  upon 
this  unexpected  and  very  great  mark  of 
his  affectionate  regard. 

Next  day,  Sunday,  July  31,  I  told  him 
I  had  been  that  morning  at  a  meeting 
of  the  people  called  Quakers,  where  I  had 
heard  a  woman  preach.  Johnson.  [1880 
"Sir,  a  woman's  preaching  is  like  a  dog's 
walking  on  his  hind  legs.  It  is  not  done 
well ;  but  you  are  surprised  to  find  it  done 
at  all." 

On  Tuesday,  August  2  (the  day  of  my 
departure  from  London  having  been  fixed 
for  the  5  th),  Dr.  Johnson  did  me  the 
honor  to  pass  a  part  of  the  morning  with 
me  at  my  chambers.  He  said,  that  "he 
always  felt  an  inclination  to  do  noth-  [1890 
ing."  I  observed,  that  it  was  strange  to 
think  that  the  most  indolent  man  in  Brit- 
ain had  written  the  most  laborious  work, 
The  English  Dictionary. 

I  mentioned  an  imprudent  publication, 
by  a  certain  friend  of  his,  at  an  early 
period  of  life,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought 
it  would  hurt  him.  Johnson.  "No,  Sir; 
not  much.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  men- 
tioned at  an  election."  [1900 

I  had  now  made  good  my  title  to  be 
a  privileged  man,  and  wras  carried  by 
him  in  the  evening  to  drink  tea  with 
Miss  Williams,  whom,  though  under  the 
misfortune  of  having  lost  her  sight,  I 
found  to  be  agreeable  in  conversation; 
for  she  had  a  variety  of  literature,  and 
expressed  herself  well;  but  her  peculiar 
value  was  the  intimacy  in  which  she  had 
long  lived  with  Johnson,  by  which  [1910 
she  was  well  acquainted  with  his  habits, 
and  knew  how  to  lead  him  on  to  talk. 

After  tea  he  carried  me  to  what  he  called 
his  walk,  which  was  a  long  narrow  paved 
court  in  the  neighborhood,  overshadowed 
by  some  trees.  There  we  sauntered  a 
considerable  time;  and  I  complained  to 


him  that  my  love  of  London  and  of  his 
company  was  such,  that  I  shrunk  almost 
from  the  thought  of  going  away  even  [1920 
to  travel,  which  is  generally  so  much 
desired  by  young  men.  He  roused  me 
by  manly  and  spirited  conversation.  He 
advised  me,  when  settled  in  any  place 
abroad,  to  study  with  an  eagerness  after 
knowledge,  and  to  apply  to  Greek  an 
hour  every  day;  and  when  I  was  moving 
about,  to  read  diligently  the  great  book 
of  mankind. 

On  Wednesday,  August  3,  we  had  [1930 
our  last  social  evening  at  the  Turk's 
Head  coffee-house,  before  my  setting  out 
for  foreign  parts.  I  had  the  misfortune, 
before  we  parted,  to  irritate  him  unin- 
tentionally. I  mentioned  to  him  how 
common  it  was  in  the  world  to  tell  absurd 
stories  of  him,  and  to  ascribe  to  him  very 
strange  sayings.  Johnson.  "What  do  they 
make  me  say,  Sir?"  Boswell.  "Why, 
Sir,  as  an  instance  very  strange  [1940 
indeed  (laughing  heartily  as  I  spoke), 
David  Hume  told  me,  you  said  that  you 
would  stand  before  a  battery  of  cannon  to 
restore  the  Convocation  to  its  full  powers." 
— Little  did  I  apprehend  that  he  had 
actually  said  this:  but  I  was  soon  con- 
vinced of  my  error;  for,  with  a  deter- 
mined look,  he  thundered  out,  "And  would 
I  not,  Sir?  Shall  the  Presbyterian  Kirk  of 
Scotland  have  its  General  Assembly,  [1950 
and  the  Church  of  England  be  denied  its 
Convocation?"  He  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room,  while  I  told  him  the 
anecdote;  but  when  he  uttered  this  ex- 
plosion of  high-church  zeal,  he  had  come 
close  to  my  chair,  and  his  eye  flashed 
with  indignation.  I  bowed  to  the  storm, 
and  diverted  the  force  of  it,  by  leading 
him  to  expatiate  on  the  influence  which 
religion  derived  from  maintaining  [i960 
the  church  with  great  external  respec- 
tability. .  .  . 

On  Friday,  August  5,  we  set  out  early 
in  the  morning  in  the  Harwich  stage- 
coach. A  fat  elderly  gentlewoman,  and 
a  young  Dutchman,  seemed  the  most 
inclined  among  us  to  conversation.  At 
the  inn  where  we  dined,  the  gentlewoman 
said  that  she  had  done  her  best  to  educate 
her  children;  and,  particularly,  that  [1970 
she    had   never    suffered    them   to  be  a 


320 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


moment  idle.  Johnson.  "  I  wish,  Madam, 
you  would  educate  me  too;  for  I  have 
been  an  idle  fellow  all  my  life."  "I 
am  sure,  Sir  (said  she),  you  have  not 
been  idle."  Johnson.  "Nay,  Madam, 
it  is  very  true;  and  that  gentleman  there 
(pointing  to  me),  has  been  idle.  He  was 
idle  at  Edinburgh.  His  father  sent  him 
to  Glasgow,  where  he  continued  [1980 
to  be  idie.  He  then  came  to  London, 
where  he  has  been  very  idle;  and  now  he 
is  going  to  Utrecht,  where  he  will  be  as 
idle  as  ever."  I  asked  him  privately  how- 
he  could  expose  me  so.  Johnson.  "Poh, 
poh!  (said  he)  they  knew  nothing  about 
you,  and  will  think  of  it  no  more." 
In  the  afternoon  the  gentlewoman  talked 
violently  against  the  Roman  Catholics, 
and  of  the  horrors  of  the  Inquisition.  [1990 
To  the  utter  astonishment  of  all  the  pas- 
sengers but  myself,  who  knew  that  he 
could  talk  upon  any  side  of  a  question,  he 
defended  the  Inquisition,  and  maintained, 
that  "false  doctrine  should  be  checked 
on  its  first  appearance;  that  the  civil 
power  should  unite  with  the  church  in 
punishing  those  who  dare  to  attack  the 
established  religion,  and  that  such  only 
were  punished  by  the  Inquisition."  [2000 
He  had  in  his  pocket  Pomponius  Mela 
de  Situ  Orbis,  in  which  he  read  occasion- 
ally, and  seemed  very  intent  upon  ancient 
geography.  Though  by  no  means  nig- 
gardly, his  attention  to  what  was  generally 
right  was  so  minute,  that  having  observed 
at  one  of  the  stages  that  I  ostentatiously 
gave  a  shilling  to  the  coachman,  when  the 
custom  was  for  each  passenger  to  give 
only  six-pence,  he  took  me  aside  [2010 
and  scolded  me,  saying  that  what  I  had 
done  would  make  the  coachman  dis- 
satisfied with  all  the  rest  of  the  passengers 
who  gave  him  no  more  than  his  due.  This 
was  a  just  reprimand;  for  in  whatever 
way  a  man  may  indulge  his  generosity  or 
his  vanity  in  spending  his  money,  for  the 
sake  of  others  he  ought  not  to  raise  the 
price  of  any  article  for  which  there  is  a 
constant  demand.  [2020 

He  talked  of  Mr.  Blacklock's  poetry, 
so  far  as  it  was  descriptive  of  vis- 
ible objects;  and  observed,  that  "as 
its  author  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
blind,   we   may  be  absolutely  sure  that 


such  passages  are  combinations  of  what 
he  has  remembered  of  the  works  of  other 
writers  who  could  see.  That  foolish  fel- 
low, Spence,  has  labored  to  explain 
philosophically  how  Blacklock  may  [2030 
have  done,  by  means  of  his  own  faculties, 
what  it  is  impossible  he  should  do.  The 
solution,  as  I  have  given  it,  is  plain.  Sup- 
pose, I  know  a  man  to  be  so  lame  that 
he  is  absolutely  incapable  to  move  him- 
self, and  I  find  him  in  a  different  room 
from  that  in  which  I  left  him;  shall  I 
puzzle  myself  with  idle  conjectures,  that, 
perhaps,  his  nerves  have  by  some  un- 
known change  all  at  once  become  [2040 
effective?  No,  Sir,  it  is  clear  how  he  got 
into  a  different  room:  he  was  carried." 

Having  stopped  a  night  at  Colchester, 
Johnson  talked  of  that  town  with  venera- 
tion, for  having  stood  a  siege  for  Charles 
the  First.  The  Dutchman  alone  now 
remained  with  us.  He  spoke  English 
tolerably  well;  and  thinking  to  recom- 
mend himself  to  us  by  expatiating  on  the 
superiority  of  the  criminal  jurispru-  [2050 
dence  of  this  country  over  that  of  Hol- 
land, he  inveighed  against  the  barbarity 
of  putting  an  accused  person  to  the  tor- 
ture, in  order  to  force  a  confession.  But 
Johnson  was  as  ready  for  this,  as  for  the 
Inquisition.  "Why,  Sir,  you  do  not,  I 
find,  understand  the  law  of  your  own 
country.  To  torture  in  Holland  is  con- 
sidered as  a  favor  to  an  accused  person; 
for  no  man  is  put  to  the  torture  [2060 
there,  unless  there  is  as  much  evidence 
against  him  as  would  amount  to  convic- 
tion in  England.  An  accused  person 
among  you,  therefore,  has  one  chance 
more  to  escape  punishment,  than  those 
who  are  tried  among  us." 

At  supper  this  night  he  talked  of 
good  eating  with  uncommon  satisfaction. 
"Some  people  (said  he),  have  a  foolish 
way  of  not  minding,  or  pretending  [2070 
not  to  mind,  what  they  eat.  For  my  part, 
I  mind  my  belly  very  studiously,  and 
very  carefully;  for  I  look  upon  it,  that  he 
who  does  not  mind  his  belly,  will  hardly 
mind  any  thing  else."  He  now  appeared 
to  me  Jean  Bull  philosophe,  and  he  was 
for  the  moment,  not  only  serious,  but 
vehement.  Yet  I  have  heard  him,  upon 
other  occasions,  talk  with  great  contempt 


BOSWELL 


321 


of  people  who  were  anxious  to  grat-  [2080 
ify  their  palates;  and  the  206th  number 
of  his  Rambler  is  a  masterly  essay  against 
gulosity.  His  practice,  indeed,  I  must 
acknowledge,  may  be  considered  as  cast- 
ing the  balance  of  his  different  opinions 
upon  this  subject;  for  I  never  knew  any 
man  who  relished  good  eating  more  than 
he  did.  When  at  table,  he  was  totally 
absorbed  in  the  business  of  the  moment; 
his  looks  seemed  rivetted  to  his  [2090 
plate;  nor  would  he,  unless  when  in  very 
high  company,  say  one  word,  or  even  pay 
the  least  attention  to  what  was  said  by 
others,  till  he  had  satisfied  his  appetite: 
which  was  so  fierce,  and  indulged  with 
such  intenseness,  that  while  in  the  act  of 
eating,  the  veins  of  his  forehead  swelled, 
and  generally  a  strong  perspiration  was 
visible.  To  those  whose  sensations  were 
delicate,  this  could  not  but  be  disgust-  [2100 
ing;  and  it  was  doubtless  not  very  suitable 
to  the  character  of  a  philosopher,  who 
should  be  distinguished  by  self-command. 
But  it  must  be  owned,  that  Johnson, 
though  he  could  be  rigidly  abstemious, 
was  not  a  temperate  man  either  in  eating 
or  drinking.  He  could  refrain,  but  he 
could  not  use  moderately.  He  told  me, 
that  he  had  fasted  two  days  without  in- 
convenience, and  that  he  had  never  [2110 
been  hungry  but  once.  They  who  beheld 
with  wonder  how  much  he  eat  upon  all 
occasions,  when  his  dinner  was  to  his 
taste,  could  not  easily  conceive  what  he 
must  have  meant  by  hunger;  and  not  only 
was  he  remarkable  for  the  extraordinary 
quantity  which  he  eat,  but  he  was,  or 
affected  to  be,  a  man  of  very  nice  discern- 
ment in  the  science  of  cookery.  He  used 
to  descant  critically  on  the  dishes  [2120 
which  had  been  at  table  where  he  had  dined 
or  supped,  and  to  recollect  very  minutely 
what  he  had  liked.  I  remember  when  he 
was  in  Scotland,  his  praising  "Gordon's 
palates"  (a  dish  of  palates  at  the  Honor- 
able Alexander  Gordon's)  with  a  warmth 
of  expression  which  might  have  done 
honor  to  more  important  subjects.  "As 
for  Maclaurin's  imitation  of  a  made  dish, 
it  was  a  wretched  attempt."  He  [2130 
about  the  same  time  was  so  much  dis- 
pleased with  the  performances  of  a  noble- 
man's French  cook,  that  he  exclaimed  with 


vehemence,  "I'd  throw  such  a  rascal  into 
the  river;"  and  he  then  proceeded  to 
alarm  a  lady  at  whose  house  he  was  to 
sup,  by  the  following  manifesto  of  his 
skill:  "I,  Madam,  who  live  at  a  variety  of 
good  tables,  am  a  much  better  judge  of 
cookery,  than  any  person  who  has  a  [2140 
very  tolerable  cook,  but  lives  much  at 
home;  for  his  palate  is  gradually  adapted 
to  the  taste  of  his  cook:  whereas,  Madam, 
in  trying  by  a  wider  range,  I  can  more 
exquisitely  judge."  When  invited  to 
dine,  even  with  an  intimate  friend,  he 
was  not  pleased  if  something  better  than 
a  plain  dinner  was  not  prepared  for  him. 
I  have  heard  him  say  on  such  an  occasion, 
"This  was  a  good  dinner  enough,  [2150 
to  be  sure:  but  it  was  not  a  dinner  to  ask  a 
man  to."  On  the  other  hand,  he  was 
wont  to  express,  with  great  glee,  his  satis- 
faction when  he  had  been  entertained 
quite  to  his  mind.  One  day  when  he  had 
dined  with  his  neighbor  and  landlord,  in 
Bolt-court,  Mr.  Allen,  the  printer,  whose 
old  housekeeper  had  studied  his  taste  in 
every  thing,  he  pronounced  this  eulogy: 
"Sir,  we  could  not  have  had  a  [2160 
better  dinner,  had  there  been  a  Synod  of 
Cooks." 

While  we  were  left  by  ourselves,  after 
the  Dutchman  had  gone  to  bed,  Dr. 
Johnson  talked  of  that  studied  behavior 
which  many  have  recommended  and 
practised.  He  disapproved  of  it;  and 
said,  "I  never  considered  whether  I 
should  be  a  grave  man,  or  a  merry  man, 
but  just  let  inclination,  for  the  time,  [2170 
have  its  course." 

He  flattered  me  with  some  hopes  that 
he  would,  in  the  course  of  the  following 
summer,  come  over  to  Holland,  and 
accompany  me  in  a  tour  through  the 
Netherlands. 

I  teased  him  with  fanciful  apprehen- 
sions of  unhappiness.  A  moth  having 
fluttered  round  the  candle,  and  burnt  it- 
self, he  laid  hold  of  this  little  incident  [2180 
to  admonish  me;  saying,  with  a  sly  look, 
and  in  a  solemn  but  a  quiet  tone,  "That 
creature  wras  its  own  tormentor,  and  I 
believe  its  name  was  Boswell." 

Next  day  we  got  to  Harwich,  to  dinner; 
and  my  passage  in  the  packet-boat  to 
Helvoetsluys  being  secured,  and  my  bag- 


322 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


gage  put  on  board,  we  dined  at  our  inn 
by  ourselves.  I  happened  to  say,  it 
would  be  terrible  if  he  should  not  [2190 
find  a  speedy  opportunity  of  returning  to 
London,  and  be  confined  in  so  dull  a 
place.  Johnson.  "Don't,  Sir,  accustom 
yourself  to  use  big  words  for  little  mat- 
ters. It  would  not  be  terrible,  though  I 
were  to  be  detained  some  time  here." 
The  practice  of  using  words  of  dispropor- 
tionate magnitude,  is,  no  doubt,  too  fre- 
quent everywhere;  but,  I  think,  most 
remarkable  among  the  French,  of  [2200 
which,  all  who  have  travelled  in  France 
must  have  been  struck  with  innumerable 
instances. 

We  went  and  looked  at  the  church,  and 
having  gone  into  it,  and  walked  up  to  the 
altar,  Johnson,  whose  piety  was  constant 
and  fervent,  sent  me  to  my  knees,  say- 
ing, "Now  that  you  are  going  to  leave 
your  native  country,  recommend  yourself 
to  the  protection  of  your  Creator  [2210 
and  Redeemer." 

After  we  came  out  of  the  church,  we 
stood  talking  for  some  time  together  of 
Bishop  Berkeley's  ingenious  sophistry  to 
prove  the  non-existence  of  matter,  and 
that  every  thing  in  the  universe  is  merely 
ideal.  I  observed,  that  though  we  are 
satisfied  his  doctrine  is  not  true,  it  is 
impossible  to  refute  it.  I  never  shall  for- 
get the  alacrity  with  which  John-  [2220 
son  answered,  striking  his  foot  with 
mighty  force  against  a  large  stone,  till  he 
rebounded  from  it, — "I  refute  it  thus.'1'' 
This  was  a  stout  exemplification  of  the 
first  truths  of  Pere  Bouffier,  or  the  original 
principles  of  Reid  and  of  Beattie;  without 
admitting  which,  we  can  no  more  argue 
in  metaphysics,  than  we  can  argue  in 
mathematics  without  axioms.  To  me  it 
is  not  conceivable  how  Berkeley  can  [2230 
be  answered  by  pure  reasoning;  but  I  know 
that  the  nice  and  difficult  task  was  to 
have  been  undertaken  by  one  of  the  most 
luminous  minds  of  the  present  age,  had  not 
politics  "  turned  him  from  calm  philosophy 
aside. ' '  What  an  admirable  display  of  sub- 
tilty,  united  with  brilliance,  might  his  con- 
tending with  Berkeley  have  afforded  us! 
How  must  we,  when  we  reflect  on  the  loss 
of  such  an  intellectual  feast,  regret  [2240 
that  he  should  be  characterised  as  the  man, 


"Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his 

mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant 

for  mankind"  ? 

My  revered  friend  walked  down  with 
me  to  the  beach,  where  we  embraced  and 
parted  with  tenderness,  and  engaged  to 
correspond  by  letters.  I  said,  "I  hope, 
Sir,  you  will  not  forget  me  in  my  absence." 
Johnson.  "Nay,  Sir,  it  is  more  likely 
you  should  forget  me,  than  that  I  [2250 
should  forget  you."  As  the  vessel  put  out 
to  sea,  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  him  for  a 
considerable  time,  while  he  remained 
rolling  his  majestic  frame  in  his  usual 
manner;  and  at  last  I  perceived  him  walk 
back  into  the  town,  and  he  disappeared. 


EDMUND  BURKE  (1729-1797) 
TO  THE  ELECTORS  OF  BRISTOL, 

ON  his  being  declared  by  the  sheriffs, 

DULY  ELECTED  ONE  OF  THE  REPRESENT- 
ATIVES IN  PARLIAMENT  FOR  THAT  CITY, 

On  Thursday  the  Third  of  November,  1774 

Gentlemen  :  I  cannot  avoid  sympathiz- 
ing strongly  with  the  feelings  of  the  gentle- 
man who  has  received  the  same  honor 
that  you  have  conferred  on  me.  If  he, 
who  was  bred  and  passed  his  whole  life 
amongst  you;  if  he,  who  through  the 
easy  gradations  of  acquaintance,  friend- 
ship, and  esteem,  has  obtained  the  honor, 
which  seems  of  itself,  naturally  and  al- 
most insensibly,  to  meet  with  those,  [10 
who  by  the  even  tenor  of  pleasing  man- 
ners and  social  virtues,  slide  into  the  love 
and  confidence  of  their  fellow-citizens; — 
if  he  cannot  speak  but  with  great  emotion 
on  this  subject,  surrounded  as  he  is  on  all 
sides  with  his  old  friends;  you  will  have 
the  goodness  to  excuse  me,  if  my  real,  un- 
affected embarrassment  prevents  me  from 
expressing  my  gratitude  to  you  as  I  ought. 

I  was  brought  hither  under  the  dis-  [20 
advantage  of  being  unknown,  even  by 
sight,  to  any  of  you.  No  previous  canvass 
was  made  for  me.  I  was  put  in  nomina- 
tion after  the  poll  was  opened.    I  did  not 


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323 


appear  until  it  was  far  advanced.  If, 
under  all  these  accumulated  disadvan- 
tages, your  good  opinion  has  carried  me 
to  this  happy  point  of  success,  you  will 
pardon  me,  if  I  can  only  say  to  you  col- 
lectively, as  I  said  to  you  individually,  [30 
simply,  and  plainly,  I  thank  you — I  am 
obliged  to  you — I  am  not  insensible  of 
your  kindness. 

This  is  all  that  I  am  able  to  say  for  the 
inestimable  favor  you  have  conferred 
upon  me.  But  I  cannot  be  satisfied, 
without  saying  a  little  more  in  defence  of 
the  right  you  have  to  confer  such  a  favor. 
The  person  that  appeared  here  as  counsel 
for  the  candidate  who  so  long  and  so  [40 
earnestly  solicited  your  votes,  thinks 
•proper  to  deny,  that  a  very  great  part  of 
you  have  any  votes  to  give.  He  fixes  a 
standard  period  of  time  in  his  own  imag- 
ination, not  what  the  law  defines,  but 
merely  what  the  convenience  of  his  client 
suggests,  by  which  he  would  cut  off,  at 
one  stroke,  all  those  freedoms  which  are 
the  dearest  privileges  of  your  corporation; 
which  the  common  law  authorizes;  [50 
which  your  magistrates  are  compelled  to 
grant;  which  come  duly  authenticated 
into  this  court;  and  are  saved  in  the 
clearest  words,  and  with  the  most  religious 
care  and  tenderness,  in  that  very  act  of 
parliament  which  was  made  to  regulate 
the  elections  by  freemen,  and  to  prevent 
all  possible  abuses  in  making  them. 

I  do  not  intend  to  argue  the  matter 
here.  My  learned  counsel  has  sup-  [60 
ported  your  cause  with  his  usual  ability; 
the  worthy  sheriffs  have  acted  with  their 
usual  equity,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
the  same  equity  which  dictates  the  re- 
turn, will  guide  the  final  determination. 
I  had  the  honor,  in  conjunction  with 
many  far  wiser  men,  to  contribute  a  very 
small  assistance,  but,  however,  some 
assistance,  to  the  forming  the  judicature 
which  is  to  try  such  questions.  It  [70 
would  be  unnatural  in  me  to  doubt  the 
justice  of  that  court,  in  the  trial  of  my 
own  cause,  to  which  I  have  been  so  active 
to  give  jurisdiction  over  every  other. 

I  assure  the  worthy  freemen,  and  this 
corporation,  that,  if  the  gentleman  per- 
severes in  the  intentions  which  his  present 
warmth  dictates  to  him,  I  will  attend  their 


cause  with  diligence,  and  I  hope  with 
effect.  For,  if  I  know  anything  of  my-  [80 
self,  it  is  not  my  own  interest  in  it,  but  my 
full  conviction,  that  induces  me  to  tell 
you — /  think  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  doubt 
in  the  case. 

I  do  not  imagine  that  you  find  me  rash 
in  declaring  myself,  or  very  forward  in 
troubling  you.  From  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  the  election,  I  have  kept 
silence  in  all  matters  of  discussion.  I 
have  never  asked  a  question  of  a  voter  [90 
on  the  other  side,  or  supported  a  doubtful 
vote  on  my  own.  I  respected  the  abilities 
of  my  managers;  I  relied  on  the  candor 
of  the  court.  I  think  the  worthy  sheriffs 
will  bear  me  witness,  that  I  have  never 
once  made  an  attempt  to  impose  upon 
their  reason,  to  surprise  their  justice,  or 
to  ruffle  their  temper.  I  stood  on  the 
hustings  (except  when  I  gave  my  thanks 
to  those  who  favored  me  with  their  [100 
votes)  less  like  a  candidate,  than  an  un- 
concerned spectator  of  a  public  proceed- 
ing. But  here  the  face  of  things  is  al- 
tered. Here  is  an  attempt  for  a  general 
massacre  of  suffrages;  an  attempt,  by  a 
promiscuous  carnage  of  friends  and  foes, 
to  exterminate  above  two  thousand  votes, 
including  seven  hundred  polled  for  the 
gentleman  himself,  who  now  complains, 
and  who  would  destroy  the  friends  [no 
whom  he  has  obtained,  only  because  he 
cannot  obtain  as  many  of  them  as  he 
wishes. 

How  he  will  be  permitted,  in  another 
place,  to  stultify  and  disable  himself,  and 
to  plead  against  his  own  acts,  is  another 
question.  The  law  will  decide  it.  I  shall 
only  speak  of  it  as  it  concerns  the  pro- 
priety of  public  conduct  in  this  city.  I 
do  not  pretend  to  lay  down  rules  of  [120 
decorum  for  other  gentlemen.  They  are 
best  judges  of  the  mode  of  proceeding  that 
will  recommend  them  to  the  favor  of  their 
fellow-citizens.  But  I  confess  I  should 
look  rather  awkward,  if  I  had  been  the 
very  first  to  produce  the  new  copies  of  free- 
dom, if  I  had  persisted  in  producing  them 
to  the  last;  if  I  had  ransacked,  with  the 
most  unremitting  industry  and  the  most 
penetrating  research,  the  remotest  [130 
corners  of  the  kingdom  to  discover  them; 
if  I  were  then,  all  at  once,  to  turn  short, 


3  24 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


and  declare  that  I  had  been  sporting  all 
this  while  with  the  right  of  election;  and 
that  I  had  been  drawing  out  a  poll,  upon 
no  sort  of  rational  grounds,  which  dis- 
turbed the  peace  of  my  fellow-citizens  for 
a  month  together — I  really,  for  my  part, 
should  appear  awkward  under  such  cir- 
cumstances. [140 

It  would  be  still  more  awkward  in  me, 
if  I  were  gravely  to  look  the  sheriffs  in 
the  face,  and  to  tell  them  they  were  not 
to  determine  my  cause  on  my  own  prin- 
ciples; not  to  make  the  return  upon  those  j 
votes  upon  which  I  had  rested  my  elec- 
tion. Such  would  be  my  appearance  to 
the  court  and  magistrates. 

But  how  should  I  appear  to  the  voters 
themselves?  If  I  had  gone  round  to  [150 
the  citizens  entitled  to  freedom,  and 
squeezed  them  by  the  hand — "Sir,  I 
humbly  beg  your  vote — I  shall  be  eternally 
thankful — may  I  hope  for  the  honor  of 
your  support? — Well ! — come — we  shall 
see  you  at  the  council-house." — If  I  were 
then  to  deliver  them  to  my  managers, 
pack  them  into  tallies,  vote  them  off  in 
court,  and  when  I  heard  from  the  bar — 
"Such  a  one  only!  and  such  a  one  for  [160 
ever! — he's  my  man!" — "Thank  you, 
good  Sir — Hah!  my  worthy  friend!  thank 
you  kindly — that's  an  honest  fellow — 
how  is  your  good  family?" — Whilst  these 
words  were  hardly  out  of  my  mouth,  if  I 
should  have  wheeled  round  at  once,  and 
told  them — "Get  you  gone,  you  pack  of 
worthless  fellows!  you  have  no  votes — 
you  are  usurpers !  you  are  intruders  on  the 
rights  of  real  freemen!  I  will  have  [170 
nothing  to  do  with  you!  you  ought  never 
to  have  been  produced  at  this  election, 
and  the  sheriffs  ought  not  to  have  ad- 
mitted you  to  poll." 

Gentlemen,  I  should  make  a  strange 
figure  if  my  conduct  had  been  of  this  sort. 
I  am  not  so  old  an  acquaintance  of  yours 
as  the  worthy  gentleman.  Indeed  I  could 
not  have  ventured  on  such  kind  of  free- 
doms with  you.  But  I  am  bound,  and  [180 
I  will  endeavor,  to  have  justice  done  to 
the  rights  of  freemen;  even  though  I 
should,  at  the  same  time,  be  obliged  to 
vindicate  the  former  part  of  my  antago- 
nist's conduct  against  his  own  present 
inclinations. 


I  owe  myself,  in  all  things,  to  all  the 
freemen  of  this  city.  My  particular 
friends  have  a  demand  on  me  that  I  should 
not  deceive  their  expectations.  [190 
Never  was  cause  or  man  supported  with 
more  constancy,  more  activity,  more 
spirit.  I  have  been  supported  with  a  zeal 
indeed  and  heartiness  in  my  friends, 
which  (if  their  object  had  been  at  all  pro- 
portioned to  their  endeavors)  could  never 
be  sufficiently  commended.  They  sup- 
ported me  upon  the  most  liberal  prin- 
ciples. They  wished  that  the  members 
for  Bristol  should  be  chosen  for  the  [200 
city,  and  for  their  country  at  large,  and 
not  for  themselves. 

So  far  they  are  not  disappointed.  If 
I  possess  nothing  else,  I  am  sure  I  possess 
the  temper  that  is  fit  for  your  service.  I 
know  nothing  of  Bristol,  but  by  the 
favors  I  have  received,  and  the  virtues  I 
have  seen  exerted  in  it. 

I  shall  ever  retain,  what  I  now  feel,  the 
most  perfect  and  grateful  attach-  [210 
ment  to  my  friends — and  I  have  no 
enmities,  no  resentment.  I  never  can 
consider  fidelity  to  engagements,  and  con- 
stancy in  friendships,  but  with  the  high- 
est approbation;  even  when  those  noble 
qualities  are  employed  against  my  own 
pretensions.  The  gentleman,  who  is  not 
so  fortunate  as  I  have  been  in  this  con- 
test, enjoys,  in  this  respect,  a  consolation 
full  of  honor  both  to  himself  and  to  [220 
his  friends.  They  have  certainly  left 
nothing  undone  for  his  service. 

As  for  the  trifling  petulance  which 
the  rage  of  party  stirs  up  in  little  minds, 
though  it  should  show  itself  even  in  this 
court,  it  has  not  made  the  slightest  im- 
pression on  me.  The  highest  flight  of 
such  clamorous  birds  is  winged  in  an  in- 
ferior reign  of  the  air.  We  hear  them, 
and  we  look  upon  them,  just  as  you,  [230 
gentlemen,  when  you  enjoy  the  serene  air 
on  your  lofty  rocks,  look  down  upon  the 
gulls  that  skim  the  mud  of  your  river, 
when  it  is  exhausted  of  its  tide. 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  conclude  without 
saying  a  word  on  a  topic  touched  upon 
by  my  worthy  colleague.  I  wish  that 
topic  had  been  passed  by  at  a  time  when 
I  have  so  little  leisure  to  discuss  it.  But 
since  he  has  thought  proper  to  throw  [240 


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325 


it  out,  I  owe  you  a  clear  explanation  of 
my  poor  sentiments  on  that  subject. 

He  tells  you  that  "the  topic  of  instruc- 
tions has  occasioned  much  altercation 
and  uneasiness  in  this  city;"  and  he  ex- 
presses himself  (if  I  understand  him 
rightly)  in  favor  of  the  coercive  authority 
of  such  instructions. 

Certainly,  gentlemen,  it  ought  to  be  the 
happiness  and  glory  of  a  representa-  [250 
tive  to  live  in  the  strictest  union,  the 
closest  correspondence,  and  the  most 
unreserved  communication  with  his  con- 
stituents. Their  wishes  ought  to  have 
great  weight  with  him;  their  opinion, 
high  respect;  their  business,  unremitted 
attention.  It  is  his  duty  to  sacrifice  his 
repose,  his  pleasures,  his  satisfactions,  to 
theirs;  and  above  all,  ever,  and  in  all  cases, 
to  prefer  their  interest  to  his  own.  [260 
But  his  unbiassed  opinion,  his  mature 
judgment,  his  enlightened  conscience, 
he  ought  not  to  sacrifice  to  you,  to  any 
man,  or  to  any  set  of  men  living.  These 
he  does  not  derive  from  your  pleasure; 
no,  nor  from  the  law  and  the  constitution. 
They  are  a  trust  from  Providence,  for 
the  abuse  of  which  he  is  deeply  answer- 
able. Your  representative  owes  you,  not 
his  industry  only,  but  his  judgment;  [270 
and  he  betrays,  instead  of  serving  you, 
if  he  sacrifices  it  to  your  opinion. 

My  worthy  colleague  says,  his  will 
ought  to  be  subservient  to  yours.  If  that 
be  all,  the  thing  is  innocent.  If  govern- 
ment wyere  a  matter  of  will  upon  any  side, 
yours,  without  question,  ought  to  be  su- 
perior. But  government  and  legislation 
are  matters  of  reason  and  judgment,  and 
not  of  inclination;  and  what  sort  of  [280 
reason  is  that,  in  which  the  determination 
precedes  the  discussion;  in  which  one  set 
of  men  deliberate,  and  another  decide; 
and  where  those  who  form  the  con- 
clusion are  perhaps  three  hundred  miles 
distant  from  those  who  hear  the  argu- 
ments? 

To  deliver  an  opinion  is  the  right  of 
all  men;  that  of  constituents  is  a  weighty 
and  respectable  opinion,  which  a  [290 
representative  ought  always  to  rejoice  to 
hear;  and  which  he  ought  always  most 
seriously  to  consider.  But  authoritative 
instructions;  mandates  issued,  which  the 


member  is  bound  blindly  and  implicitly  to 
obey,  to  vote,  and  to  argue  for,  though 
contrary  to  the  clearest  conviction  of  his 
judgment  and  conscience — these  are 
things  utterly  unknown  to  the  laws  of 
this  land,  and  which  arise  from  a  [300 
fundamental  mistake  of  the  whole  order 
and  tenor  of  our  constitution. 

Parliament  is  not  a  congress  of  ambas- 
sadors from  different  and  hostile  in- 
terests; which  interests  each  must  main- 
tain, as  an  agent  and  advocate,  against 
other  agents  and  advocates;  but  parlia- 
ment is  a  deliberative  assembly  of  one 
nation,  with  one  interest,  that  of  the 
whole;  where,  not  local  purposes,  not  [310 
local  prejudices,  ought  to  guide,  but  the 
general  good,  resulting  from  the  general 
reason  of  the  whole.  You  choose  a  mem- 
ber indeed;  but  when  you  have  chosen 
him,  he  is  not  member  of  Bristol,  but  he 
is  a  member  of  parliament.  If  the  local 
constituent  should  have  an  interest,  or 
should  form  an  hasty  opinion,  evidently 
opposite  to  the  real  good  of  the  rest  of 
the  community,  the  member  for  that  [320 
place  ought  to  be  as  far  as  any  other  from 
any  endeavor  to  give  it  effect.  I  beg 
pardon  for  saying  so  much  on  this  sub- 
ject. I  have  been  unwillingly  drawn 
into  it;  but  I  shall  ever  use  a  respectful 
frankness  of  communication  with  you. 
Your  faithful  friend,  your  devoted  serv- 
ant, I  shall  be  to  the  end  of  my  life;  a 
flatterer  you  do  not  wish  for.  On  this 
point  of  instructions,  however,  I  think  [330 
it  scarcely  possible  we  ever  can  have  any 
sort  of  difference.  Perhaps  I  may  give 
you  too  much,  rather  than  too  little, 
trouble. 

From  the  first  hour  I  was  encouraged 
to  court  your  favor,  to  this  happy  day  of 
obtaining  it,  I  have  never  promised  you 
anything  but  humble  and  persevering 
endeavors  to  do  my  duty.  The  weight 
of  that  duty,  I  confess,  makes  me  [340 
tremble;  and  whoever  well  considers  what 
it  is,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  will  fly 
from  what  has  the  least  likeness  to  a 
positive  and  precipitate  engagement.  To 
be  a  good  member  of  parliament  is,  let  me 
tell  you,  no  easy  task;  especially  at  this 
time,  when  there  is  so  strong  a  disposition 
to  run  into  the  perilous  extremes  of  servile 


326 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


compliance  or  wild  popularity.  To  unite 
circumspection  with  vigor,  is  abso-  [350 
lutely  necessary;  but  it  is  extremely 
difficult.  We  are  now  members  for  a  rich 
commercial  city;  this  city,  however,  is 
but  a  part  of  a  rich  commercial  nation, 
the  interests  of  which  are  various,  multi- 
form, and  intricate.  We  are  members 
for  that  great  nation,  which,  however,  is 
itself  but  part  of  a  great  empire,  extended 
by  our  virtue  and  our  fortune  to  the 
farthest  limits  of  the  east  and  of  the  [360 
west.  All  these  wide-spread  interests 
must  be  considered;  must  be  compared; 
must  be  reconciled,  if  possible.  We  are 
members  for  a,  free  country;  and  surely  we 
all  know,  that  the  machine  of  a  free  con- 
stitution is  no  simple  thing;  but  as  intri- 
cate and  as  delicate  as  it  is  valuable. 
We  are  members  in  a  great  and  ancient 
monarchy;  and  we  must  preserve  reli- 
giously the  true  legal  rights  of  the  [370 
sovereign,  which  form  the  key-stone  that 
binds  together  the  noble  and  well-con- 
structed arch  of  our  empire  and  our  con- 
stitution. A  constitution  made  up  of 
balanced  powers  must  ever  be  a  critical 
thing.  As  such  I  mean  to  touch  that  part 
of  it  which  comes  within  my  reach.  I 
know  my  inability,  and  I  wish  for  support 
from  every  quarter.  In  particular  I  shall 
aim  at  the  friendship,  and  shall  culti-  [380 
vate  the  best  correspondence,  of  the 
worthy  colleague  you  have  given  me. 

I  trouble  you  no  further  than  once 
more  to  thank  you  all;  you,  gentlemen, 
for  your  favors;  the  candidates,  for  their 
temperate  and  polite  behavior;  and  the 
sheriffs,  for  a  conduct  which  may  give  a 
model  for  all  who  are  in  public  stations. 


From  THE   IMPEACHMENT  OF 
WARREN   HASTINGS 

The  Charge 

I,  therefore,  charge  Mr.  Hastings 
with  having  destroyed,  for  private  pur- 
poses, the  whole  system  of  government 
by  the  six  provincial  councils,  which  he 
had  no  right  to  destroy. 

I  charge  him  with  having  delegated  to 
others  that  power  which  the  act  of  parlia- 


ment had  directed  him  to  preserve  un- 
alienably  in  himself. 

I  charge  him  with  having  formed  a  [10 
committee  to  be  mere  instruments  and 
tools,  at  the  enormous  expenses  of 
£62,000  per  annum. 

I  charge  him  with  having  appointed  a 
person  their  dewan,  to  whom  these  Eng- 
lishmen were  to  be  subservient  tools; 
whose  name,  to  his  own  knowledge,  was 
by  the  general  voice  of  India,  by  the 
general  recorded  voice  of  the  Company, 
by  recorded  official  transactions,  by  [20 
everything  that  can  make  a  man  known, 
abhorred  and  detested,  stamped  with 
infamy;  and  with  giving  him  the  whole 
power  which  he  had  thus  separated  from 
the  council-general  and  from  the  provin- 
cial councils. 

I  charge  him  with  taking  bribes  of 
Gunga  Govin  Sing. 

I  charge  him  with  not  having  done  that 
bribe  service  which  fidelity  even  in  [30 
iniquity  requires  at  the  hands  of  the 
worst  of  men. 

I  charge  him  with  having  robbed  those 
people  of  whom  he  took  the  bribes. 

I  charge  him  with  having  fraudulently 
alienated  the  fortunes  of  widows. 

I  charge  him  with  having,  without 
right,  title,  or  purchase,  taken  the  lands 
of  orphans,  and  given  them  to  wicked 
persons  under  him.  [40 

I  charge  him  with  having  removed  the 
natural  guardians  of  a  minor  Rajah,  and 
with  having  given  that  trust  to  a  stranger, 
Debi  Sing,  whose  wickedness  was  known 
to  himself  and  all  the  world;  and  by 
whom  the  Rajah,  his  family,  and  de- 
pendants, were  cruelly  oppressed. 

I  charge  him  with  having  committed 
to  the  management  of  Debi  Sing  three 
great  provinces;  and  thereby,  with  [50 
having  wasted  the  country,  ruined  the 
landed  interest,  cruelly  harassed  the 
peasants,  burnt  their  houses,  seized  their 
crops,  tortured  and  degraded  their  per- 
sons, and  destroyed  the  honor  of  the  whole 
female  race  of  that  country. 

In  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Eng- 
land, I  charge  all  this  villany  upon  Warren 
Hastings,  in  this  last  moment  of  my  ap- 
plication to  you.  [60 

My  lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here 


BURKE 


327 


to  a  great  act  of  national  justice?  Do 
we  want  a  cause,  my  lords?  You  have 
the  cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone 
women  of  the  first  rank,  of  desolated 
provinces,  and  of  wasted  kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords? 
When  was  there  so  much  iniquity  ever 
laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one? — No,  my 
lords,  you  must  not  look  to  punish  any  [70 
other  such  delinquent  from  India. — 
Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  substance 
enough  in  India  to  nourish  such  another 
delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want? — 
You  have  before  you  the  Commons  of 
Great  Britain  as  prosecutors;  and,  I 
believe,  my  lords,  that  the  sun  in  his 
beneficent  progress  round  the  world  does 
not  behold  a  more  glorious  sight  than  [80 
that  of  men,  separated  from  a  remote 
people  by  the  material  bounds  and  bar- 
riers of  nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a 
social  and  moral  community; — all  the 
Commons  of  England  resenting,  as  their 
own,  the  indignities  and  cruelties  that 
are  offered  to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  My  lords,  no 
example  of  antiquity,  nothing  in  the 
modern  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  [90 
human  imagination,  can  supply  us  with  a 
tribunal  like  this.  My  lords,  here  we  see 
virtually  in  the  mind's  eye  that  sacred 
majesty  of  the  Crown,  under  whose  au- 
thority you  sit,  and  whose  power  you 
exercise.  We  see  in  that  invisible  au- 
thority, what  we  all  feel  in  reality  and 
life,  the  beneficent  powers  and  protecting 
justice  of  his  Majesty.  We  have  here  the 
heir-apparent  to  the  Crown,  such  as  [100 
the  fond  wishes  of  the  people  of  England 
wish  an  heir-apparent  of  the  Crown  to 
be.  We  have  here  all  the  branches  of  the 
royal  family  in  a  situation  between  maj- 
esty and  subjection,  between  the  sov- 
ereign and  the  subject, — offering  a  pledge 
in  that  situation  for  the  support  of  the 
rights  of  the  Crown  and  the  liberties  of 
the  people,  both  which  extremities  they 
touch.  My  lords,  we  have  a  great  [no 
hereditary  peerage  here;  those  who  have 
their  own  honor,  the  honor  of  their  an- 
cestors, and  of  their  posterity,  to  guard; 
and  who  will  justify,  as  they  have  always 
justified,  that  provision  in  the  constitu- 


tion by  which  justice  is  made  an  heredi- 
tary office.  My  lords,  we  have  here  a 
new  nobility,  who  have  risen  and  exalted 
themselves  by  various  merits,  by  great 
military  services,  which  have  ex-  [120 
tended  the  fame  of  this  country  from 
the  rising  to  the  setting  sun:  we  have 
those  who  by  various  civil  merits  and 
various  civil  talents  have  been  exalted 
to  a  situation  which  they  well  deserve, 
and  in  which  they  will  justify  the  favor 
of  their  sovereign,  and  the  good  opin- 
ion of  their  fellow-subjects,  and  make 
them  rejoice  to  see  those  virtuous  charac- 
ters, that  were  the  other  day  upon  a  [130 
level  with  them,  now  exalted  above  them 
in  rank,  but  feeling  with  them  in  sympathy 
what  they  felt  in  common  with  them 
before.  We  have  persons  exalted  from 
the  practice  of  the  law,  from  the  place 
in  which  they  administered  high  though 
subordinate  justice,  to  a  seat  here,  to 
enlighten  with  their  knowledge  and  to 
strengthen  with  their  votes  those  prin- 
ciples which  have  distinguished  the  [140 
courts  in  which  they  have  presided. 

My  lords,  you  have  here  also  the  lights 
of  our  religion;  you  have  the  bishops  of 
England.  My  lords,  you  have  that  true 
image  of  the  primitive  church  in  its  an- 
cient form,  in  its  ancient  ordinances, 
purified  from  the  superstitions  and  the 
vices  which  a  long  succession  of  ages 
will  bring  upon  the  best  institutions.  You 
have  the  representatives  of  that  re-  [153 
ligion  which  says  that  their  God  is  love, 
that  the  very  vital  spirit  of  their  institu- 
tion is  charity;  a  religion  which  so  much 
hates  oppression,  that  when  the  God 
whom  we  adore  appeared  in  human  form, 
He  did  not  appear  in  a  form  of  great- 
ness and  majesty,  but  in  sympathy  with 
the  lowest  of  the  people, — and  thereby 
made  it  a  firm  and  ruling  principle,  that 
their  welfare  was  the  object  of  all  [160 
government;  since  the  person,  who  was 
the  Master  of  Nature,  chose  to  appear 
Himself  in  a  subordinate  situation.  These 
are  the  considerations  which  influence 
them,  which  animate  them,  and  will 
animate  them,  against  all  oppression; 
knowing,  that  He  who  is  called  first  among 
them,  and  first  among  us  all,  both  of 
the  flock  that  is  fed  and  of  those  who 


32' 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


feed  it,  made  Himself  "the  servant  [170 
of  all." 

My  lords,  these  are  the  securities  which 
we  have  in  all  the  constituent  parts  of 
the  body  of  this  House.  We  know  them, 
we  reckon,  we  rest  upon  them,  and  com- 
mit safely  the  interests  of  India  and  of 
humanity  into  your  hands.  Therefore, 
it  is  with  confidence  that,  ordered  by 
the  Commons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esq.,  [180 
of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the 
Commons  of  Great  Britain  in  parliament 
assembled,  whose  parliamentary  trust  he 
has  betrayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the 
Commons  of  Great  Britain,  whose  na- 
tional character  he  has  dishonored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  peo- 
ple in  India,  whose  laws,  rights,  and  [190 
liberties  he  has  subverted,  whose  proper- 
ties he  has  destroyed,  whose  country  he 
has  laid  waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by 
virtue  of  those  eternal  laws  of  justice 
which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  which  he  has  cruelly  out- 
raged, injured,  and  oppressed  in  both 
sexes,  in  every  age,  rank,  situation,  [200 
and  condition  of  life. 

The  Peroration 

My  lords,  I  have  done;  the  part  of  the 
Commons  is  concluded.  With  a  trembling 
solicitude  we  consign  this  product  of  our 
long,  long  labors  to  your  charge.  Take 
it! — take  it!  It  is  a  sacred  trust.  Never 
before  was  a  cause  of  such  magnitude 
submitted  to  any  human  tribunal. 

My  lords,  at  this  awful  close,  in  the 
name  of  the  Commons,  and  surrounded 
by  them,  I  attest  the  retiring,  I  attest  [10 
the  advancing  generations,  between  which, 
as  a  link  in  the  great  chain  of  eternal 
order,  we  stand. — We  call  this  nation, 
we  call  the  world  to  witness,  that  the  Com- 
mons have  shrunk  from  no  labor;  that 
we  have  been  guilty  of  no  prevarication; 
that  we  have  made  no  compromise  with 
crime;  that  we  have  not  feared  any  odium 
whatsoever,   in   the   long   warfare   which 


we  have  carried  on  with  the  crimes —  [20 
with  the  vices — with  the  exorbitant 
wealth — with  the  enormous  and  over- 
powering influence  of  Eastern  corruption. 
This  war,  my  lords,  we  have  waged  for 
twenty- two  years,  and  the  conflict  has 
been  fought  at  your  lordships'  bar  for 
the  last  seven  years.  My  lords,  twenty- 
two  years  is  a  great  space  in  the  scale  of 
the  life  of  man;  it  is  no  inconsiderable 
space  in  the  history  of  a  great  nation.  [30 
A  business  which  has  so  long  occupied 
the  councils  and  the  tribunals  of  Great 
Britain,  cannot  possibly  be  huddled  over 
in  the  course  of  vulgar,  trite,  and  transi- 
tory events.  Nothing  but  some  of  those 
great  revolutions  that  break  the  tradi- 
tionary chain  of  human  memory,  and 
alter  the  very  face  of  nature  itself,  can 
possibly  obscure  it.  My  lords,  we  are  all 
elevated  to  a  degree  of  importance  [40 
by  it;  the  meanest  of  us  will,  by  means 
of  it,  more  or  less  become  the  concern  of 
posterity,  if  we  are  yet  to  hope  for  such 
a  thing  in  the  present  state  of  the  world 
as  a  recording,  retrospective,  civilized 
posterity;  but  this  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
great  Disposer  of  events:  it  is  not  ours  to 
settle  how  it  shall  be.  My  lords,  your 
House  yet  stands;  it  stands  as  a  great 
edifice;  but  let  me  say,  that  it  stands  [50 
in  the  midst  of  ruins;  in  the  midst  of  the 
ruins  that  have  been  made  by  the  greatest 
moral  earthquake  that  ever  convulsed 
and  shattered  this  globe  of  ours.  My 
lords,  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  place 
us  in  such  a  state,  that  we  appear  every 
moment  to  be  upon  the  verge  of  some 
great  mutations.  There  is  one  thing, 
and  one  thing  only,  which  defies  all  muta- 
tion; that  which  existed  before  the  [60 
world,  and  will  survive  the  fabric  of  the 
world  itself;  I  mean  justice;  that  justice, 
which,  emanating  from  the  Divinity,  has 
a  place  in  the  breast  of  every  one  of  us, 
given  us  for  our  guide  with  regard  to 
ourselves  and  with  regard  to  others,  and 
which  will  stand  after  this  globe  is  burned 
to  ashes,  our  advocate  or  our  accuser 
before  the  great  Judge,  when  He  comes 
to  call  upon  us  for  the  tenor  of  a  well-  [70 
spent  life.    • 

My  lords,  the  Commons  will  share  in 
every  fate  with  your  lordships;  there  is 


BURKE 


329 


nothing  sinister  which  can  happen  to 
you,  in  which  we  shall  not  be  involved; 
and  if  it  should  so  happen  that  we  shall 
be  subjected  to  some  of  those  frightful 
changes  which  we  have  seen — if  it  should 
happen  that  your  lordships,  stripped  of 
all  the  decorous  distinctions  of  human  [80 
society,  should,  by  hands  at  once  base 
and  cruel,  be  led  to  those  scaffolds  and 
machines  of  murder,  upon  which  great 
kings  and  glorious  queens  have  shed  their 
blood,  amidst  the  prelates,  amidst  the 
nobles,  amidst  the  magistrates  who  sup- 
ported their  thrones,  may  you  in  those 
moments  feel  that  consolation  which  I 
am  persuaded  they  felt  in  the  critical 
moments  of  their  dreadful  agony!  [90 

My  lords,  there  is  a  consolation,  and  a 
great  consolation  it  is,  which  often  hap- 
pens to  oppressed  virtue  and  fallen  dig- 
nity; it  often  happens  that  the  very  op- 
pressors and  persecutors  themselves  are 
forced  to  bear  testimony  in  its  favor.  I 
do  not  like  to  go  for  instances  a  great  way 
back  into  antiquity.  I  know  very  well 
that  length  of  time  operates  so  as  to  give 
an  air  of  the  fabulous  to  remote  events,  [100 
which  lessens  the  interest  and  weakens 
the  application  of  examples.  I  wish  to 
come  nearer  to  the  present  time.  Your 
lordships  know  and  have  heard,  for  which 
of  us  has  not  known  and  heard,  of  the 
parliament  of  Paris?  The  parliament 
of  Paris  had  an  origin  very,  very  similar 
to  that  of  the  great  court  before  which 
I  stand;  the  parliament  of  Paris  con- 
tinued to  have  a  great  resemblance  [no 
to  it  in  its  constitution,  even  to  its  fall; 
the  parliament  of  Paris,  my  lords,  was; 
it  is  gone!  It  has  passed  away;  it  has 
vanished  like  a  dream!  It  fell,  pierced  by 
the  sword  of  the  Compte  de  Mirabeau. 
And  yet  I  will  say  that  that  man,  at  the 
time  of  his  inflicting  the  death  wound  of 
that  parliament,  produced  at  once  the 
shortest  and  the  grandest  funeral  oration 
that  ever  was  or  could  be  made  upon  [120 
the  departure  of  a  great  court  of  magis- 
tracy. Though  he  had  himself  smarted 
under  its  lash,  as  every  one  knows  who 
knows  his  history  (and  he  was  elevated  to 
dreadful  notoriety  in  history),  yet  when 
he  pronounced  the  death  sentence  upon 
that  parliament,  and  inflicted  the  mortal 


wound,  he  declared  that  his  motives  for 
doing  it  were  merely  political,  and  that 
their  hands  were  as  pure  as  those  of  [130 
justice  itself,  which  they  administered — 
a  great  and  glorious  exit,  my  lords,  of  a 
great  and  glorious  body!  And  never  was 
a  eulogy  prqnounced  upon  a  body  more 
deserved.  They  were  persons  in  nobility 
of  rank,  in  amplitude  of  fortune,  in  weight 
of  authority,  in  depth  of  learning,  inferior 
to  few  of  those  that  hear  me.  My  lords, 
it  was  but  the  other  day  that  they  sub- 
mitted their  necks  to  the  axe;  but  [140 
their  honor  was  unwounded.  Their  ene- 
mies, the  persons  who  sentenced  them  to 
death,  were  lawyers,  full  of  subtlety;  they 
were  enemies,  full  of  malice;  yet  lawyers 
full  of  subtlety,  and  enemies  full  of 
malice,  as  they  were,  they  did  not  dare 
to  reproach  them  with  having  supported 
the  wealthy,  the  great,  and  powerful,  and 
of  having  oppressed  the  weak  and  feeble, 
in  any  of  their  judgments,  or  of  having  [150 
perverted  justice  in  any  one  instance 
whatever,  through  favor,  through  in- 
terest, or  cabal. 

My  lords,  if  you  must  fall,  may  you  so 
fall!  But  if  you  stand,  and  stand  I  trust 
you  will,  together  with  the  fortune  of 
this  ancient  monarchy — together  with  the 
ancient  laws  and  liberties  of  this  great 
and  illustrious  kingdom,  may  you  stand 
as  unimpeached  in  honor  as  in  power;  [160 
may  you  stand  not  as  a  substitute  for 
virtue,  but  as  an  ornament  of  virtue,  as  a 
security  for  virtue;  may  you  stand  long, 
and  long  stand  the  terror  of  tyrants;  may 
you  stand  the  refuge  of  afflicted  nations; 
may  you  stand  a  sacred  temple,  for  the 
perpetual  residence  of  an  inviolable  justice. 


From   REFLECTIONS   ON   THE 
REVOLUTION  IN   FRANCE 

The  Rights  of  Men 

Far  am  I  from  denying  in  theory,  full 
as  far  is  my  heart  from  withholding  in 
practice  (if  I  were  of  power  to  give  or  to 
withhold),  the  real  rights  of  men.  In 
denying  their  false  claims  of  right,  I  do 
not  mean  to  injure  those  which  are  real, 
and  are  such  as  their  pretended  rights 
would  totally  destroy.      If  civil  society 


33° 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


be  made  for  the  advantage  of  man,  all 
the  advantages  for  which  it  is  made  [10 
become  his  right.  It  is  an  institution  of 
beneficence;  and  law  itself  is  only  benefi- 
cence acting  by  a  rule.  Men  have  a  right 
to  live  by  that  rule;  they  have  a  right  to 
do  justice,  as  between  their  fellows, 
whether  their  fellows  are  in  public  func- 
tion or  in  ordinary  occupation.  They 
have  a  right  to  the  fruits  of  their  industry ; 
and  to  the  means  of  making  their  indus- 
try fruitful.  They  have  a  right  to  the  [20 
acquisitions  of  their  parents;  to  the  nour- 
ishment and  improvement  of  their  off- 
spring; to  instruction  in  life,  and  to  con- 
solation in  death.  Whatever  each  man 
can  separately  do,  without  trespassing 
upon  others,  he  has  a  right  to  do  for  him- 
self; and  he  has  a  right  to  a  fair  portion  of 
all  which  society,  with  all  its  combina- 
tions of  skill  and  force,  can  do  in  his 
favor.  In  this  partnership  all  men  [30 
have  equal  rights;  but  not  to  equal  things. 
He  that  has  but  five  shillings  in  the  part- 
nership, has  as  good  a  right  to  it,  as  he 
that  has  five  hundred  pounds  has  to  his 
larger  proportion.  But  he  has  not  a 
right  to  an  equal  dividend  in  the  product 
of  the  joint  stock;  and  as  to  the  share  of 
power,  authority,  and  direction  which 
each  individual  ought  to  have  in  the 
management  of  the  state,  that  I  must  [40 
deny  to  be  amongst  the  direct  original 
rights  of  man  in  civil  society;  for  I  have 
in  my  contemplation  the  civil  social  man, 
and  no  other.  It  is  a  thing  to  be  settled 
by  convention. 

If  civil  society  be  the  offspring  of  con- 
vention, that  convention  must  be  its  law. 
That  convention  must  limit  and  modify 
all  the  descriptions  of  constitution  which 
are  formed  under  it.  Every  sort  of  [50 
legislative,  judicial,  or  executory  power 
are  its  creatures.  They  can  have  no 
being  in  any  other  state  of  things;  and 
how  can  any  man  claim  under  the  con- 
ventions of  civil  society,  rights  which  do 
not  so  much  as  suppose  its  existence? 
rights  which  are  absolutely  repugnant  to 
it?  One  of  the  first  motives  to  civil  so- 
ciety, and  which  becomes  one  of  its  funda- 
mental rules,  is,  that  no  man  should  [60 
be  judge  in  his  own  cause.  By  this  each 
person   has   at   once   divested   himself  of 


the  first  fundamental  right  of  uncon- 
venanted  man,  that  is,  to  judge  for  himself, 
and  to  assert  his  own  cause.  He  abdicates 
all  right  to  be  his  own  governor.  He  in- 
clusively, in  a  great  measure,  abandons 
the  right  of  self-defence,  the  first  law  of 
nature.  Men  cannot  enjoy  the  rights  of 
an  uncivil  and  of  a  civil  state  together.  [70 
That  he  may  obtain  justice,  he  gives  up 
his  right  of  determining  what  it  is  in  points 
the  most  essential  to  him.  That  he  may 
secure  some  liberty,  he  makes  a  sur- 
render in  trust  of  the  whole  of  it. 

Government  is  not  made  in  virtue  of 
natural  rights,  which  may  and  do  exist 
in  total  independence  of  it;  and  exist  in 
much  greater  clearness,  and  in  a  much 
greater  degree  of  abstract  perfection;  [80 
but  their  abstract  perfection  is  their  prac- 
tical defect.  By  having  a  right  to  every- 
thing they  want  everything.  Government 
is  a  contrivance  of  human  wisdom  to 
provide  for  human  wants.  Men  have  a 
right  that  these  wants  should  be  pro- 
vided for  by  this  wisdom.  Among  these 
wants  is  to  be  reckoned  the  want,  out  of 
civil  society,  of  a  sufficient  restraint  upon 
their  passions.  Society  requires  not  [90 
only  that  the  passions  of  individuals 
should  be  subjected,  but  that  even  in  the 
mass  and  body,  as  well  as  in  the  indi- 
viduals, the  inclinations  of  men  should 
frequently  be  thwarted,  their  will  con- 
trolled, and  their  passions  brought  into 
subjection.  This  can  only  be  done  by  a 
power  out  of  themselves;  and  not,  in  the 
exercise  of  its  function,  subject  to  that 
will  and  to  those  passions  which  it  is  [100 
its  office  to  bridle  and  subdue.  In  this 
sense  the  restraints  on  men,  as  well  as 
their  liberties,  are  to  be  reckoned  amongst 
their  rights.  But  as  the  liberties  and  the 
restrictions^  vary  with  times  and  circum- 
stances, and  admit  of  infinite  modifica- 
tions, they  cannot  be  settled  upon  any 
abstract  rule;  and  nothing  is  so  foolish 
as  to  discuss  them  upon  that  principle. 

The  moment  you  abate  anything  [no 
from  the  full  rights  of  men,  each  to  govern 
himself,  and  suffer  any  artificial,  positive 
limitation  upon  those  rights,  from  that 
moment  the  whole  organization  of  govern- 
ment becomes  a  consideration  of  con- 
venience.    This   it   is  which   makes   the 


BURKE 


33i 


constitution  of  a  state,  and  the  due  dis- 
tribution of  its  powers,  a  matter  of  the 
most  delicate  and  complicated  skill.  It 
requires  a  deep  knowledge  of  human  [120 
nature  and  human  necessities,  and  of  the 
things  which  facilitate  or  obstruct  the 
various  ends,  which  are  to  be  pursued 
by  the  mechanism  of  civil  institutions. 
The  state  is  to  have  recruits  to  its  strength, 
and  remedies  to  its  distempers.  What  is 
the  use  of  discussing  a  man's  abstract 
right  to  food  or  medicine?  The  question 
is-  upon  the  method  of  procuring  and 
administering  them.  In  that  delibera-  [130 
tion  I  shall  always  advise  to  call  in  the 
aid  of  the  farmer  and  the  physician,  rather 
than  the  professor  of  metaphysics. 

The  science  of  constructing  a  common- 
wealth, or  renovating  it,  or  reforming  it, 
is,  like  every  other  experimental  science, 
not  to  be  taught  a  priori.  Nor  is  it  a 
short  experience  that  can  instruct  us  in 
that  practical  science;  because  the  real 
effects  of  moral  causes  are  not  always  [140 
immediate;  but  that  which  in  the  first 
instance  is  prejudicial  may  be  excellent 
in  its  remoter  operation ;  and  its  excellence 
may  arise  even  from  the  ill  effects  it  pro- 
duces in  the  beginning.  The  reverse  also 
happens:  and  very  plausible  schemes, 
with  very  pleasing  commencements,  have 
often  shameful  and  lamentable  conclu- 
sions. In  states  there  are  often  some 
obscure  and  almost  latent  causes,  [150 
things  which  appear  at  first  view  of  little 
moment,  on  which  a  very  great  part  of  its 
prosperity  or  adversity  may  most  essen- 
tially depend.  The  science  of  government 
being  therefore  so  practical  in  itself,  and 
intended  for  such  practical  purposes,  a 
matter  which  requires  experience,  and 
even  more  experience  than  any  person 
can  gain  in  his  whole  life,  however  saga- 
cious and  observing  he  may  be,  it  is  [160 
with  infinite  caution  that  any  man  ought 
to  venture  upon  pulling  down  an  edifice, 
which  has  answered  in  any  tolerable 
degree  for  ages  the  common  purposes  of 
society,  or  on  building  it  up  again,  with- 
out having  models  and  patterns  of  ap- 
proved utility  before  his  eyes. 

These  metaphysic  rights  entering  into 
common  life,  like  rays  of  light  which 
pierce  into  a  dense  medium,  are,  by  [170 


the  laws  of  nature,  refracted  from  their 
straight  line.  Indeed  in  the  gross  and 
complicated  mass  of  human  passions  and 
concerns,  the  primitive  rights  of  men 
undergo  such  a  variety  of  refractions  and 
reflections,  that  it  becomes  absurd  to 
talk  of  them  as  if  they  continued  in  the 
simplicity  of  their  original  direction. 
The  nature  of  man  is  intricate;  the  ob- 
jects of  society  are  of  the  greatest  [180 
possible  complexity:  and  therefore  no 
simple  disposition  or  direction  of  power 
can  be  suitable  either  to  man's  nature, 
or  to  the  quality  of  his  affairs.  When  I  / 
hear  the  simplicity  of  contrivance  aimed 
at  and  boasted  of  in  any  new  political 
constitutions,  I  am  at  no  loss  to  decide 
that  the  artificers  are  grossly  ignorant 
of  their  trade,  or  totally  negligent  of  their 
duty.  The  simple  governments  are  [190 
fundamentally  defective,  to  say  no  worse 
of  them.  If  you  were  to  contemplate 
society  in  but  one  point  of  view,  all  the 
simple  modes  of  polity  are  infinitely 
captivating.  In  effect  each  would  answer 
its  single  end  much  more  perfectly  than 
the  more  complex  is  able  to  attain  all 
its  complex  purposes.  But  it  is  better 
that  the  whole  should  be  imperfectly  and 
anomalously  answered,  than  that,  [200 
while  some  parts  are  provided  for  with 
great  exactness,  others  might  be  to- 
tally neglected,  or  perhaps  materially 
injured,  by  the  over-care  of  a  favorite 
member. 

The  pretended  rights  of  these  theorists 
are  all  extremes :  and  in  proportion  as  they 
are  metaphysically  true,  they  are  morally 
and  politically  false.  The  rights  of  men 
are  in  a  sort  of  middle,  incapable  of  [210 
definition,  but  not  impossible  to  be  dis- 
cerned. The  rights  of  men  in  govern- 
ments are  their  advantages;  and  these 
are  often  in  balances  between  differences 
of  good;  in  compromises  sometimes  be- 
tween good  and  evil,  and  sometimes  be- 
tween evil  and  evil.  Political  reason  is  a 
computing  principle;  adding,  subtracting, 
multiplying,  and  dividing,  morally  and 
not  metaphysically,  or  mathematic-  [220 
ally,  true  moral  denominations. 

By  these  theorists  the  right  of  the 
people  is  almost  always  sophistically  con- 
founded with  their  power.     The  body  of 


33* 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


the  community,  whenever  it  can  come  to 
act,  can  meet  with  no  effectual  resistance; 
but  till  power  and  right  are  the  same,  the 
whole  body  of  them  has  no  right  incon- 
sistent with  virtue,  and  the  first  of  all 
virtues,  prudence.  Men  have  no  [230 
right  to  what  is  not  reasonable,  and  to 
what  is  not  for  their  benefit;  for  though 
a  pleasant  writer  said,  Liceat  per  ire  poetis, 
when  one  of  them,  in  cold  blood,  is  said 
to  have  leaped  into  the  flames  of  a  vol- 
canic revolution,  Ardentem  frigidus  Mtnam 
insiluit,  I  consider  such  a  frolic  rather  as 
an  unjustifiable  poetic  license,  than  as 
one  of  the  franchises  of  Parnassus;  and 
whether  he  were  poet,  or  divine,  or  [240 
politician,  that  chose  to  exercise  this  kind 
of  right,  I  think  that  more  wise,  because 
more  charitable,  thoughts  would  urge  me 
rather  to  save  the  man,  than  to  preserve 
his  brazen  slippers  as  the  monuments  of 
his  folly. 

THE  PRECURSORS  OF 
ROMANTICISM 

ALLAN  RAMSAY  (1686-1758) 

PEGGY 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing, 
Just  entered  in  her  teens, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  always  gay; 

My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing,  5 

And  I'm  not  very  auld, 
Yet  wTell  I  like  to  meet  her  at 
The  wauking1  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly 

Whene'er  we  meet  alane,  10 

I  wish  nae  mair  to  lay  my  care, 
I  wish  nae  mair  of  a'  that's  rare; 
My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly, 

To  a'  the  lave2  I'm  cauld, 
But  she  gars3  a'  my  spirits  glow       15 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly 

Whene'er  I  whisper  love, 
That  I  look  down  on  a'  the  town, 
That  I  look  down  upon  a  crown;         20 

1  watching.  2  rest.  3  makes. 


My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly, 
It  makes  me  blyth  and  bauld, 

And  naething  gives  me  sic4  delight 
As  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly 
When  on  my  pipe  I  play, 
By  a'  the  rest  it  is  confest, 
By  a'  the  rest,  that  she  sings  best; 
My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly, 

And  in  her  sangs  are  tauld 
With  innocence  the  wale5  of  sense, 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 


25 


3° 


THE  LASS  WITH  A  LUMP  OF  LAND 

Gi'e  me  a  lass  with  a  lump  of  land, 
And  we  for  life  shall  gang  thegither; 

Though  daft6  or  wise  I'll  never  demand, 

Or  black  or  fair  it  maks  na  whether. 

I'm  aff  with  wit,  and  beauty  will  fade,     5 
And  blood  alane  is  no  worth  a  shilling ; 

But  she  that's  rich,  her  market's  made, 
For  ilka7  charm  about  her  is  killing. 

Gi'e  me  a  lass  with  a  lump  of  land, 

And  in  my  bosom  I'll  hug  my  treasure;  10 
Gin  I  had  anes8  her  gear9  in  my  hand, 
Should   love   turn  dowf,10  it  will  find 
pleasure. 
Laugh  on  wha  likes,  but  there's  my  hand, 
I  hate  with  poortith,11  though  bonny,  to 
meddle; 
Unless  they  bring  cash  or  a  lump  of  land,  15 
They'se  never  get  me  to  dance  to  their 
fiddle. 

There's  meikle  good  love  in  bands  and 
bags, 
And  siller  and  gowd's12  a  sweet  com- 
plexion ; 
But  beauty,  and  wit,  and  virtue  in  rags, 

Have  tint13  the  art  of  gaining  affection.20 
Love  tips  his  arrows  with  woods  and  parks, 
And  castles,  and  riggs,14  and  moors,  and 
meadows ; 
And    nai  thing    can    catch    our    modern 
sparks, 
But  well-tochered15  lasses  or  jointured 
widows. 

4  such.  6  choice.         6  foolish.         7  every.        8  once. 

0  property.  10  mournful,  "poverty.     I2gold.  13  lost. 

14  ridge,  a  measure  of  land.  16  well-dowered. 


THOMSON 


333 


JAMES  THOMSON   (1700-1748) 

THE  SEASONS 

From  Winter 

Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening 

shower  descends, 
At   first   thin-wavering,    till   at   last   the 

flakes  230 

Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming 

the  day 
With   a   continual   flow.     The   cherished 

fields 
Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white: 
'T  is  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new 

snow  melts 
Along  the  mazy  current.    Low  the  woods 
Bow  their  hoar  head;  and  ere  the  languid 

sun  236 

Faint  from  the   west  emits   his  evening 

ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill, 
Is  one  wide  dazzling  waste,  that  buries 

wide 
The  works  of  man.    Drooping,  the  labor- 
er-ox 240 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then 

demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of 

heaven, 
Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little 

boon 
Which    Providence    assigns    them.      One 

alone,  245 

The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household 

gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In    joyless    fields    and    thorny    thickets 

leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted 

man 
His  annual  visit.    Half-afraid,  he  first    250 
Against  the  window  beats;  then,  brisk, 

alights 
,On  the  warm  hearth;  then  hopping  o'er 

the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where 

he  is; 
Till    more    familiar    grown,    the    table- 
crumbs  255 


Attract  his  slender  feet.  The  foodless 
wilds 

Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.  The 
hare, 

Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 

By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and 
dogs, 

And  more  unpi tying  men,  the  garden 
seeks,  260 

Urged  on  by  fearless  want.  The  bleating 
kind 

Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next,  the  glis- 
tening earth, 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair;  then,  sad  dis- 
persed, 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps 
of  snow. 


As  thus  the  snows  arise,  and  foul  and 

fierce  276 

All  winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air, 
In  his  own  loose-revolving  fields  the  swain 
Disastered  stands;  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of    unknown    joyless    brow,    and    other 

scenes,  280 

Of   horrid   prospect,    shag    the    trackless 

plain ; 
Nor  finds  the  river  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild ;  but  wanders  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more 

astray, 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted 

heaps,  285 

Stung  with   the   thoughts  of  home;   the 

thoughts  of  home 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigor 

forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.    How  sinks  his 

soul ! 
What  black  despair,  what  horror,  fills  his 

heart! 
When  for  the  dusky  spot  which  fancy 

feigned,  290 

His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow, 
He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle 

waste, 
Far  from  the  track  and  blessed  abode  of 

man; 
While  round  him   night  resistless  closes 

fast, 
And    every    tempest    howling    o'er    his 

head,  295 

Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild. 


334 


TEE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Then   throng   the   busy   shapes   into  his 

mind, 
Of  covered  pits,  unfathomably  deep, 
A  dire  descent!  beyond  the  power  of  frost; 
Of  faithless  bogs;  of  precipices  huge,      300 
Smoothed  up  with  snow;  and  what  is  land 

unknown, 
What  water  of  the  still  unfrozen  spring, 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom 

boils. 
These  check  his  fearful  steps,  and  down  he 
sinks  305 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift, 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death, 
Mixed   with   the   tender   anguish   nature 

shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying 

man, 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends,  un- 
seen. 310 
In  vain  for  him  the  officious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair  blazing,  and  the  vestment 

warm; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out 
Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.    Alas!  315 
Nor  wife  nor  children  more  shall  he  behold, 
Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.    On  every 

nerve 
The  deadly  winter  seizes,  shuts  up  sense, 
And  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold, 
Lays   him   along   the   snows   a   stiffened 
corse,  320 

Stretched  out,  and  bleaching  in  the  north- 
ern blast. 

From  Summer 

Rushing  thence,  in  one  diffusive  band,37i 
They  drive  the  troubled  flocks,  by  many  a 

dog 
Compelled,   to  where   the   mazy-running 

brook 
Forms  a  deep  pool;  this  bank  abrupt  and 

high, 
And    that,    fair-spreading    in    a    pebbled 

shore.  37S 

Urged  to  the  giddy  brink,  much  is  the  toil, 
The  clamor  much,  of  men,  and  boys,  and 

dogs, 
Ere  the  soft,  fearful  people  to  the  flood 
Commit  their  woolly  sides.    And  oft  the 

swain, 


On  some  impatient  seizing,  hurls  them  in: 
Emboldened  then,  nor  hesitating  more,  381 
Fast,  fast,  they  plunge  amid  the  flashing 

wave, 
And,  panting,  labor  to  the  farther  shore. 
Repeated  this,  till  deep  the  well- washed 

fleece 
Has  drunk  the  flood,  and  from  his  lively 

haunt  385: 

The  trout  is  banished  by  the  sordid  stream; 
Heavy  and  dripping,  to  the  breezy  brow 
Slow  move  the  harmless  race;  where,  as 

they  spread 
Their  swelling  treasures  to  the  sunny  ray, 
Inly  disturbed,  and  wondering  what  this 

wild  390 

Outrageous    tumult    means,    their    loud 

complaints 
The  country  fill — and,  tossed  from  rock 

to  rock, 
Incessant  bleatings  run  around  the  hills. 
At   last,   of   snowy   white,   the   gathered 

flocks 
Are  in  the  wattled  pen  innumerous  pressed, 
Head  above  head;  and  ranged  in  lusty, 

rows  396 

The  shepherds  sit,  and  whet  the  sounding 

shears. 
The   housewife  waits   to   roll   her   fleecy 

stores, 
With  all  her  gay-dressed  maids  attending 

round. 
I  One,  chief,  in  gracious  dignity  enthroned, 
Shines  o'er  the  rest,  the  pastoral  queen, 

and  rays  401 

Her  smiles,  sweet-beaming,  on  her  shep- 
herd-king; 
While  the  glad  circle  round  them  yield 

their  souls 
To  festive  mirth,  and  wit  that  knows  nd 

gall. 
Meantime,  their  joyous  task  goes  on  apace: 
Some  mingling  stir  the  melted  tar,  and 

some,  406 

Deep  on  the  new-shorn  vagrant's  heaving 

side, 
To  stamp  his  master's  cipher  ready  stand; 
Others  the  unwilling  wether  drag  along; 
And,  glorying  in  his  might,  the  sturdy  boy 
Holds  by  the  twisted  horns  the  indignant 

ram.  4" 

Behold    where   bound,    and    of   its   robe 

bereft, 
By  needy  man,  that  all-depending  lord, 


THOMSON 


335 


How  meek,  how  patient,  the  mild  creature 

lies! 
What  softness  in  its  melancholy  face,    415 
What   dumb   complaining   innocence   ap- 
pears ! 
Fear  not,  ye  gentle  tribes,   'tis  not  the 

knife 
Of  horrid  slaughter  that  is  o'er  you  waved; 
No,   'tis  the   tender  swain's   well-guided 

shears, 
Who    having    now,    to    pay   his    annual 

care,  420 

Borrowed  your  fleece,  to  you  a  cumbrous 

load, 
Will   send   you    bounding    to   your   hills 

again. 


From  THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side,     10 
With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed 

round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere 

found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground; 
1    And  there  a  season  atween  June  and 
;  r      May,  15 

f  Half  prankt1  with  spring,  with  summer 
half  imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth 
to  say, 
No  living  wight   could   work,   ne   cared 
\        even  for  play. 


Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest: 

Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns 
between;  20 

I  And  flowery  beds,  that  slumbrous  in- 
fluence kest,2 

From  poppies  breathed;  and  beds  of 
pleasant  green, 

Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature 
seen. 

Meantime  unnumbered  glittering  stream- 
lets played, 

And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters 
sheen;  25 

That,   as   they   bickered    through    the 

t  sunny  glade, 
ough  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling 
murmur  made. 

1  adorned.  2  cast. 


Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 

Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the 
vale, 

And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  dis- 
tant hills,  30 
/And  vacant3  shepherds  piping  in  the 
/      dale: 

And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would 
wail, 

Or  stock-doves  plain  amid  the  forest 
deep, 

That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 

And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep : 

Yet  all  the  sounds  yblent4  inclined  all  to 

sleep.  36 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood; 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  were 

seen  to  move, 
As  Idless  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood : 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and 

fro,  42 

Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the 

blood ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out  below, 
The    murmuring   main    was    heard,    and 

scarcely  heard,  to  flow.  45 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head5  it  was: 

Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half- 
shut  eye; 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that 
pass, 

Forever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky. 

There  eke6  the  soft  delights,  that 
witchingly  5° 

Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the 
breast, 

And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hov- 
ered nigh; 

But  whate'er  smackt  of  noyance,7  or 
unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  de- 
licious nest. 

The  landscape  such,  inspiring  perfect 
ease,  55 

Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard 
hight) 

Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering 
trees, 

3  care-free.    *  mingled.    6  sleepiness.    6  also.    7  annoyance. 


336 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus 

bright, 
And  made  a  kind  of  checkered  day  and 

night. 
Meanwhile,    unceasing    at    the    massy 

gate,  60 

Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked 

wight1 
Was  placed;  and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel 

fate 
And  labor  harsh,  complained,  lamenting 

man's  estate. 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still, 

From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass 
there  by:  65 

For,   as   they   chanced   to  breathe  on 
neighboring   hill, 

The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their 
eye, 

And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh; 

Till    clustering    round    the    enchanter 
false  they  hung, 

Ymolten  with  his  syren  melody;  70 

While  o'er  the  enfeebling  lute  his  hand 
he  flung, 
And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  tempt- 
ing verses  sung 

"Behold!    ye    pilgrims    of    this    earth, 

behold! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearned  pleasure 

gay: 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold, 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime 

of  May!  76 

What    youthful    bride    can    equal    her 

array? 
Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie? 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing 

to  stray, 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to 

fly,  *  80 

Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant 

sky." 

RULE,   BRITANNIA 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sang  this  strain: 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves!        5 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves! 

1  person. 


The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 
Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall, 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all.         10 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies, 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak.       15 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown.  20 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine.  25 

Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found, 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 

Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair !    30 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

EDWARD  YOUNG    (1681-1766) 
NIGHT  THOUGHTS 

From  Night  the  First 

Tired  Nature's   sweet   restorer,  balmy 
Sleep ! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  Fortune  smiles;  the  wretched  he 

forsakes : 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear.     5 
From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturbed  re- 
pose 
I  wake:  how  happy  they  who  wake  no 

more! 
Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the 

grave. 
I  wake,  emerging  from  a_sea  of_dreams 
Tumultuous;  where  my  wrecked  despond- 
ing thought  10 


YOUNG 


337 


!  From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery 
'  At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 
Though  now  restored,  'tis  only  change  of 

pain — 
A  bitter  change! — severer  for  severe: 
The  day  too  short  for  my  distress;  and 
vnight,  15 

Eve'h  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 
Is  sunshine  to  the  color  of  my  fate. 
Night,   sable  goddess,   from   her   ebon 

throne, 
-In  rayless  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  scepter  o'er  a  slumbering  world. 
Silence  how  dead!  and  darkness  how  pro- 
found! 21 
Nor  eye  nor  listening  ear  an  object  finds; 
Creation  sleeps.  Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a 

pause; 
An  awful  pause !  prophetic  of  her  end.       25 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfilled: 
Fate!   drop  the   curtain;   I  can   lose  no 

more. 
Silence  and  Darkness!  solemn  sisters! 

twins 
From    ancient    Night,    who    nurse    the 

tender  thought- 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve — 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man —    31 
Assist  me:  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave; 
The  grave,  your  kingdom ;  there  this  frame 

shall  fall 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye?    Thou  who  didst  put  to 

flight  _  35 

Primeval  Silence,  when  the  morning  stars, 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball ; 
O  Thou!  whose  word  from  solid  darkness 

struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from 

my  soul; 
My  soul  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her 

treasure,  40 

As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of 

soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying 

ray 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     Oh,  lead  my 

mind — 
A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its 

woe —  45 

Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and 

death, 


And  from  each  scene  the  noblest  truths 

inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason;  my  best 

will 
Teach  rectitude;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve  50 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear. 
Nor    let    the    phial    of    thy    vengeance, 

poured 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  poured  in  vain. 


How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how 

august, 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him 

such! 
Who  centered  in  our  make  such  strange 

extremes,  70 

From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed, 
Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds, 
Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain, 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity!  ■ 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorbed,     75 
Though  sullied  and  dishonored,  still  divine, 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute! 
An  heir  of  glory,  a  frail  child  of  dust, 
Helpless  immortal,  insect  infinite, 
A  worm,  a  god ! — I  tremble  at  myself,       80 
And  in  myself  am  lost,  at  home  a  stranger. 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised, 

aghast, 
And  wondering  at  her  own;  how  reason 

reels ! 
Oh,  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man, 
Triumphantly  distressed !  What  joy,  what 

dread,  85 

Alternately  transported  and  alarmed! 
What  can  preserve  my  life,  or  what  de- 
stroy? 
An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the 

grave;     0 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 


ROBERT   BLAIR    (1699-1746) 
From  THE  GRAVE 

While  some  affect  the  sun,  and  some  the 

shade, 
Some  flee  the  city,  some  the  hermitage, 
Their  aims  as  various  as  the  roads  they 

take 


338 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


In  journeying  through  life,  the  task  be 

mine 
To  paint  the  gloomy  horrors  of  the  tomb;  5 
The  appointed  place  of  rendezvous,  where 

all 
These    travellers   meet.     Thy   succors   I 

implore, 
Eternal  King!  whose  potent  arm  sustains 
The  keys  of  hell  and  death. — The  Grave, 

dread  thing! 
Men  shiver  when  thou'rt  named:  nature, 

appalled,  10 

Shakes  off  her  wonted  firmness. — Ah,  how 

dark 
Thy    long-extended    realms,    and    rueful 

wastes ! 
Where    nought    but    silence    reigns,    and 

night,  dark  night, 
Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  rolled  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound. — The  sickly 

taper  16 

By  glimmering  through  thy  low-browed 

misty  vaults, 
Furred  round  with  mouldy  damps  and 

ropy  slime, 
Lets  fall  a  supernumerary  horror, 
And  only  serves  to  make  thy  night  more 

irksome.  20 

•  Well  do  I  know  thee  by  thy  trusty  yew, 
Cheerless,   unsocial  plant!   that  loves  to 

dwell 
Midst   skulls   and   coffins,    epitaphs   and 

worms: 
Where  light-heeled  ghosts,  and  visionary 

shades, 
Beneath  the  wan  cold  moon  (as  fame  re- 
ports) 25 
Embodied,    thick,    perform   their   mystic 

rounds. 
No  other  merriment,  dull  tree!  is  thine. 
See  yonder  hallowed  fane; — the  pious 

work 
Of  names  once  famed,  now  dubious  or 

forgot, 
And  buried   midst   the  wreck  of  things 

which  were;  30 

There    lie   interred    the    more    illustrious 

dead. 
The  wind  is  up:  hark!  how  it  howls!    Me- 

thinks 
Till  now  I  never  heard  a  sound  so  dreary: 
Doors    creak,    and    windows    clap,    and 

night's  foul  bird, 


Rooked1  in  the  spire,  screams  loud:  the 

gloomy  aisles,  35 

Black-plastered,    and    hung    round    with 

shreds  of  'scutcheons 
And  tattered  coats  of  arms,  send  back  the 

sound 
Laden  with  heavier  airs,   from  the  low 

vaults, 
The  mansions  of  the  dead. — Roused  from 

their  slumbers, 
In  grim  array  the  grisly  spectres  rise,       40 
Grin  horrible,  and,  obstinately  sullen, 
Pass  and  repass,  hushed  as  the  foot  of 

night. 
Again  the  screech-owl  shrieks:  ungracious 

sound! 
I'll  hear  no  more;  it  makes  one's  blood 

run  chill. 
Quite  round  the  pile,  a  row  of  reverend 

elms,  45 

(Coeval  near  with  that)  all  ragged  show, 
Long  lashed  by  the  rude  winds.     Some 

rift  half  down 
Their  branchless  trunks;  others  so  thin 

a-top, 
That  scarce  two  crows  could  lodge  in  the 

same  tree. 
Strange  things,  the  neighbors  say,  have 

happened  here:  50 

Wild  shrieks  have  issued  from  the  hollow 

tombs; 
Dead  men  have  come  again,  and  walked 

about; 
And  the  great  bell  has  tolled,  unrung,  un- 
touched. 
(Such  tales  their  cheer,  at  wake  or  gossip- 
ing, 
When  it  draws  near  the  witching  time  of 

night.)  55 

Oft  in  the  lone  church-yard  at  night  I've 

seen, 
By    glimpse    of    moonshine    chequering 

through  the  trees, 
The  school-boy,  with  his  satchel  in  his 

hand, 
Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up, 
And   lightly   tripping  o'er   the   long  flat 

stones,  60 

(With  nettles  skirted,  and  with  moss  o'er- 

grown,) 

That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lie  below. 
Sudden  he  starts,  and  hears,  or  thinks  he 

hears, 

1  cowering. 


COLLINS 


339 


The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his 
heels; 

Full  fast  he  flies,  and  dares  not  look  behind 
him,  65 

Till  out  of  breath  he  overtakes  his  fel- 
lows ; 

Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 

Of  horrid  apparition,  tall  and  ghastly, 

That  walks  at  dead  of  night,  or  takes  his 
stand 

O'er  some  new-opened  grave;  and  (strange 
to  tell!)  70 

Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS  (1721-1759) 

A  SONG  FROM  SHAKESPEARE'S 
CYMBELINE 

Sung  by  Guiderus  and  A  rviragus  over  Fidele, 
supposed  to  be  dead 

To  fair  Fidele 's  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 
Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear,  5 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen, 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew ;        10 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 
Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flow'rs,  15 
To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain, 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

Or  midst  the  chase  on  every  plain, 

The    tender    thought    on    thee    shall 
dwell,  20 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 
For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed : 

Beloved  till  life  could  charm  no  more; 
And  mourned  till  Pity's  self  be  dead. 


ODE 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  BEGINNING  OF 
THE  YEAR  1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod  5 

Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 

There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey, 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay;  10 

And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 

To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there! 


ODE  TO  EVENING 

If  ought  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest 
ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright- 
haired  sun      .  5 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy 
skirts, 
With  brede1  ethereal  wove, 
O'erhang  his  wavy  bed: 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak- 
eyed  bat, 
With  short  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern 
wing,  10 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum: 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed,  15 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose    numbers,    stealing    through    thy 

darkening  vale 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return!  20 

1  embroidery. 


34© 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 
Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her 
brows  with  sedge,  25 

And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier 
still, 
The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet, 
Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then   lead,    calm   votaress,    where   some 

sheety  lake 
Cheers    the   lone   heath,    or   some   time- 
hallowed  pile  30 
Or  upland  fallows  gray 
Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driv- 
ing rain, 
Forbid    my    willing    feet,    be    mine    the 
hut 
That  from  the  mountain's  side  35 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered 

spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er 
all 
Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil.  40 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as 

oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest 
Eve; 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with 
leaves;  45 

Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous 
air, 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 
And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan 

shed, 
Shall   Fancy,   Friendship,   Science,   rose- 
lipped  Health,  50 
Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 
And  hymn  thy  favorite  name! 


THE  PASSIONS 

An  Ode  for  Music 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting,        5 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined: 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired,  10 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each,  for  madness  ruled  the  hour,  15 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
Ev'n  at  the  sound  himself  had  made.  2c 

Next  Anger  rushed;  his  eyes,  on  fire, 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 
And    swept    with    hurried    hand    the 
strings. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair         25 
Low  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air; 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 
What  was  thy  delightful  measure?      30 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance 
hail! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong, 
And   from    the   rocks,   the  woods,  the 

vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  the 

song;  y^ 

And    where    her    sweetest    theme    she 

chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every 

close, 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved 

her  golden  hair. 


COLLINS 


34i 


And  longer  had  she  sung, — but  with  a 
frown 
Revenge  impatient  rose;  40 

He    threw    his    blood-stained    sword    in 
thunder  down 
And  with  a  withering  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so   full  of 
woe.  45 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And    though    sometimes,   each   dreary 
pause  between, 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied,      50 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed 
bursting  from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were 
fixed, 
Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was 
mixed,  55 

And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving 
called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired, 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet,  60 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pen- 
sive soul: 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled 
measure  stole; 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream  with  fond 
delay  65 

Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  oh,  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier 

tone, 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest 
hue,  70 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung, 
The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad 
known ! 


The    oak-crowned    sisters,    and    their 
chaste-eyed  queen,  75 

Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green; 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear, 

And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his 
beachen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial.  80 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  ad- 
dressed; 
But  soon   he    saw  the   brisk  awakening 
viol, 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved 
the  best. 
They  would  have  thought,  who  heard 
the  strain,  85 

They  saw  in  Tempe's  vale  her  native 

maids 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 
To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 
While,   as   his   flying   fingers   kissed    the 
strings, 
Loved  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fan- 
tastic round;  90 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone 

unbound, 
And  he,  admist  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook    thousand    odors    from    his    dewy 
wings. 

O  Music,  sphere-descended  maid,  95 

Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid, 

Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 

As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower 

You  learned  an  all-commanding  power,  100 

Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared, 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 

Arise  as  in  that  elder  time,  105 

Warm,  energic,1  chaste,  sublime! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age, 

Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page. — 

'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 

Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail ,   no 

Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 

Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age, 

Ev'n  all  at  once  together  found, 

Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 

1  energetic. 


342 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


O  bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease,         115 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece, 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state, 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 


THOMAS  GRAY  (1716-1771) 

ODE  ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF 
ETON  COLLEGE 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers, 

That  crown  the  watry  glade, 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  Shade; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow  5 

Of  Windsor's  heights  the  expanse  below 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers 

among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver- winding  way:  10 

Ah,  happy  hills,  ah,  pleasing  shade, 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain, 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain ! 
I  feel  the  gales,  that  from  ye  blow,  15 

A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing, 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  sooth, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring.  20 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave        25 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave? 

The  captive  linnet  which  enthrall? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball?  30 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murm'ring  labors  ply 
'Gainst    graver    hours,    that    bring    con- 
straint 

To  sweeten  liberty; 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain  35 

The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 


Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 


40 


Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possessed; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast: 
Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue,  45 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever-new, 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigor  born; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light, 

That  fly  the  approach  of  morn.  50 

Alas,  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play! 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come, 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day: 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait  55 

The  Ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train ! 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey  the  murth'rous  band! 

Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men!  60 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  skulks  behind; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth,  65 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged,  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart.  70 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high, 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice, 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try,  75 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye, 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe.  80 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen: 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins,  85 


GRAY 


343 


That  every  laboring  sinew  strains, 
Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage; 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 
And  slow-consuming  Age. 


90 


To  each  his  sufferings:  all  are  men, 

Condemned  alike  to  groan, 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet    ah!    why   should    they    know   their 

fate? 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late,  96 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies. 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise.  100 


FT  FCV 

WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 

CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the 
lea, 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary 
way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 
me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on 

the  sight,  5 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 

flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant 

folds; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain 10 
Of   such,   as   wandering   near  her  secret 
bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath   those   rugged   elms,    that   yew- 
tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mould- 
ering heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,       15 
The    rude    forefathers    of    the    hamlet 
sleep. 


The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw- 
built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing 
horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their 
lowly  bed.  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 

burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to 

share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,  25 
Their   furrow   oft   the   stubborn   glebe 
has  broke; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team 
afield! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their 
sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their   homely   joys,    and   destiny    ob- 
scure; 30 
Nor    Grandeur    hear    with    a    disdainful 
smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth 
e'er  gave, 

Awaits  alike  the  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the 
fault, 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies 
raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and 
fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 
praise.  40 

Can  storied1  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting 
breath? 
Can    Honor's    voice   provoke    the    silent 
dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of 
Death? 

1  pictured. 


344 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid    45 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 
fire; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 
swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample 

page 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er 

unroll ;  50 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 
The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean 
bear: 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  un- 
seen, 55 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert 
air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  daunt- 
less breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may 
rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's 
blood.  60 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  com- 
mand, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And   read   their  history  in   a  nation's 
eyes, 

Their    lot    forbade:    nor    circumscribed 
alone  65 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 
confined; 
Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 
throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  man- 
kind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth 
to  hide, 
To   quench   the   blushes   of   ingenuous 
shame,  70 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With   incense    kindled   at    the   Muse's 
flame. 


Far  from   the   madding  crowd's   ignoble 
strife, 
Their   sober   wishes   never   learned   to 
stray; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life     75 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their 
way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  pro- 
tect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculp- 
ture decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  un- 
lettered muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey,  85 
This   pleasing   anxious   being   e'er   re- 
signed, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful 
day, 
Nor   cast   one    longing    lingering   look 
behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  re- 
lies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  re- 
quires; 90 
Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature 
cries, 
Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  the  unhonored 
dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  re- 
late; ' 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy 
fate, 

Haply    some    hoary-headed    swain    may 
say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 
dawn 
Brushing    with    hasty    steps    the    dews 
away 
To    meet    the    sun    upon    the    upland 
lawn.  100 


GRAY 


345 


"There  at   the   foot  of  yonder  nodding 
beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so 
high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he 
stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles 
by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in 
scorn, 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  POESY 

A   PINDARIC   ODE 
I 

The  Strophe 

Awake,  ^Eolian  lyre,  awake, 
And  give   to  rapture   all   thy   trembling 

strings. 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 


Muttering    his    wayward    fancies    he     a  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take: 

The  laughing  flowers,  that  round  them 

blow,  5 

Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 
Through  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres '  golden 

reign : 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain,  10 

Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour: 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to 

the  roar. 

The  Antistrophe 

Oh!  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell!  the  sullen  Cares  15 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War, 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car, 
And   dropped   his   thirsty   lance    at   thy 

command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptered  hand  20 

Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathered  king 
With  ruffled  plumes,  and  flagging  wing: 
Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of 

his  eye. 


would  rove 
Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  for- 
lorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hope- 
less love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed 
hill, 
Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite 
tree;  no 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was 
he; 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we 
saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read) 
the  lay,  115 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 
thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown. 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble 
birth, 

And   Melancholy   marked   him  for   her 
own.  120 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 

He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven   ('twas   all  he 
wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  1 2  5 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


The  Epode 


25 


Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey, 
Tempered  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O'er  Idalia's  velvet-green 
The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 
On  Cytherea's  day 
With  antic  Sports,  and  blue-eyed  Pleas 

ures, 
Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures; 
Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 
Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet: 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 
Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 


3° 


35 


346 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  ap- 
proach declare: 

Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay. 

With  arms  sublime,1  that  float  upon  the 
air, 

In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way: 

O'er  her  warm  cheek,  and  rising  bosom, 
move  4° 

The  bloom  of  young  desire,  and  purple 
light  of  love. 

II 

The  Strophe 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await, 
Labor,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train, 
And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of 

Fate!  45 

The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly 

Muse? 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 
Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry, 
He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky:  51 

Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 
Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering 

shafts  of  war. 

The  Antistrophe 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road, 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  moun- 
tains roam,  55 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight-gloom, 
To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  re- 
peat                                                    60 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs,  and  dusky 

loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  Goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
The  unconquerable  mind,  and  Freedom's 
holy  flame.  65 

The  Epode 

Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles,  that  crown  the  ^gean  deep, 
Fields,  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 
Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 

1  uplifted. 


In  lingering  labyrinths  creep,  70 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  Anguish? 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 
Inspiration  breathed  around: 
Every  shade  and  hallowed  fountain        75 
Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound: 
Till  the  sad  Nine  in  Greece's  evil  hour 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike    they   scorn   the   pomp   of   tyrant- 
Power, 
And    coward    Vice,    that    revels    in    her 
chains.  80 

When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They   sought,   O   Albion!   next   thy   sea- 
encircled  coast. 


Ill 

The  Strophe 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling 

laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed,    85 
To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face:  the  dauntless  child 
Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
This  pencil  take  (she  said)  whose  colors 

clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year:  90 

Thine  too  these  golden  keys,   immortal 

boy! 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy; 
Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilling  Fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic 

tears. 

The  Antistrophe 

Nor  second  he,  that  rode  sublime       95 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 
The  secrets  of  the  Abyss  to  spy. 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place 

and  time: 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire-blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble,  while  they  gaze,  100 
He  saw;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold,  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous 

car, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race,  105 

With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long- 
resounding  pace. 


GRA  Y 


347 


The  Epode 


Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy  hovering  o'er 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that 

burn.  no 

But  ah!  'tis  heard  no  more 

O  Lyre  divine,  what  daring  spirit 

Wakes  thee  now?  though  he  inherit 

Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  Eagle  bear  115 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  azure  deep  of  air: 

Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms,  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 

With    orient    hues,    unborrowed    of    the 

Sun:  120 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant 

way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 
Beneath  the  good  how  far — but  far  above 

the  great. 


THE  BARD 

A  PINDARIC   ODE 
I 

The  Strophe 

"Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait, 
Though   fanned   by   Conquest's   crimson 

wing 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail,  5 

Nor  even  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 
To    save    thy   secret    soul   from   nightly 

fears, 
From   Cambria's   curse,   from   Cambria's 

tears!" 
Such  were   the   sounds,   that  o'er   the 

crested  pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dis- 
may, 10 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy 

side 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long 

array. 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless 

trance ; 
"To  arms!"  cried  Mortimer,  and  couched 

his  quivering  lance. 


The  Antistrophe 


On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow  15 

Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood; 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled 
air)  20 

And  with  a  master's  hand,  and  prophet's 

fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre: 
"Hark,  how  each  giant-oak,  and  desert 
cave, 
Sighs   to   the   torrent's   awful   voice   be- 
neath! 
O'er  thee,  O  King!  their  hundred  arms 
they  wave,  25 

Revenge    on    thee    in    hoarser    murmurs 

breathe; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewel- 
lyn's lay. 

The  Epode 

"Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 
That  hushed  the  stormy  main;  30 

Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed: 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud- 
topped  head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie,  35 

Smeared  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale: 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail; 
The  famished  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 
Dear,  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad 
eyes,  40 

Dear,  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my 

heart, 
Ye    died    amidst    your    dying    country's 
cries — 
No  more  I  weep.    They  do  not  sleep. 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  griesly  band, 
I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet,  45 

Avengers  of  their  native  land : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of 
thy  line: — 

II 
The  Strophe 

" 'Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding  sheet  of  Edward's  race.       50 


34« 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death,  through  Berkley's 

roofs  that  ring,  55 

Shrieks  of  an  agonising  king! 
She-Wolf    of    France,    with    unrelenting 

fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled 

mate, 
From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country 

hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heaven.     What  terrors 

round  him  wait!  60 

Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  com- 
bined, 
And  sorrow's  faded  form,  and  solitude 

behind. 

The  Antistrophe 

'"Mighty  Victor,  mighty  Lord, 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford  65 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 

Is  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the 

dead. 
The  swarm,  that  in  thy  noon-tide  beam 

were  born? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn.  70 

Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr 

blows, 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes; 
Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the 

helm; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's 

sway,  75 

That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his 

evening  prey. 

The  Epode 

"'Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare; 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the 

feast. 
Close  by  the  regal  chair  80 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 

Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 
Lance  to  lance  and  horse  to  horse? 
Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined 
course,  85 


And  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow 

their  way. 
Ye  Towers  of  Julius,   London's  lasting 

shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murther 

fed, 
Revere   his   consort's   faith,   his   father's 

fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head. 90 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 
Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread: 
The  bristled  Boar  in  infant-gore 
Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed 

loom  95 

Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify 

his  doom. 

Ill 

The  Strophe 

"'Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof.    The  thread  is  spun.) 

Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove.    The  work  is  done.) ' — 
Stay,  oh  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn  101 

Leave   me   unblessed,    unpitied,   here    to 
mourn ! 

In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western 
skies, 

They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh!  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snow- 
don's  height  105 

Descending    slow    their    glittering    skirts 
unroll? 

Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 

No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 

All-hail,    ye    genuine    kings,    Britannia's 
issue,  hail!  no 

The  Antistrophe 

"Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 
And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine!  115 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line; 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 
Attempered  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the 

air, 
What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her 

play!  120 


GRA  Y 


349 


Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin, 
hear; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy 
clay. 

Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring,  as  she 
sings, 

Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many- 
colored  wings. 

The  Epode 

"The  verse  adorn  again  125 

Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 
In  buskined  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With   Horror,   Tyrant  of  the  throbbing 

breast.  130 

A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir, 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 

Fond1  impious  man,  think 'st  thou,  yon 

sanguine  cloud,  135 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the 

orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 
And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled 

ray. 
Enough  for  me:  with  joy  I  see 
The  different  doom  our  fates  assign.      140 
Be  thine  Despair,  and  sceptered  Care, 
To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." — 
He    spoke,    and    headlong    from    the 

mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to 

endless  night. 


THE  FATAL  SISTERS 

AN  ODE 
FROM  THE  NORSE  TONGUE 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower, 
(Haste,  the  loom  of  hell  prepare,) 
Iron-sleet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  in  the  darkened  air. 

Glittering  lances  are  the  loom, 
Where  the  dusky  warp  we  strain, 
Weaving  many  a  soldier's  doom, 
Orkney's  woe,  and  Randver's  bane. 

1  foolish. 


IS 


See  the  griesly  texture  grow ! 
('Tis  of  human  entrails  made,) 
And  the  weights,  that  play  below, 
Each  a  gasping  warrior's  head. 

Shafts  for  shuttles,  dipt  in  gore, 
Shoot  the  trembling  cords  along. 
Sword,  that  once  a  monarch  bore, 
Keep  the  tissue  close  and  strong. 

Mista  black,  terrific  maid, 
Sangrida,  and  Hilda,  see, 
Join  the  wayward  work  to  aid: 
'Tis  the  woof  of  victory. 

Ere  the  ruddy  sun  be  set, 
Pikes  must  shiver,  javelins  sing, 
Blade  with  clattering  buckler  meet, 
Hauberk  crash,  and  helmet  ring. 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 
Let  us  go,  and  let  us  fly, 
Where  our  friends  the  conflict  share, 
Where  they  triumph,  where  they  die. 


As  the  paths  of  fate  we  tread, 

Wading  through  the  ensanguined  field:  30 

Gondula,  and  Geira,  spread 

O'er  the  youthful  king  your  shield. 


We  the  reins  to  slaughter  give, 
Ours  to  kill,  and  ours  to  spare: 
Spite  of  danger  he  shall  live. 
(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 


25 


35 


They,  whom  once  the  desert-beach 
Pent  within  its  bleak  domain, 
Soon  their  ample  sway  shall  stretch 
O'er  the  plenty  of  the  plain. 

Low  the  dauntless  earl  is  laid, 
Gored  with  many  a  gaping  wound: 
Fate  demands  a  nobler  head; 
Soon  a  king  shall  bite  the  ground. 

Long  his  loss  shall  Eirin  weep, 
Ne'er  again  his  likeness  see; 
Long  her  strains  in  sorrow  steep, 
Strains  of  immortality! 

Horror  covers  all  the  heath, 
Clouds  of  carnage  blot  the  sun. 
Sisters,  weave  the  web  of  death; 
Sisters,  cease,  the  work  is  done. 


40 


45 


50 


35° 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Hail  the  task,  and  hail  the  hands! 
Songs  of  joy  and  triumph  sing! 
Joy  to  the  victorious  bands; 
Triumph  to  the  younger  king. 


55 


Mortal,  thou  that  hear'st  the  tale, 
Learn  the  tenor  of  our  song. 
Scotland,  through  each  winding  vale 
Far  and  wide  the  notes  prolong.  60 

Sisters,  hence  with  spurs  of  speed: 
Each  her  thundering  falchion  wield; 
Each  bestride  her  sable  steed. 
Hurry,  hurry  to  the  field. 


SKETCH  OF  HIS  OWN  CHARACTER 

Too  poor  for  a  bribe,  and  too  proud  to 

importune: 
He   had   not   the   method   of   making   a 

fortune; 
Could  love,  and  could  hate,  so  was  thought 

somewhat  odd; 
No  very  great  wit,  he  believed  in  a  God. 
A  place  or  a  pension  he  did  not  desire,     5 
But   left    church    and    state    to    Charles 

Townshend  and  Squire. 


LETTERS 

To  Mrs.  Dorothy  Gray 

Lyons,  October  13,  1739. 
...  It  is  a  fortnight  since  we  set 
out  from  hence  upon  a  little  excursion  to 
Geneva.  We  took  the  longest  road, 
which  lies  through  Savoy,  on  purpose  to 
see  a  famous  monastery,  called  the  Grand 
Chartreuse,  and  had  no  reason  to  think 
our  time  lost.  After  having  travelled 
seven  days  very  slow  (for  we  did  not 
change  horses,  it  being  impossible  for  a 
chaise  to  go  post  in  these  roads)  we  [10 
arrived  at  a  little  village,  among  the 
mountains  of  Savoy,  called  Echelles; 
from  thence  we  proceeded  on  horses,  who 
are  used  to  the  way,  to  the  mountain  of 
the  Chartreuse.  It  is  six  miles  to  the  top; 
the  road  runs  winding  up  it,  commonly  not 
six  feet  broad;  on  one  hand  is  the  rock, 
with  woods  of  pine-trees  hanging  over- 
head; on  the  other,  a  monstrous  precipice, 
almost  perpendicular,  at  the  bottom  [20 


of  which  rolls  a  torrent,  that  sometimes 
tumbling  among  the  fragments  of  stone 
that  have  fallen  from  on  high,  and  some- 
times precipitating  itself  down  vast  de- 
scents with  a  noise  like  thunder,  which  is 
still  made  greater  by  the  echo  from  the 
mountains  on  each  side,  concurs  to  form 
one  of  the  most  solemn,  the  most  roman- 
tic, and  the  most  astonishing  scenes  I 
ever  beheld.  ...  [30 

To  Mrs.  Dorothy  Gray 

Turin,  November  7,  1739. 
I  am  this  night  arrived  here,  and  have 
just  set  down  to  rest  me  after  eight  days' 
tiresome  journey.  For  the  first  three  we 
had  the  same  road  we  before  passed 
through  to  go  to  Geneva;  the  fourth  we 
turned  out  of  it,  and  for  that  day  and  the 
next  travelled  rather  among  than  upon 
the  Alps;  the  way  commonly  running 
through  a  deep  valley  by  the  side  of  the 
river  Arve,  which  works  itself  a  pas-  [10 
sage,  with  great  difficulty  and  a  mighty 
noise,  among  vast  quantities  of  rocks, 
that  have  rolled  down  from  the  mountain- 
tops.  The  winter  was  so  far  advanced 
as  in  great  measure  to  spoil  the  beauty 
of  the  prospect;  however,  there  was  still 
somewhat  fine  remaining  amidst  the 
savageness  and  horror  of  the  place:  the 
sixth  we  began  to  go  up  several  of  these 
mountains;  and  as  we  were  passing  [20 
one,  met  with  an  odd  accident  enough: 
Mr.  Walpole  had  a  little  fat  black  spaniel, 
that  he  was  very  fond  of,  which  he  some- 
times used  to  set  down,  and  let  it  run  by 
the  chaise  side.  We  were  at  that  time  in 
a  very  rough  road,  not  two  yards  broad  at 
most;  on  one  side  was  a  great  wood  of 
pines,  and  on  the  other  a  vast  precipice; 
it  was  noonday,  and  the  sun  shone  bright, 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  from  the  wood-  [30 
side  (which  was  as  steep  upwards  as  the 
other  part  was  downwards),  out  rushed  a 
great  wolf,  came  close  to  the  head  of  the 
horses,  seized  the  dog  by  the  throat,  and 
rushed  up  the  hill  again  with  him  in  his 
mouth.  This  was  done  in  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  minute;  we  all  saw  it,  and 
yet  the  servants  had  not  time  to  draw 
their  pistols,  or  do  anything  to  save  the 
dog.  If  he  had  not  been  there,  and  [40 
the  creature  had  thought  fit  to  lay  hold 


GRAY 


35i 


of  one  of  the  horses,  chaise,  and  we,  and  all 
must  inevitably  have  tumbled  about  fifty 
fathoms  perpendicular  down  the  precipice. 
The  seventh  we  came  to  Lanebourg,  the 
last  town  in  Savoy;  it  lies  at  the  foot  of 
the  famous  Mount  Cenis,  which  is  so 
situated  as  to  allow  no  room  for  any  way 
but  over  the  very  top  of  it.  Here  the 
chaise  was  forced  to  be  pulled  to  [50 
pieces,  and  the  baggage  and  that  to  be 
carried  by  mules.  We  ourselves  were 
wrapped  up  in  our  furs,  and  seated  upon 
a  sort  of  matted  chair  without  legs,  which 
is  carried  upon  poles  in  the  manner  of  a 
bier,  and  so  begun  to  ascend  by  the  help 
of  eight  men.  It  was  six  miles  to  the  top, 
where  a  plain  opens  itself  about  as  many 
more  in  breadth,  covered  perpetually 
with  very  deep  snow,  and  in  the  midst  [60 
of  that  a  great  lake  of  unfathomable 
depth,  from  whence  a  river  takes  its  rise, 
and  tumbles  over  monstrous  rocks  quite 
down  the  other  side  of  the  mountain. 
The  descent  is  six  miles  more,  but  in- 
finitely more  steep  than  the  going  up;  and, 
here  the  men  perfectly  fly  down  with  you, 
stepping  from  stone  to  stone  with  in- 
credible swiftness  in  places  where  none 
but  they  could  go  three  paces  without  [70 
falling.  The  immensity  of  the  precipices, 
the  roaring  of  the  river  and  torrents  that 
run  into  it,  the  huge  crags  covered  with 
ice  and  snow,  and  the  clouds  below  you 
and  about  you,  are  objects  it  is  impos- 
sible to  conceive  without  seeing  them; 
and  though  we  had  heard  many  strange 
descriptions  of  the  scene,  none  of  them 
at  all  came  up  to  it.  .  .  . 

To  Richard  West 

Turin,  November  16,  1739. 
...  I  have  not,  as  yet,  anywhere 
met  with  those  grand  and  simple  works 
of  Art,  that  are  to  amaze  one,  and  whose 
sight  one  is  to  be  the  better  for:  but  those 
of  Nature  have  astonished  me  beyond 
expression.  In  our  little  journey  up  to  the 
Grande  Chartreuse,  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  gone  ten  paces  without  an  exclama- 
tion that  there  was  no  restraining.  Not 
a  precipice,  not  a  torrent,  not  a  cliff,  [10 
but  is  pregnant  with  religion  and  poetry. 
There  are  certain  scenes  that  would  awe 
an  atheist  into  belief,  without  the  help  of 


other  argument.  One  need  not  have  a 
very  fantastic  imagination  to  see  spirits 
there  at  noonday;  you  have  Death  per- 
petually before  your  eyes,  only  so  far 
removed,  as  to  compose  the  mind  with- 
out frighting  it.  I  am  well  persuaded  St. 
Bruno  was  a  man  of  no  common  genius,  [20 
to  choose  such  a  situation  for  his  retire- 
ment; and  perhaps  should  have  been  a 
disciple  of  his,  had  I  been  born  in  his 
time.  .  .  . 

To  Horace  Walpole 

Cambridge,  February  11,  1751. 
As  you  have  brought  me  into  a  little 
sort  of  distress,  you  must  assist  me,  I 
believe,  to  get  out  of  it  as  well  as  I  can. 
Yesterday  I  had  the  misfortune  of  re- 
ceiving a  letter  from  certain  gentlemen 
(as  their  bookseller  expresses  it),  who  have 
taken  the  Magazine  of  Magazines  into 
their  hands.  They  tell  me  that  an  in- 
genious poem,  called  reflections  in  a 
Country  Church-yard,  has  been  com-  [10 
municated  to  them,  which  they  are  print- 
ing forthwith;  that  they  are  informed  that 
the  excellent  author  of  it  is  I  by  name,  and 
that  they  beg  not  only  his  indulgence, 
but  the  honor  of  his  correspondence,  etc. 
As  I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to  be  either  so 
indulgent,  or  so  correspondent,  as  they 
desire,  I  have  but  one  bad  way  left  to 
escape  the  honor  they  would  inflict  upon 
me;  and  therefore  am  obliged  to  desire  [20 
you  would  make  Dodsley  print  it  im- 
mediately (which  may  be  done  in  less 
than  a  week's  time)  from  your  copy,  but 
without  my  name,  in  what  form  is  most 
convenient  to  him,  but  on  his  best  paper 
and  character;  he  must  correct  the  press 
himself,  and  print  it  without  any  interval 
between  the  stanzas,  because  the  sense 
is  in  some  places  continued  beyond  them; 
and  the  title  must  be,  —  Elegy,  writ-  [30 
ten  in  a  Country  Church-yard.  If  he 
would  add  a  line  or  two  to  say  it  came 
into  his  hands  by  accident,  I  should  like 
it  better.  If  you  behold  the  Magazine  of 
Magazines  in  the  light  that  I  do,  you  will 
not  refuse  to  give  yourself  this  trouble 
on  my  account,  which  you  have  taken  of 
your  own  accord  before  now.  If  Dodsley 
do  not  do  this  immediately,  he  may  as 
well  let  it  alone.  [40 


352 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


To  the  Rev.  William  Mason 

December  iq,  1757. 
Dear  Mason — Though  I  very  well  know 
the  bland  emollient  saponaceous  qualities 
both  of  sack  and  silver,  yet  if  any  great 
man  would  say  to  me,  "I  make  you  rat- 
catcher to  his  Majesty,  with  a  salary  of 
£300  a  year  and  two  butts  of  the  best 
Malaga;  and  though  it  has  been  usual  to 
catch  a  mouse  or  two,  for  form's  sake,  in 
public  once  a  year,  yet  to  you,  sir,  we  will 
not  stand  upon  these  things,"  I  can-  [10 
not  say  I  should  jump  at  it;  nay,  if  they 
would  drop  the  very  name  of  the  office, 
and  call  me  Sinecure  to  the  King's  Maj- 
esty, I  should  still  feel  a  little  awkward, 
and  think  everybody  I  saw  smelt  a  rat 
about  me;  but  I  do  not  pretend  to  blame 
any  one  else  that  has  not  the  same  sensa- 
tions; for  my  part  I  would  rather  be 
serjeant  trumpeter  or  pinmaker  to  the 
palace.  Nevertheless  I  interest  my-  [20 
self  a  little  in  the  history  of  it,  and  rather 
wish  somebody  may  accept  it  that  will 
retrieve  the  credit  of  the  thing,  if  it  be 
retrievable,  or  ever  had  any  credit.  Rowe 
was,  I  think,  the  last  man  of  character 
that  had  it.  As  to  Settle,  whom  you 
mention,  he  belonged  to  my  lord  mayor, 
not  to  the  king.  Eusden  was  a  person  of 
great  hopes  in  his  youth,  though  he  at 
last  turned  out  a  drunken  parson.  [30 
Dry  den  was  as  disgraceful  to  the  office, 
from  his  character,  as  the  poorest  scribbler 
could  have  been  from  his  verses.  The 
office  itself  has  always  humbled  the  pro- 
fessor hitherto  (even  in  an  age  when  kings 
were  somebody),  if  he  were  a  poor  writer 
by  making  him  more  conspicuous,  and  if 
he  were  a  good  one  by  setting  him  at  war 
with  the  little  fry  of  his  own  profession, 
for  there  are  poets  little  enough  to  [40 
envy  even  a  poet-laureate.  .  .  . 


JAMES  MACPHERSON  (1736-1796) 
From  CATH-LODA 

A  Tale  of  the  times  of  old ! 

Why,  thou  wanderer  unseen!  Thou 
bender  of  the  thistle  of  Lora;  why,  thou 
breeze  of  the  valley,  hast  thou  left  mine 
ear?     I  hear  no  distant  roar  of  streams! 


No  sound  of  the  harp,  from  the  rock! 
Come,  thou  huntress  of  Lutha,  Malvina, 
call  back  his  soul  to  the  bard.  I  look 
forward  to  Lochlin  of  lakes,  to  the  dark, 
billowy  bay  of  U-thorno,  where  Fingal  [10 
descends  from  ocean,  from  the  roar  of 
winds.  Few  are  the  heroes  of  Morven,  in 
a  land  unknown! 

Starno  sent  a  dweller  of  Loda,  to  bid 
Fingal  to  the  feast;  but  the  king  remem- 
bered the  past,  and  all  his  rage  arose. 
"Nor  Gormal's  mossy  towers,  nor  Starno, 
shall  Fingal  behold.  Deaths  wander,  like 
shadows,  over  his  fiery  soul!  Do  I  forget 
that  beam  of  light,  the  white-handed  [20 
daughter  of  kings?  Go,  son  of  Loda;  his 
words  are  wind  to  Fingal:  wind,  that  to 
and  fro  drives  the  thistle,  in  autumn's 
dusky  vale.  Duth-maruno,  arm  of  death! 
Cromma-glas,  of  iron  shields!  Struthmor, 
dweller  of  battle's  wing!  Cormar,  whose 
ships  bound  on  seas,  careless  as  the  course 
of  a  meteor,  on  dark-rolling  clouds! 
Arise  around  me,  children  of  heroes,  in  a 
land  unknown!  Let  each  look  on  his  [30 
shield,  like  Trenmor,  the  ruler  of  wars." 
****** 

Around  the  king  they  rise  in  wrath.  No 
words  come  forth:  they  seize  their  spears. 
Each  soul  is  rolled  into  itself.  At  length 
the  sudden  clang  is  waked,  on  all  their 
echoing  shields.  Each  takes  his  hill,  by 
night;  at  intervals,  they  darkly  stand. 
Unequal  bursts  the  hum  of  songs,  between 
the  roaring  wind! 

Broad  over  them  rose  the  moon!       [40 

In  his  arms  came  tall  Duth-maruno; 

he  from  Croma  of  rocks,  stern  hunter  of 

the  boar!     In  his  dark  boat  he  rose  on 

waves. 

****** 

Fingal  rushed,  in  all  his  arms,  wide- 
bounding  over  Turthor's  stream,  that 
sent  its  sullen  roar  by  night  through 
Gormal's  misty  vale.  A  moon-beam  glit- 
tered on  a  rock;  in  the  midst,  stood  a 
stately  form;  a  form  with  floating  [50 
locks,  like  Lochlin's  white-bosomed  maids. 
Unequal  are  her  steps,  and  short.  She 
throws  a  broken  song  on  wind.  At  times 
she  tosses  her  white  arms:  for  grief  is 
dwelling  in  her  soul. 


MACPHERSON 


35^ 


Whence  is  the  stream  of  years?  Whither 
do  they  roll  along?  Where  have  they 
hid,  in  mist,  their  many-colored  sides? 

I  look  into  the  times  of  old,  but  they 
seem  dim  to  Ossian's  eyes,  like  reflected  [60 
moonbeams  on  a  distant  lake.  Here 
rise  the  red  beams  of  war!  There,  silent, 
dwells  a  feeble  race!  They  mark  no 
years  with  their  deeds,  as  slow  they  pass 
along.  Dweller  between  the  shields !  thou 
that  awakest  the  failing  soul!  descend 
from  thy  wall,  harp  of  Cona,  with  thy 
voices  three!  Come  with  that  which 
kindles  the  past:  rear  the  forms  of  old, 
on  their  own  dark-brown  years!  [70 


From  THE  SONGS  OF  SELMA 

It  is  night;  I  am  alone,  forlorn  on  the 
hill  of  storms.  The  wind  is  heard  in 
the  mountain.  The  torrent  pours  down 
the  rock.  No  hut  receives  me  from  the 
rain ;  forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds ! 

Rise,  moon!  from  behind  thy  clouds. 
Stars  of  the  night  arise!  Lead  me,  some 
light,  to  the  place  where  my  love  rests 
from  the  chase  alone!  his  bow  near  him, 
unstrung;  his  dogs  panting  around  [10 
him.  But  here  I  must  sit  alone,  by  the 
rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The  stream 
and  the  wind  roar  aloud.  I  hear  not  the 
voice  of  my  love!  Why  delays  my  Salgar, 
why  the  chief  of  the  hill  his  promise? 
Here  is  the  rock,  and  here  the  tree!  here 
is  the  roaring  stream !  Thou  didst  promise 
with  night  to  be  here.  Ah!  whither  is 
my  Salgar  gone?  With  thee  I  would  fly, 
from  my  father;  with  thee  from  my  [20 
brother  of  pride.  Our  races  have  long 
been  foes;  we  are  not  foes,  O  Salgar! 

Cease  a  little  while,  O  wind!  stream, 
be  thou  silent  a  while!  let  my  voice  be 
heard  around.  Let  my  wanderer  hear 
me!  Salgar!  it  is  Colma  who  calls.  Here 
is  the  tree,  and  the  rock.  Salgar,  my 
love !  I  am  here.  Why  delayest  thou  thy 
coming?  Lo!  the  calm  moon  comes  forth. 
The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The  [30 
rocks  are  grey  on  the  steep.  I  see  him 
not  on  the  brow.  His  dogs  come  not 
before  him,  with  tidings  of  his  near  ap- 
proach.   Here  I  must  sit  alone. 


From  CARTHON 

Ossian's  Address  to  the  Sun 

O  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the 
shield  of  my  fathers!  Whence  are  thy 
beams,  O  sun!  thy  everlasting  light? 
Thou  comest  forth,  in  thy  awful  beauty; 
the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky;  the 
moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  western 
wave.  But  thou  thyself  movest  alone: 
who  can  be  a  companion  of  thy  course? 
The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall :  the  moun- 
tains themselves  decay  with  years;  [10 
the  ocean  shrinks  and  grows  again:  the 
moon  herself  is  lost  in  heaven;  but  thou 
art  for  ever  the  same;  rejoicing  in  the 
brightness  of  thy  course.  When  the 
world  is  dark  with  tempests;  when  thun- 
der rolls,  and  lightning  flies;  thou  lookest 
in  thy  beauty  from  the  clouds,  and  laugh- 
est  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian,  thou 
lookest  in  vain;  for  he  beholds  thy  beams 
no  more;  whether  thy  yellow  hair  [20 
flows  on  the  eastern  clouds,  or  thou 
tremblest  at  the  gates  of  the  west.  But 
thou  art,  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season; 
thy  years  will  have  an  end.  Thou  shalt 
sleep  in  thy  clouds,  careless  of  the  voice 
of  the  morning.  Exult  then,  O  sun!  in 
the  strength  of  thy  youth :  Age  is  dark  and 
unlovely;  it  is  like  the  glimmering  light 
of  the  moon,  when  it  shines  through 
broken  clouds,  and  the  mist  is  on  the  [30 
hills;  the  blast  of  the  north  is  on  the  plain; 
the  traveller  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his 
journey. 

ROBERT  FERGUSSON  (1750-1774) 

THE  DAFT  DAYS 

Now  mirk  December's  dowie1  face 
Glowrs  owr  the  rigs2  wi'  sour  grimace, 
While,  thro'  his  minimum  of  space, 

The  bleer-eyed  sun, 
Wi'  blinkin  light  and  stealing  pace,  5 

His  race  doth  run. 

From  naked  groves  nae  birdie  sings; 
To  shepherd's  pipe  nae  hillock  rings; 
The  breeze  nae  odorous  flavor  brings 

From  Borean  cave;  10 

And  dwyning3  Nature  droops  her  wings, 

Wi'  visage  grave. 

1  dreary.  2  fields.  3  pining. 


354 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Mankind  but  scanty  pleasure  glean 

Frae  snawy  hill  or  barren  plain, 

Whan  Winter,  'midst  his  nipping  train,  15 

Wi'  frozen  spear, 
Sends  drift  owr  a'  his  bleak  domain, 

And  guides1  the  weir.2 

Auld  Reikie!3  thou'rt  the  canty4  hole, 

A  bield5  for  mony  a  caldrife6  soul,  20 

Wha  snugly  at  thine  ingle7  loll, 

Baith  warm  and  couth;8 
While  round  they  gar9  the  bicker10  roll 

To  weet  their  mouth. 

When  merry  Yule-day  comes,  I  trow,  25 
You'll  scantlins11  find  a  hungry  mou;12 
Sma'  are  our  cares,  our  stamacks  fou 

O'  gusty  gear,13 
And  kickshaws,14  strangers  to  our  view, 

Sin'  fairn-year.10  30 

Ye  browster16  wives!  now  busk1'  ye  bra,18 
And  fling  your  sorrows  far  awa'; 
Then,  come  and  gie's  the  tither  blaw19 

Of  reaming20  ale, 
Mair  precious  than  the  Well  of  Spa,       35 

Our  hearts  to  heal. 


Then,  tho'  at  odds  wi'  a'  the  warl', 
Amang  oursells  we'll  never  quarrel; 
Tho'  Discord  gie  a  cankered  snarl 

To  spoil  our  glee, 
As  lang's  there's  pith21  into  the  barrel 

We'll  drink  and  'gree. 


40 


45 


Fiddlers!  your  pins  in  temper  fix, 
And  roset22  weel  your  fiddlesticks, 
But  banish  vile  Italian  tricks 

From  out  your  quorum, 
Nor  fortes  wi'  pianos  mix — 

Gie's  Tullochgorum. 


For  nought  can  cheer  the  heart  sae  weel 
As  can  a  canty23  Highland  reel;  50 

It  even  vivifies  the  heel 

To  skip  and  dance: 
Lifeless  is  he  wha  canna  feel 

Its  influence. 


1  governs.       2  mill-dam. 

4  snug.  6  shelter. 

8  comfortable. 
11  scarcely.      12  mouth. 
15  long  ago.      ,6  brewer. 
18  finely.  19  draught. 

21  anything  left. 


3  Edinburgh  ("Old  Sooty"). 

8  freezing.  7  fireside. 

9  make.  10  bowl. 

13  savory  food.     14  delicacies. 

17  dress  yourselves. 

20  foaming. 

22  rosin.  23  jolly. 


Let  mirth  abound;  let  social  cheer 
Invest  the  dawning  of  the  year; 
Let  blithesome  innocence  appear 

To  crown  our  joy: 
Nor  envy,  wi'  sarcastic  sneer, 

Our  bliss  destroy. 


55 


60 


And  thou,  great  god  of  aqua  vita! 
Wha  sways  the  empire  of  this  city — 
When  fou24  we're  sometimes  capernoity25- 

Be  thou  prepared 
To  hedge  us  frae  that  black  banditti,       65 

The  City  Guard. 


THOMAS   CHATTERTON    (1752-1770) 

BRISTOWE  TRAGEDIE; 

OR,  THE  DETHE  OF  SYR  CHARLES 
BAWDIN 

The  feathered  songster  chaunticleer 
Han26  wounde  hys  bugle  home, 

And  tolde  the  earlie  villager 
The  commynge  of  the  morne: 

Kynge  Edwarde  sawe  the  ruddie  streakes  5 

Of  lyghte  eclypse  the  greie; 
And  herde  the  raven's  crokynge  throte 

Proclayme  the  fated  daie. 

"Thou'rt  righte,"  quod  hee,  "for,  by  the 
Godde 

That  syttes  enthroned  on  hyghe !  10 

Charles  Bawdin,  and  hys  fellowes  twaine, 

To-daie  shall  surelie  die." 

Thenne  wythe  a  jugge  of  nappy  ale 
Hys  knyghtes  dydd  onne  hymm  waite; 

"  Goe  tell  the  traytour,  thatt  to-daie         15 
Hee  leaves  thys  mortall  state." 

Sir  Canterlone  thenne  bendedd  lowe, 
With  harte  brymm-fulle  of  woe; 

Hee  journeyed  to  the  castle-gate, 
And  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe.  20 

Butt  whenne  hee  came,  hys  children 
twaine, 

And  eke  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 
Wythe  brinie  tears  dydd  wett  the  floore, 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  lyfe. 


14  drunk. 


2'  ill-natured. 


26  has. 


CHATTERTOX 


355 


"0  goode  Syr  Charles!"  sayd  Canterlone, 
"Badde  tydyngs  I  doe  brynge."  26 

"Speke  boldlie,  marine,"  sayd  brave  Syr 
Charles, 
"Whatte  says  the  tray  tor  kynge?" 

"I  greeve  to  telle;  before  yonne  sonne 
Does  fromme  the  welkin  flye,  30 

Hee  hathe  uppon  hys  honnour  sworne, 
Thatt  thou  shalt  surelie  die." 

"Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr 
Charles; 

"Of  thatte  I'm  not  affearde; 
Whatte  bootes  to  lyve  a  little  space?      35 

Thanke  Jesu,  I'm  prepared; 

"  Butt  telle  thye  kynge,  for  myne  hee's  not, 

I'de  sooner  die  to-daie 
Thanne  lyve  hys  slave,  as  manie  are, 

Though  I  shoulde  lyve  for  aie."  40 

Thenne  Canterlone  hee  dydd  goe  out, 

To  telle  the  maior  straite 
To  gett  all  thynges  ynne  reddyness 

For  goode  Syr  Charles's  fate. 

Thenne  Maisterr  Canynge  saughte  the 
kynge,  45 

And  felle  down  onne  hys  knee; 
"I'm  come,"  quod  hee,  "unto  your  grace 

To  move  your  clemencye." 

Thenne  quod  the  kynge,  "Youre  tale 
speke  out, 

You  have  been  much  oure  friende ;  50 
Whatever  youre  request  may  bee, 

Wee  wylle  to  ytte  attende." 

"My  nobile  leige!  alle  my  request, 

Ys  for  a  nobile  knyghte, 
Who,   though   may  hap  hee  has   donne 
wronge,  55 

Hee  thoughte  ytte1  stylle  was  ryghte: 

"He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twaine, 

Alle  rewyned2  are  for  aie; 
Yff  that  you  are  resolved  to  lett 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-dai."  00 

"Speke  not  of  such  a  traytour  vile," 

The  kynge  ynne  furie  sayde; 
"Before  the  evening  starre  doth  sheene,3 

Bawdin  shall  loose  hys  hedde: 


2  ruined. 


3  shine. 


"Justice  does  loudlie  for  hym  calle,  65 
And  hee  shalle  have  hys  meede: 

Speke,  Maister  Canynge!    Whatte  thynge 
else 
Att  present  doe  you  neede?" 

"My  nobile  leige!"  goode  Canynge  sayde, 
"Leave  justice  to  our  Godde,  70 

And  laye  the  yronne  rule  asyde; 
Be  thyne  the  olyve  rodde. 

"Was   Godde   to  serche  our  hertes  and 
reines, 

The  best  were  synners  grete; 
Christ's  vycarr  only  knowes  ne  synne,     75 

Ynne  alle  thys  mortall  state. 

"Lett  mercie  rule  thyne  infante  reigne, 
'Twylle  faste4  thye  crowne  fulle  sure; 

From  race  to  race  thye  familie 
Alle  sov'reigns  shall  endure:  80 

"  But  yff  wythe  bloode  and  slaughter  thou 

Beginne  thy  infante  reigne, 
Thy    crowne    upponne    thy    childrennes 
brows 

Wylle  never  long  remayne." 

"Canynge,  awaie!  thys  traytour  vile  85 
Has  scorned  my  power  and  mee; 

Howe  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  manne 
Entreate  my  clemencye?" 


"Mie  nobile  leige!  the  trulie  brave 
Wylle  val'rous  actions  prize; 

Respect  a  brave  and  nobile  mynde, 
Although  ynne  enemies." 


90 


"  Canynge,  awaie !  By  Godde  ynne  Heav'n 
Thatt  dydd  mee  beinge  gyve, 

I  wylle  nott  taste  a  bitt  of  breade  95 

Whilst  thys  Syr  Charles  dothe  lyve. 

"Bie    Marie,    and    alle    Seinctes    ynne 
Heav'n, 

Thys  sunne  shall  be  hys  laste," 
Thenne  Canynge  dropt  a  brinie  teare, 

And  from  the  presence  paste.3  100 

With    herte    brymm-fulle    of    gnawynge 
grief, 

Hee  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe, 
And  sat  hymm  downe  uponne  a  stoole, 

And  teares  beganne  to  flowe. 

1  secure.  5  passed. 


356 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


"Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr 
Charles;  105 

"Whatte  bootes  ytte  howe  or  whenne; 
Dethe  ys  the  sure,  the  certaine  fate 

Of  all  wee  mortall  menne. 

"Saye  why,  my  friende,  thie  honest  soul 
Runns  overr  att  thyne  eye;  no 

Is  ytte  for  my  most  welcome  doome 
Thatt  thou  dost  child-lyke  crye?" 

Quod  godlie  Canynge,  "  I  doe  weepe, 
Thatt  thou  soe  soone  must  dye, 

And  leave  thy  sonnes  and  helpless 
wyfe;  115 

'Tys  thys  thatt  wettes  myne  eye." 

"Thenne  drie  the  tears  thatt  out  thyne  eye 
From  godlie  fountaines  sprynge; 

Dethe  I  despise,  and  alle  the  power 
Of  Edwarde,  tray  tour  kynge.  120 

"Whan  through  the  tyrant's  welcom 
means 

I  shall  resigne  my  lyfe, 
The  Godde  I  serve  wylle  soone  provyde 

For  bo  the  mye  sonnes  and  wyfe. 

"Before  I  sawe  the  lyghtsome  sunne,     125 

Thys  was  appointed  mee; 
Shall  mortall  manne  repyne  or  grudge 

What  Godde  ordeynes  to  bee? 

"Howe  oft  ynne  battaile  have  I  stoode, 
Whan  thousands  dyed  arounde;         130 

Whan    smokynge    streemes    of    crimson 
bloode 
Imbrewed  the  fattened  ground: 

"Howe  dydd  I  knowe  thatt  ev'ry  darte, 

That  cutte  the  airie  waie, 
Myghte  nott  fynde  passage  toe  my  harte, 

And  close  myne  eyes  for  aie?  136 

"And  shall  I  nowe,  forr  feere  of  dethe, 
Looke  wanne  and  bee  dysmayde? 

Ne!  fromm  my  herte  flie  childyshe  feere, 
Bee  alle  the  manne  displayed.  140 

"Ah!  goddelyke  Henrie!  Godde  forefende, 
And  guarde  thee  and  thye  sonne, 

Yff  'tis  hys  wylle;  but  yff  'tis  nott, 
Why  thenne  hys  wylle  bee  donne. 


"My  honest  friende,  my  faulte  has  beene 
To  serve  Godde  and  mye  prynce;       146 

And  thatt  I  no  tyme-server  am, 
My  dethe  wylle  soone  convynce. 


"Ynne  Londonne  citye  was  I  borne, 

Of  parents  of  grete  note; 
My  fadre  dydd  a  nobile  armes 

Emblazon  onne  hys  cote: 


150 


"I  make  ne  doubte  butt  hee  ys  gone 

Where  soone  I  hope  to  goe; 
Where  wee  for  ever  shall  bee  blest,        155 

From  oute  the  reech  of  woe. 

"Hee  taughte  mee  justice  and  the  laws 

Wyth  pitie  to  unite; 
And  eke  hee  taughte  mee  howe  to  knowe 

The  wrong  cause  fromm  the  ryghte:  160 

"Hee  taughte  mee  wyth  a  prudent  hande 

To  feede  the  hungrie  poore, 
Ne  lett  mye  sarvants  dryve  awaie 

The  hungrie  fromme  my  doore: 

"  And  none  can  saye  butt  alle  mye  lyfe  165 

I  have  hys  wordy es  kept; 
And  summed  the  actyonns  of  the  daie 

Eche  nyghte  before  I  slept. 


"I  have  a  spouse,  goe  aske  of  her 
Yff  I  defyled  her  bedde? 

I  have  a  kynge,  and  none  can  laie 
Black  treason  onne  my  hedde. 


170 


"Ynne  Lent,  and  onne  the  holie  eve, 
Fromm  fleshe  I  dydd  refrayne: 

Whie  should  I  thenne  appeare  dismayed 
To  leave  thys  worlde  of  payne?  176 

"Ne,  hapless  Henrie!    I  rejoyce, 

I  shall  ne  see  thye  dethe; 
Moste  willinglie  ynne  thye  just  cause 

Doe  I  resign  my  brethe.  180 

"Oh,  fickle  people!  rewyned  londe! 

Thou  wylt  kenne1  peace  ne  moe;2 
Whyle  Richard's  sonnes  exalt  themselves, 

Thye  brookes  wythe  bloude  wylle  flowe. 

"Saie,  were  ye  tyred  of  godlie  peace,     185 

And  godlie  Henrie's  reigne, 
Thatt  you  dyd  choppe3  youre  easie  daies 

For  those  of  bloude  and  peyne? 


1  know. 


3  exchange. 


CHATTERTON 


357 


"Whatte  though  I  onne  a  sledde  be 
drawne, 

And  mangled  by  a  hynde,1  190 

I  doe  defye  the  traytor's  pow'r, 

Hee  can  ne  harm  my  mynd; 

"Whatte  though,  uphoisted  onne  a  pole, 
Mye  lymbes  shall  rotte  ynne  ayre, 

And  ne  ryche  monument  of  brasse  195 

Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear; 

"Yett  ynne  the  holie  booke  above, 
Whyche  tyme  can't  eate  awaie, 

There  wythe  the  servants  of  the  Lord 
Mye  name  shall  lyve  for  aie.  200 

"Thenne  welcome  dethe!  for  lyfe  eterne 

I  leave  thys  mortall  lyfe: 
Farewell,   vayne   world,   and   alle   that's 
deare, 

Mye  sonnes  and  lovynge  wyfe! 

"  Nowe  dethe  as  welcome  to  mee  comes,  205 

As  e'er  the  moneth  of  Maie; 
Nor  woulde  I  even  wyshe  to  lyve, 

Wyth  my  dere  wyfe  to  staie." 

Quod  Canynge,  "'Tys  a  goodlie  thynge 
To  bee  prepared  to  die;  210 

And  from  thys  world  of  peyne  and  grefe 
To  Godde  ynne  Heav'n  to  flie." 

And  nowe  the  belle  began  to  tolle, 

And  claryonnes  to  sound; 
Syr  Charles  hee  herde  the  horses  feete  215 

A-prancing  onne  the  grounde: 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  lovynge  wyfe  came  ynne, 
Weepynge  unfeigned  teeres  of  woe, 

Wythe  loude  and  dysmalle  dynne.     220 

"Sweet  Florence!  nowe  I  praie  forbere, 

Ynne  quiet  lett  mee  die; 
Praie  Godd  thatt  ev'ry  Christian  soule 

Maye  looke  onne  dethe  as  I. 

"Sweet  Florence!  why  these  brinie  teers? 

Theye  washe  my  soule  awaie,  226 

And  almost  make  mee  wyshe  for  lyfe, 

Wyth  thee,  sweete  dame,  to  staie. 

"  'Tys  butt  a  journie  I  shalle  goe 

Untoe  the  lande  of  blysse;  230 

Nowe,  as  a  proofe  of  husbande's  love, 
Receive  thys  holie  kysse." 

1  slave. 


Thenne  Florence,  fault 'ring  ynne  her  saie, 
Tremblynge  these  wordyes  spoke, 

"Ah,  cruele  Edwarde!  bloudie  kynge!  235 
Mye  herte  ys  welle  nyghe  broke: 

"Ah,  sweete  Syr  Charles!  why  wylt  thou 
goe, 

Wythoute  thye  lovynge  wyfe? 
The  cruelle  axe  thatt  cuttes  thy  necke, 

Ytte  eke  shall  ende  mye  lyfe."  240 

And  nowe  the  officers  came  ynne 
To  brynge  Syr  Charles  awaie, 

Whoe  turnedd  toe  hys  loyvnge  wyfe, 
And  thus  to  her  dydd  saie: 

"I  goe  to  lyfe,  and  nott  to  dethe;  245 

Truste  thou  ynne  Godde  above, 

And  teache  thy  sonnes  to  feare  the  Lorde, 
And  ynne  theyre  hertes  hym  love: 

"Teache  them  to  runne  the  nobile  race 
Thatt  I  theyre  fader  runne;  250 

Florence!  shou'd  dethe  thee  take — adieu! 
Yee  officers,  leade  onne." 

Thenne  Florence  raved  as  anie  madde, 

And  dydd  her  tresses  tere; 
"Oh,    staie,   mye    husbande,    lorde,    and 
lyfe!"  255 

Syr  Charles  thenne  dropt  a  teare. 

'Tyll  tyredd  oute  wythe  ravyngs  loude, 

Shee  fellen2  onne  the  flore; 
Syr  Charles  exerted  alle  hys  myghte, 

And  marched  fromm  oute  the  dore.   260 

Uponne  a  sledde  hee  mounted  thenne, 
Wythe  lookes  full  brave  and  swete; 

Lookes  thatt  enshone3  ne  more  concern 
Thanne  anie  ynne  the  strete. 

Before  hym  went  the  council-menne,  265 
Ynne  scarlett  robes  and  golde. 

And  tassils  spanglynge  ynne  the  sunne, 
Muche  glorious  to  beholde: 

The  Freers  of  Seincte  Augustyne  next 
Appeared  to  the  syghte,  270 

Alle  cladd  ynne  homelie  russett  weedes, 
Of  godlie  monkysh  plyghte: 

2  fell.  3  displayed. 


35§ 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Ynne  diffraunt  partes  a  godlie  psaume 

Moste  sweetlie  theye  dydd  chaunt; 
Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles 


came, 


Who  tuned  the  strunge1  bataunt. 


275 


Thenne  fyve-and-twentye  archers  came; 

Echone  the  bowe  dydd  bende, 
From  rescue  of  Kynge  Henrie's  friends 

Syr  Charles  forr  to  defend.  280 

Bolde  as  a  lyon  came  Syr  Charles, 
Drawne  onne  a  cloth-layde  sledde, 

Bye  two  blacke  stedes  ynne  trappynges 
white, 
Wyth  plumes  uponne  theyre  hedde: 

Behynde  hym  five-and-twenty  moe       285 
Of  archers  stronge  and  stoute, 

Wyth  bended  bowe  echone  ynne  hande, 
Marched  ynne  goodlie  route; 

Seincte  Jameses  Freers  marched  next, 
Echone  hys  parte  dydd  chaunt;         290 

Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles 
came, 
Who  tuned  the  strunge  bataunt: 

Thenne  came  the  maior  and  eldermenne, 
Ynne  clothe  of  scarlett  deck't; 

And  theyre  attendynge  menne  echone,  295 
Lyke  Easterne  princes  trickt: 

And  after  them,  a  multitude 

Of  citizenns  dydd  thronge; 
The  wyndowes  were  alle  fulle  of  heddes, 

As  hee  dydd  passe  alonge.  300 

And    whenne    hee    came    to    the    hyghe 
crosse, 
Syr  Charles  dydd  turne  and  saie, 
"O   Thou,   thatt   savest   manne   fromme 
synne, 
Washe  mye  soule  clean  thys  daie! " 

Att  the  grete  mynster2  wyndowe  sat      305 
The  kynge  ynne  myckle3  state, 

To  see  Charles  Bawdin  goe  alonge 
To  hys  most  welcom  fate. 

Soone  as  the  sledde  drewe  nyghe  enowe, 
Thatt  Edwarde  hee  myghte  heare,     310 

1  stringed.  2  cathedral.  3  great. 


The  brave  Syr  Charles  hee  dydd  stande 
uppe, 
And  thus  hys  words  declare: 

"Thou  seest  me,  Edwarde!  traytour  vile! 

Exposed  to  infamie; 
Butt  bee  assured,  disloyall  manne!        315 

I'm  greater  nowe  thanne  thee. 

"Bye  foule  proceedyngs,  murdre,  bloude, 
Thou  wearest  nowe  a  crowne; 

And  hast  appoynted  mee  to  die, 

By  power  nott  thyne  owne.  320 

"Thou  thynkest  I  shall  die  to-daie; 

I  have  beene  dede  'till  nowe, 
And  soone  shall  lyve  to  weare  a  crowne 

For  aie  uponne  my  browe: 

"Whylst   thou,    perhapps,    for   som    few 
yeares,  325 

Shalt  rule  thys  fickle  lande, 
To  lett  them  knowe  howe  wyde  the  rule 

'Twixt  kynge  and  tyrant  hande: 

"Thye  pow'r  unjust,  thou  traytour  slave! 

Shall  falle  onne  thye  owne  hedde" —  330 
Fromm  out  of  hearying  of  the  kynge 

Departed  thenne  the  sledde. 

Kynge  Edwarde's  soule  rushed  to  hys  face, 

Hee  turned  hys  hedde  awaie, 
And  to  hys  broder  Gloucester  335 

Hee  thus  dydd  speke  and  saie: 

"To  hym  that  soe  much  dreaded  dethe 

Ne  ghastlie  terrors  brynge, 
Beholde  the  manne!  hee  spake  the  truthe, 

Hee's  greater  thanne  a  kynge!"  340 

"Soe  let  hym  die!"  Duke  Richard  sayde; 

"And  maye  echone  oure  foes 
Bende  downe  theyre  neckes  to  bloudie  axe 

And  feede  the  carryon  crowes." 

And  nowe  the  horses  gentlie  drewe        345 
Syr  Charles  uppe  the  hyghe  hylle; 

The  axe  dydd  glysterr  ynne  the  sunne, 
His  pretious  bloude  to  spylle. 

Syrr  Charles  dydd  uppe  the  scaffold  goe, 
As  uppe  a  gilded  carre  350 

Of  victorye,  bye  val'rous  chiefs 
Gayned  ynne  the  bloudie  warre: 


CHATTERTON 


359 


And  to  the  people  hee  dyd  saie, 
"Beholde  you  see  mee  dye, 

For  servynge  loyally  mye  kynge, 
Mye  kynge  most  rightfullie. 


355 


"As  longe  as  Edwarde  rules  thys  land, 

Ne  quiet  you  wylle  knowe: 
Your  sonnes   and  husbandes   shalle  bee 
slayne, 

And  brookes  wythe  bloude  shall  flowe. 

"You  leave  youre  goode  and  lawfulle 
kynge,  361 

Whenne  ynne  adversitye; 
Lyke  mee,  untoe  the  true  cause  stycke, 

And  for  the  true  cause  dye." 

Thenne  hee,  wyth  preestes,  uponne  hys 
knees,  365 

A  pray'r  to  Godde  dyd  make, 
Beseechynge  hym  unto  hymselfe 

Hys  partynge  soule  to  take. 

Thenne,  kneelynge  downe,  hee  layd  hys 
hedde 

Most  seemlie  onne  the  blocke;  370 

Whyche  fromme  hys  bodie  fayre  at  once 

The  able  heddes-manne  stroke: 

And  oute  the  bloude  beganne  to  flowe, 
And  rounde  the  scaffolde  twyne; 

And  teares,  enow  to  washe  't  awaie,       375 
Dydd  flowe  fromme  each  mann's  eyne. 

The  bloudie  axe  hys  bodie  fayre 

Ynnto  foure  parties  cutte; 
And  ev'rye  parte,  and  eke  hys  hedde, 

Uponne  a  pole  was  putte.  380 

One  parte  dydd  rotte  onne  Kynwulph- 

hylle, 
One  onne  the  mynster- tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 
The  crowen  dydd  devoure; 

The  other  onne  Seyncte  Powle's  goode 
gate,  385 

A  dreery  spectacle; 
Hys  hedde  was  placed  onne  the  hyghe 
crosse, 
Ynne  hyghe-streete  most  nobile. 

Thus  was  the  ende  of  Bawdin's  fate: 
Godde  prosper  longe  oure  kynge,       390 

And   grante   hee   maye,    wyth    Bawdin-'s 
soule, 
Ynne  heav'n  Godd's  mercie  synge! 


MYNSTRELLES   SONGE 
From  Mlla:  A  Tragycal  Enterlude 

O,  synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie! 

O,  droppe  the  brynie  teare  wythe  mee! 

Daunce  ne  moe  atte  hallie  daie, 

Lycke  a  reynynge1  ryver  bee; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde,  5 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Blacke  hys  cryne2  as  the  wyntere  nyghte, 
Whyte  hys  rode3  as  the  sommer  snowe, 
Rodde4  hys  face  as  the  morynynge  lyghte, 
Cale0  he  lyes  ynne  the  grave  belowe;       u 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Swote6  hys  tyngue  as  the  throstles  note,  15 
Quycke  ynn  daunce  as  thoughte  canne 

bee, 
Defte  hys  taboure,  codgelle  stote, 
O!  hee  lyes  bie  the  wyllowe  tree: 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde,  20 

Alle  underre  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Harke!  the  ravenne  flappes  hys  wynge, 

In  the  briered  delle  belowe; 

Harke!  the  dethe-owle  loude  dothe  synge, 

To  the  nyghte-mares  as  heie7  goe ;  25 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

See!  the  whyte  moone  sheenes  onne  hie; 
Whyterre  ys  mie  true  loves  shroude;       30 
Whyterre  yanne8  the  mornynge  skie, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  evenynge  cloude; 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree.  35 

Heere,  uponne  mie  true  loves  grave, 

Schalle  the  baren  fleurs  be  layde, 

Nee  one  hallie  Seyncte  to  save 

Al  the  celness9  of  a  mayde. 

Mie  love  ys  dedde,  40 

Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Alle  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 


1  running. 
6  sweet. 


2  hair. 
7  they. 


3  skin. 
s  than. 


4  ruddy. 
9  coldness. 


6  cold. 


36° 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Wythe  mie  hondes  I 'lie  dente1  the  brieres 

Rounde  his  hallie  corse  to  gre,2 

Ouphante3  fairie,  lyghte  youre  fyres,      45 

Heere  mie  boddie  stylle  schalle  bee. 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Comme,  wythe  acorne-coppe  and  thorne, 
Drayne  mie  hartys  blodde  awaie:  51 

Lyfe  and  all  yttes  goode  I  scorne, 
Daunce  bie  nete,  or  feaste  by  daie. 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde,  55 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Waterre  wytches,  crownede  wythe  reytes,4 
Bere  mee  to  yer  leathallea  tyde. 
I  die;  I  comme;  mie  true  love  waytes. — 
Thos  the  damselle  spake,  and  dyed.         60 


WILLIAM  COWPER  (1731-1800) 

WALKING  WITH  GOD.  Gen.  v.  24 

From  OLNEY  HYMNS 

Oh !  for  a  closer  walk  with  God, 
A  calm  and  heavenly  frame; 
A  light  to  shine  upon  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb ! 

Where  is  the  blessedness  I  knew  5 

When  first  I  saw  the  Lord? 
Where  is  the  soul-refreshing  view 
Of  Jesus  and  his  word? 

What  peaceful  hours  I  once  enjoyed! 
How  sweet  their  memory  still!  10 

But  they  have  left  an  aching  void 
The  world  can  never  fill. 

Return,  O  holy  Dove,  return, 

Sweet  messenger  of  rest! 

I  hate  the  sins  that  made  thee  mourn  15 

And  drove  thee  from  my  breast. 

The  dearest  idol  I  have  known, 
Whate'er  that  idol  be, 
Help  me  to  tear  it  from  thy  throne, 
And  worship  only  thee.  20 


1  fasten. 
4  reeds. 


2  grow. 


3  elfin. 
6  deadly. 


So  shall  my  walk  be  close  with  God, 
Calm  and  serene  my  frame; 
So  purer  light  shall  mark  the  road 
That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL 
GEORGE 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave,  5 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset;  10 

Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought;  15 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock.  20 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up,  25 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tears  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again  30 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 

His  victories  are  o'er; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred  35 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


COWPER 


361 


THE  TASK 

From  BOOK  I 

There  often  wanders  one,  whom  better 
days 
Saw  better  clad,  in  cloak  of  satin  trimmed 
With  lace,  and  hat  with  splendid  riband 
bound.  536 

A  serving-maid  was  she,  and  fell  in  love 
With  one  who  left  her,  went  to  sea,  and 

died. 
Her  fancy  followed  him  through  foaming 

waves 
To  distant  shores,  and  she  would  sit  and 
weep  540 

At  what  a  sailor  suffers;  fancy  too, 
Delusive  most  where  warmest  wishes  are, 
Would  oft  anticipate  his  glad  return, 
And  dream  of  transports  she  was  not  to 

know. 
She  heard  the  doleful  tidings  of  his  death, 
And  never  smiled  again.     And  now  she 
roams  546 

The  dreary  waste;  there  spends  the  live- 
long day, 
And  there,  unless  when  charity  forbids, 
The   livelong   night.     A   tattered   apron 

hides, 
Worn   as  a   cloak,   and  hardly  hides,   a 
gown  550 

More  tattered  still;  and  both  but  ill  con- 
ceal 
A  bosom  heaved  with  never-ceasing  sighs. 
She  begs  an  idle  pin  of  all  she  meets, 
And  hoards  them  in  her  sleeve;  but  need- 
ful food, 
Though  pressed  with  hunger  oft,  or  come- 
lier  clothes,  555 

Though  pinched  with  cold,  asks  never. — 
Kate  is  crazed. 
I  see  a  column  of  slow-rising  smoke 
O'ertop  the  lofty  wood  that  skirts  the  wild. 
A  vagabond  and  useless  tribe  there  eat 
Their  miserable  meal.    A  kettle,  slung  560 
Between  two  poles  upon  a  stick  transverse, 
Receives  the  morsel;  flesh  obscene  of  dog, 
Or  vermin,  or,  at  best,  of  cock  purloined 
From  his  accustomed  perch.    Hard-faring 

race! 
They  pick  their  fuel  out  of  every  hedge,  565 
Which,  kindled  with  dry  leaves,  just  saves 

unquenched 
The  spark  of  life.     The   sportive   wind 
blows  wide 


Their  fluttering  rags,  and  shows  a  tawny 

skin, 
The  vellum  of  the  pedigree  they  claim. 
Great  skill  have  they  in  palmistry,  and 
more  570 

To  conjure  clean  away  the  gold  they  touch, 
Conveying  worthless  dross  into  its  place; 
Loud  when  they  beg,  dumb  only  when  they 

steal. 
Strange!  that  a  creature  rational,  and  cast 
In   human    mould,    should   brutalize   by 
choice  575 

His  nature,  and,  though  capable  of  arts 
By  which  the  world  might  profit  and  him- 
self, 
Self-banished  from  society,  prefer 
Such  squalid  sloth  to  honorable  toil! 
Yet  even  these,  though,  feigning  sickness 
oft,  580 

They  swathe  the  forehead,  drag  the  limp- 
ing limb, 
And  vex  their  flesh  with  artificial  sores, 
Can  change  their  whine  into  a  mirthful 

note 
When  safe  occasion  offers;  and  with  dance, 
And  music  of  the  bladder  and  the  bag,  585 
Beguile  their  woes,  and  make  the  woods 

resound. 
Such  health  and  gaiety  of  heart  enjoy 
The  houseless  rovers  of  the  sylvan  world; 
And  breathing  wholesome  air,  and  wander- 
ing much, 
Need  other  physic  none  to  heal  the  effects 
Of  loathsome  diet,  penury,  and  cold.       591 


From  BOOK  II 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumor  of  oppression  and  deceit, 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 
Might  never  reach  me  more!    My  ear  is 

pained,  5 

My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is 

filled. 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax      10 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not   colored  like  his  own,   and,   having 

power 


362 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy 

cause 
Dooms   and   devotes   him   as   his   lawful 

prey.  _  15 

Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.    Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes1  his  brother,  and  de- 
stroys; 20 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  de- 
plored, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot, 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his 

sweat 
With  stripes  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding 

heart, 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast.25 
Then  what  is  man?     And  what  man 

seeing  this, 
And    having    human    feelings,    does    not 

blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a 

man? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep,        30 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,   for  all  the 

wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever 

earned. 
No:  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave      35 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on 

him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home:  then  why 

abroad? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the 

wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England;  if  their 

lungs  40 

Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are 

free; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles 

fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it 

then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein    45 
Of  all  your  empire;  that  where  Britain's 

power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

1  vows  to  destruction. 


From  BOOK  V 

There  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobri- 
ous more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats 
Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land,       381 
Her  house  of  bondage  worse  than  that  of 

old 
Which    God    avenged    on    Pharaoh — the 

Bastile! 
Ye  horrid  towers,  the  abode  of  broken 

hearts, 
Ye  dungeons  and  ye  cages  of  despair,     385 
That  monarchs  have  supplied  from  age  to 

age 
With  music  such  as  suits  their  sovereign 

ears — 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men, 
There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would 

not  leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fallen  at  last,  to 

know  390 

That  even  our  enemies,  so  oft  employed 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were 

free: 
For  he  that  values  liberty,  confines 
His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
No   narrow   bounds;   her   cause   engages 

him  395 

Wherever  pleaded;  'tis  the  cause  of  man. 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY 
MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language!  Life 

has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee 

last. 
Those    lips    are    thine — thy    own    sweet 

smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears 

away!"  6 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalise, 
The    art    that    baffles    Time's    tyrannic 

claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the 

same.  10 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 

Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 

Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 


COWPER 


363 


I  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone,  15 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own: 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she.  20 
My  mother!  when  I  learned  that  thou 

wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I 

shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch    even    then,    life's    journey    just 

begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt, 

a  kiss:  25 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!     It  answers — 

Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And  turning  from  my  nursery  window, 

drew  30 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu! 
But  was  it  such? — It  was. — Where  thou 

art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful 

shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no 

more!  35 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my 

concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed, 
And,    disappointed    still,    was    still    de- 
ceived. 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled,  40 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and 

went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  for- 
got. 45 
Where    once    we    dwelt    our    name    is 

heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery 

floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted   with   my   bauble   coach,    and 

wrapped  50 

In    scarlet    mantle    warm,    and    velvet 

capped, 


'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house 

our  own. 
Short-lived  possession!  but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness 
there,  55 

Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  ef- 
faced 
A    thousand    other    themes    less    deeply 

traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That   thou   mightst  know  me   safe  and 

warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum;          61 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  be- 
stowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and 

glowed; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than 

all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no 
fall,  65 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and 

brakes 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay  70 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not    scorned    in    heaven,    though    little 
noticed  here. 
Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore 
the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued 
flowers,  75 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jassamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the 

while, 
Would  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head 

and  smile), 
Could    those    few    pleasant    days    again 
appear,  80 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish 

them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  de- 
light 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 


364 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's 

coast  88 

(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean 

crossed) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened 

isle,  90 

Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons 

smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that 

show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers 

gay;  _  95 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reached 

the  shore, 
"Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows 

roar." 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous 

tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy 

side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  dis- 
tressed—  1 01 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest 

tossed, 
Sails   ripped,   seams  opening   wide,   and 

compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting 

force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous 

course.  105 

Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe, 

and  he! 
That  thought  is  joy,   arrive  what  may 

to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the 

earth; 
But    higher    far    my    proud    pretensions 

rise —  no 

The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies! 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has 

run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is 

done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in 

vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er 

again;  115 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were 

mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine: 


And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are 

free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself   removed,   thy  power   to   soothe 

me  left.  121 


SONNET  TO  MRS.   UN  WIN 

Mary!  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 
Such  aid  from  heaven  as  some  have 

feigned  they  drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals, 

new, 

And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things ! 

That,  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my 

wings,  _  5 

I  may  record  thy  worth,  with  honor 

due, 

In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 

Verse  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings. 

But  thou  hast  little  need.    There  is  a  book. 

By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly 

light,  10 

On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look ; 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright; 

There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary, 

shine, 
And  since  thou  ownest  that  praise,  I  spare 
thee  mine. 


TO  MARY 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past, 

Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast; 

Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last! 

My  Mary! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow,  5 

I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow; 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 
My  Mary! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore,  10 

Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more, 
My  Mary! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will,        15 
My  Mary! 


COWPER 


365 


But  well  thou  playedst  the  housewife's 

part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary!  20 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 
My  Mary! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright,       25 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 
My  Mary! 

For,  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see?        30 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 
My  Mary! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline, 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign, 
Yet,  gently  pressed,  press  gently  mine,     35 
My  Mary! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  provest, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  movest 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lovest, 

My  Mary!  40 

And  still  to  love,  though  pressed  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 

My  Mary! 

But  ah!  by  constant  heed  I  know,  45 

How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 
My  Mary! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past,       50 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 
My  Mary! 

THE   CASTAWAY 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 

When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft,        5 

His  floating  home  forever  left. 


No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 

With  warmer  wishes  sent.  10 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline,      15 

Or  courage  die  away; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted:  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course,  20 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 
That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succor  yet  they  could  afford ;  25 

And  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delayed  not  to  bestow. 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more.     30 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die  35 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self -upheld; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled;  40 

And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried  "Adieu!" 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast,         45 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more: 
For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere,  50 

That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 
Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear: 

And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 

Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 


3^6 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date: 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 


55 


60 


No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perished,  each  alone: 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea,  65 

And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

ROBERT  BURNS  (1759-1796) 
From  LINES  TO  JOHN  LAPRAIK 


I  am  nae  poet,  in. a  sense, 

But  just  a  rhymer  like  by  chance, 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 


50 


5  5 


Your  critic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,  "How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose, 

To  mak  a  sang?" 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye're  maybe  wrang.  60 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools? 
If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs1  your  grammars? 
Ye'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools,     65 

Or  knappin-hammers.2 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes3 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes ! 
They  gang  in  stirks4  and  come  out  asses, 

Plain  truth  to  speak;  70 

An'  syne5  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek! 

Gie  me  ae6  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 

That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire; 

Then,  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub7  an'  mire  75 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  Muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 


1  serve.       2  sledge-hammers. 
5  afterwards. 


3  idiots. 
8  one, 


4  oxen. 
"  puddle. 


THE  HOLY  FAIR 

Upon  a  simmer8  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn 

An'  snuff  the  caller9  air. 
The  rising  sun  owre  Galston  muirs  5 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin, 
The  hares  were  hirplin10  down  the  furs,11 

The  lav'rocks12  they  were  chantin 
Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I  glowered13  abroad  10 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay, 
Three  hizzies,14  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin15  up  the  way. 
Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolefu'  black, 

But  ane  wi'  lyart16  lining;  15 

The  third,  that  gaed  a  wee  a-back, 

Was  in  the  fashion  shining 

Fu'  gay  that  day. 

The  twa  appeared  like  sisters  twin 

In  feature,  form,  an'  claes;17  20 

Their  visage  withered,  lang  an'  thin, 

An'  sour  as  onie  slaes.18 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an'-lowp,19 

As  light  as  onie  lambie, 
An'  wi'  a  curchie20  low  did  stoop,  25 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  day. 

Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  "Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me; 
I'm  sure  I've  seen  that  bonie  face,  30 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye." 
Quo'  she,  an'  laughin  as  she  spak, 

An'  taks  me  by  the  han's, 
"Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gien  the  feck21 

Of  a'  the  Ten  Comman's  35 

A  screed22  some  day. 

"My  name  is  Fun — your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae; 
An'  this  is  Superstition  here, 

An'  that's  Hypocrisy.  40 

I'm  gaun  to  Mauchline  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  damn:23 
Gin24  ye'll  go  there,  yon  runkled25  pair, 

We  will  get  famous  laughin 

At  them  this  day."  45 


R  summer. 

12  larks. 

16  grey.  "  ciotne: 

19  hop-step-and-jump. 

22  rip.  23  larking. 


> fresh. 
3  stared. 
'  clothes. 


10  hopping. 
14  young  women. 
,s  sloes. 
20  courtesy. 
24  if. 


11  furrows. 
15  hurrying 

21  majority. 
25  wrinkled. 


BURNS 


36; 


Quoth  I,  "  Wi'  a'  my  heart,  I'll  do't: 

I'll  get  my  Sunday's  sark1  on, 
An'  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot; 

Faith,  we'se  hae  fine  remarkin!" 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time,2       50 

An'  soon  I  made  me  ready; 
For  roads  were  clad  frae  side  to  side 

Wi'  monie  a  wearie  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash3  in  ridin  graith4  55 

Gaed  hoddin5  by  their  cotters, 
There  swankies6  young  in  braw7  braid- 
claith 

Are  springin  owre  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin8  barefit,  thrang,9 

In  silks  an'  scarlets  glitter,  60 

Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese  in  monie  a  whang,10 

An'  farls11  baked  wi'  butter, 

Fu'  crump12  that  day. 

When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence,  65 

A  greedy  glowr  Black  Bonnet  throws, 

An'  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show: 

On  every  side  they're  gath'rin, 
Some    carryin    dails,13    some    chairs    an' 
stools,  70 

An'  some  are  busy  bleth'rin14 

Right  loud  that  day. 


Here  some  are  thinkin  on  their  sins, 

An'  some  upo'  their  claes; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyled15  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  an'  prays:  85 

On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch,16 

Wi'  screwed-up,  grace-proud  faces; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day.  90 

0  happy  is  that  man  an'  blest! 

(Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him!) 
Whase  ain  dear  lass  that  he  likes  best, 

Comes  clinkin  down  beside  him! 
Wi'  arm  reposed  on  the  chair  back,         95 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him; 


1  shirt. 

5  jogging. 
9  busy. 
13  planks. 


2  porridge-time. 
6  lusty  chaps. 
10  large  slice. 
14  gabbling. 


3  shrewd. 

7  fine. 
11  cakes. 
15  soiled. 


4  attire. 

8  running. 
12  crisp. 
16  sample. 


Which  by  degrees  slips  round  her  neck, 
An's  loof17  upon  her  bosom, 
Unkend  that  day. 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er  100 

Is  silent  expectation; 
For  Moodie  speels18  the  holy  door, 

Wi'  tidings  o'  damnation. 
Should  Hornie,19  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him,         105 
The  vera  sight  o'  Moodie's  face 

To's  ain  het20  hame  had  sent  him 
Wi'  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  faith 

Wi'  rattlin  an'  wi'  thumpin!  no 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath 

He's  stampin  an'  he's  jumpin! 
His  lengthened  chin,  his  turned-up  snout, 

His  eldritch21  squeel  and  gestures, 
Oh,  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout,       115 

Like  cantharidian  plaisters, 
On  sic  a  day! 

But  hark!  the  tent  has  changed  its  voice: 

There's  peace  and  rest  nae  langer; 
For  a'  the  real  judges  rise,  120 

They  canna  sit  for  anger. 
Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues, 

On  practice  and  on  morals; 
An'  aff  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 

To  gie  the  jars  an'  barrels  125 

A  lift  that  day. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

Of  moral  powers  and  reason? 
His  English  style  an'  gesture  fine 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season.  130 

Like  Socrates  or  Antonine 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen, 
The  moral  man  he  does  define, 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That's  right  that  day.       135 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 
Against  sic  poisoned  nostrum; 

For  Peebles,  frae  the  water-fit,22 
Ascends  the  holy  rostrum: 

See,  up  he's  got  the  word  o'  God  140 

An'  meek  an'  mini23  has  viewed  it, 

"hand.  I8  ascends.  19  the  devil  20  hot. 

21  unearthly.     22  river's  mouth.   22  primly. 


368 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


While  Common  Sense  has  ta'en  the  road, 
An's  aff,  an'  up  the  Cowgate 
Fast,  fast  that  day. 

Wee  Miller  niest1  the  guard  relieves,     145 

An'  orthodoxy  raibles,2 
Tho'  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes 

An'  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables : 
But  faith!  the  birkie3  wants  a  manse, 

So  cannilie4  he  hums  them;  150 

Altho'  his  carnal  wit  an'  sense 

Like  harBins-wise5  o'ercomes  him 
At  times  that  day. 

Now  butt  an'  ben6  the  change-house7  fills 

Wi'  yill-caup8  commentators:  155 

Here's  cryin  out  for  bakes9  an  gills, 

An'  there  the  pint-stowp10  clatters; 
While  thick  an'  thrang,  an'  loud  an'  lang, 

Wi'  logic  an'  wi'  Scripture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that  in  the  end  160 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O'  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  me11  on  drink !  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college: 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lear,12  165 

It  pangs13  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be't  whisky-gill  or  penny-wheep,14 

Or  onie  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinkin  deep, 

To  kittle15  up  our  notion  170 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  an'  lasses,  blythely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  an'  body, 
Sit  round  the  table  weel  content, 

An' steer  about  the  toddy.  175 

On  this  ane's  dress  an'  that  ane's  leuk 

They're  makin  observations; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk,16 

An'  formin  assignations 

To  meet  some  day.  180 

But  now  the  Lord's  ain  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin,17 
An'  echoes  back  return  the  shouts — 

Black  Russell  is  na  spairin. 
His  piercin  words,  like  Highlan'  swords,  185 

Divide  the  joints  an'  marrow; 

>  next.      2  babbles.       3  fellow.       *  cunningly.     5  partly. 

6  all  through  the  house.  7  tavern. 

8  ale-cup.         9  cakes.       10  pint-mug.        "  good  luck  to! 
12  learning.      13  packs.       M  small-beer.      16  tickle. 
16  corner.  "  roaring. 


His  talk  o'  hell,  whare  devils  dwell, 
Our  vera  "sauls  does  harrow" 
Wi'  fright  that  day. 


190 


A  vast,  unbottomed,  boundless  pit, 

Filled  fou  o'  lowin18  brunstane,19 
Whase  ragin  flame  an'  scorchin  heat 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whun-stane  !20 
The  half-asleep  start  up  wi'  fear 

An'  think  they  hear  it  roarin,  195 

When  presently  it  does  appear 

'Twas  but  some  neebor  snorin, 
Asleep  that  day. 

'Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  monie  stories  past,  200 

An'  how  they  crouded  to  the  yill,21 

When  they  were  a'  dismist; 
How  drink  gaed  round  in  cogs22  and  caups23 

Amang  the  furms24  an'  benches: 
An'  cheese  and  bread  frae  women's  laps  205 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches 

An'  dawds25  that  day. 

In  comes  a  gawsie,26  gash27  guidwife 

An'  sits  down  by  the  fire, 
Syne28  draws  her  kebbuck29  an'  her  knife; 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer:  211 

The  auld  guidmen  about  the  grace 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother, 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

And  gi'es  them't,30  like  a  tether,         215 
Fu'  lang  that  day. 

Waesucks  !31  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  melvie32  his  braw  clai thing!  220 

O  wives,  be  mindfu'  ance  yoursel 

How  bonie  lads  ye  wanted, 
An'  dinna  for  a  kebbuck-heel33 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day!  225 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  rattlin  tow,34 

Begins  to  jow35  an'  croon ; 
Some  swagger  hame  the  best  they  dow,36 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps37  the  billies38  halt  a  blink,         230 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon: 

18  flaming.         "  brimstone.  20  whinstone.    21  ale. 

22  wooden  bowls.  23  cups. 

24  wooden  seats.  25  pieces 

"clever.  "then. 

30  gives  it  to  them.  31  alas. 

33  cheese-rind.  34  rope.  36 

36  can.      31  gaps  in  the  hedge.  38  young  fellows. 


26  jolly. 
29  cheese. 
32  soil. 
36  swing. 


BURNS 


369 


Wi'  faith  an'  hope,  an'  love  an'  drink, 
They're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack1  that  day. 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts      235 

O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,2  gin3  night,  are  gane 

As  saft  as  onie  flesh  is. 
There's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine, 

There's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy;         240 
An'  monie  jobs  that  day  begin, 

May  end  in  houghmagandie4 
Some  ither  day. 

TO  A  MOUSE 

ON  TURNING  UP  HER  NEST  WITH 
THE  PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER,  1785 

Wee,  sleekit,5  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 
Oh,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty 

Wi'  bickerin6  brattle!7 
I  wad  be  laith8  to  rin  an'  chase  thee         5 

Wi'  murdering  pattle  !9 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle  10 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,10  but  thou  may  thieve: 
What   then?   poor  beastie,   thou   maun11 

live! 
A  daimen12  icker13  in  a  thrave14  15 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave,15 

An'  never  miss  't! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin ! 

Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin!  20 

An'  naething,  now,  to  big16  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage17  green! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin 

Baith  snell18  an'  keen! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste,  25 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 


1  talk.       2  stone. 
6  hurrying. 
9  plough-staff. 
12  occasional. 
15  rest.      16  build. 


3  by.        4  disgrace.        5  soft,  sleek. 

7  clatter.  8  loth. 

10  sometimes.  "  must. 

13  ear.  14  twenty-four  sheaves. 

17  coarse  grass.  18  bitter. 


An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast 
Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till  crash!  the  cruel  coulter  past 
Out  thro'  thy  cell. 


3° 


That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  monie  a  weary  nibble! 
Now  thou's  turned  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But19  house  or  hald, 
To  thole20  the  winter's  sleety  dribble      35 

An'  cranreuch21  cauld! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane22 

In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 

The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley,23  40 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 

But,  och !  I  backward  cast  my  ee  45 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON   TURNING   ONE    DOWN   WITH 
THE  PLOUGH,  IN  APRIL,  1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 

Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour; 

For  I  maun24  crush  amang  the  stoure25 

Thy  slender  stem: 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r,         5 

Thou  borne  gem. 

Alas!  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet 

Wi'  spreckled  breast,  10 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 


Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


15 


w  without. 
23  amiss. 


20  endure. 


21  hoar-frost. 
24  must. 


12  alone. 
25  dust. 


37° 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield 
High   sheltering   woods   an'  wa's1  maun 
shield:  20 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield2 

0'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie3  stibble-field 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad,  25 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  up  tears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies!       30 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed 

And  guileless  trust; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid  35 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore,  40 

Till  billows  rage  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 
Who    long    with    wants    and    woes    has 

striv'n, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n        45 

To  misery's  brink; 
Till,  wrenched  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He  ruined  sink! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date;  50 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT    AIKEN, 
ESQ. 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

— Gray. 

1  walls.  '  protection.  3  dry. 


My  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected 

friend! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 

With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish 

end: 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem 

and  praise. 
To  you   I   sing,   in   simple   Scottish 
lays,  s 

The   lowly   train   in   life's   sequestered 
scene; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guile- 
less ways; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have 
been; 
Ah!  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
there,  I  ween! 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry 

sugh,4  10 

The  short 'ning  winter  day  is  near  a 

close; 

The   miry   beasts   retreating   frae   the 

pleugh, 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their 

repose; 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor 
goes  — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an 
end, —  15 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and 
his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to 
spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath    the    shelter    of    an    aged 

tree ;  20 

Th'     expectant     wee-things,     toddlin, 

stacher5  through 

To   meet    their    dad,    wi'    flichterin6 

noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,7  blinkin  bonilie, 
His    clean    hearth-stane,    his    thrifty 
wine's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his 
knee,  25 

Does   a'   his   weary   kiaugh8  and   care 
beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an' 
his  toil. 

*  moan.     6  stagger.     6  fluttering.     7  fire-place.     8  anxiety. 


BURNS 


37i 


Belyve,1  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping 
in, 
At  service   out   amang   the   farmers 
roun'; 
Some  ca2  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some 
tentie3  rin  30 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  toun: 
Their     eldest     hope,     their     Jenny, 
woman-grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her 
ee, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw4 . 
new  gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won5  penny-fee,      35 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard- 
ship be. 

With  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters 
meet, 
An'  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly 
spiers:6 
The    social    hours,    swift-winged,    un- 
noticed fleet; 
Each  tells  the  uncos7  that  he  sees  or 
hears.  40 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful 
years ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view; 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her 
sheers, 
Gars8  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's 
the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due.  45 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  com- 
mand 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey; 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent9 
hand, 
An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk10 

or  play: 
"An'  O!  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord 
alway,  50 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and 
night! 
Lest  in   temptation's  path  ye  gang 
astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought 
the  Lord  aright!" 


'soon.  2  drive.  'careful.  4  fine. 

5  hard-earned.      6  inquires.  7  unusual  things. 

8  makes.  9  diligent.  10  dally. 


But  hark!  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the 

door.  S5 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the 

same, 

Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the 

moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her 

hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious 
flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  ee,   and  flush  her 
cheek;  60 

Wi'    heart-struck,   anxious    care,   in- 
quires his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins11  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae 
wild  worthless  rake. 

With  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him 

ben;12 

A    strappin'    youth,    he    takes    the 

mother's  eye;  65 

Bly the  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  taen ; 

The  father  cracks13  of  horses,  pleughs, 

and  kye.14 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows 

wi'  joy, 
But,  blate15and  laithfu',16  scarce  can  weel 
behave; 
The  mother  wi'  a  woman's  wiles  can 
spy  70 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an' 
sae  grave, 
Weel-pl eased    to    think    her    bairn's    re- 
spected like  the  lave.17 

0  happy  love!  where  love  like  this  is 
found ! 
O   heart- felt   raptures!   bliss  beyond 
compare ! 
I've   paced   much   this   weary,   mortal 
round,  75 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  de- 
clare— 
"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly 
pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest 
pair, 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender 
tale,  80 

Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents 
the  evening  gale." 

11  cows. 


1  partly. 

'shy. 


12  within. 
16  bashful. 


13  talks. 
17  rest. 


372 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a 
heart, 
A  wretch!  a  villain!  lost  to  love  and 
truth! 
That  can  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring 
art 
Betray    sweet   Jenny's    unsuspecting 
youth?  85 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts!  dissem- 
bling, smooth! 
Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their 
child, 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their 
distraction  wild?  90 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 
board, 
The    halesome    parritch,1    chief    of 
Scotia's  food; 
The    soupe2    their    only    hawkie3   does 
afford, 
That  yont4  the  hallan5  snugly  chows 

her  cood. 
The  dame   brings   forth,  in  compli- 
mental  mood,  95 

To    grace    the     lad,    her    weel-hained6 
kebbuck7  fell,8 
An'  aft9  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it 
guid; 
The  frugal  wine,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond10  auld,  sin'  lint11  was 
i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious 

face,  100 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle 

wide; 

The  sire  turns  o'er  with  patriarchal  grace 

The  big  ha'-Bible,12  ance  his  father's 

pride; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart13  haffets14  wearing  thin  and 
bare;  105 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in 
Zion  glide, 
He  wales15  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And,  "Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says  with 
solemn  air. 


1  porridge.  2  milk.  3  cow.  4  beyond. 

5  partition.  6  well-saved.      7  cheese.  8  strong. 

9  often.  10  twelve-month.  *>  since  flax. 

12  hall-Bible.  13  grey. 

14  locks.  JS  selects. 


They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple 

guise; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  no- 
blest aim:  no 
Perhaps   Dundee's   wild-warbling    mea- 
sures rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the 

name, 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets16  the   heaven- 
ward flame, 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 
Compared   with   these,   Italian   trills 
are  tame;  115 

The  tickled  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures 
raise; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's 
praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred 
page- 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God 
on   high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage  120 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning 
lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  aveng- 
ing ire; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing 
cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire;      125 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps   the   Christian   volume   is   the 
theme, — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man 
was  shed; 
How    He,    who    bore    in    Heaven    the 
second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His 
head:  130 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants 
sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many 
a  land 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand, 
And    heard    great    Bab'lon's    doom   pro- 
nounced by  Heaven's  command.  135 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eter- 
nal King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  hus- 
band prays: 

16  kindles. 


BURNS 


373 


Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant 
wing," 
That    thus    they    all    shall    meet    in 

future  days: 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,  140 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together    hymning     their    Creator's 
praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an 
eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's 

pride  145 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 

When    men    display    to    congregations 

wide 

Devotion's    ev'ry    grace    except    the 

heart ! 
The    Power,    incensed,    the    pageant 
will  desert, 
The    pompous    strain,    the    sacerdotal 
stole;  150 

But  haply  in  some  cottage  far  apart 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of 
the  soul, 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor 
enrol. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral 

way; 

The    youngling    cottagers    retire    to 

rest;  155 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm 

request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'- 
rous  nest 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees 
the  best,  160 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But   chiefly,   in   their  hearts   with  grace 
divine  preside. 

From    scenes    like    these    old    Scotia's 

grandeur  springs, 
That    makes    her    loved    at    home, 

revered  abroad: 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of 

kings,  165 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work 

of  God": 
And  certes,  in  fair  Virtue's  heavenly 

road, 


The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  be- 
hind: 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?  a  cum- 
brous load, 
Disguising   oft   the   wretch   of   human 
kind,  170 

Studied   in    arts   of   hell,    in    wickedness 
refined ! 

O  Scotia!  my  dear,  my  native  soil! 
For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Hea- 
ven is  sent! 
Long    may  thy   hardy  sons    of    rustic 
toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and 
sweet  content!  175 

And,  oh!  may  Heaven  their  simple 
lives  prevent 
From    luxury's    contagion,    weak    and 
vile! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets 

be  rent, 
A   virtuous   populace   may   rise   the 
while, 
And   stand   a   wall   of  fire  around   their 
much-loved  isle.  180 

O    Thou!    who    poured    the    patriotic 
tide 
That   streamed   thro'   Wallace's   un- 
daunted heart, 
Who    dared    to    nobly    stem    tyrannic 
pride, 
Or   nobly    die,    the   second   glorious 

part, — 
(The   patriot's   God  peculiarly  thou 
art,  185 

His    friend,    inspirer,    guardian,    and 
reward !) 
O    never,   never   Scotia's   realm    de- 
sert, 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot- 
bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament 
and  guard! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO  GUID,  OR 
THE  RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS 

My  Son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 
An'  lump  them  ay  thegither; 

The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool, 
The  Rigid  Wise  anither: 


374 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight1 
May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff2  in; 

So  ne'er  a  fellow-creature  slight 
For  random  fits  o'  daffin.3 

Solomon. — Eccles.  vii,  16. 

0  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 
Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 

Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 
Your  neebor's  fauts  and  folly! 

Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun4  mill,  5 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 

The  heapet  happer's5  ebbing  still, 
An'  still  the  clap  plays  clatter, — 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core,6 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals  10 

That  frequent  pass  douce7  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit8  Folly's  portals; 

1  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes 
Would  here  propone9  defences — 

Their  donsie10  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 
Their  failings  and  mischances.  16 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer;11 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard, 

What  makes  the  mighty  differ?12         20 
Discount  wrhat  scant  occasion  gave, 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what's  aft13  mair  than  a'  the  lave)14 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse  25 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragins  must  his  veins  convulse 

That  still  eternal  gallop: 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way;  30 

But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith15  to  sail, 

It  makes  an  unco16  leeway. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down, 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Till,  quite  transmugrified,17  they're  grown 

Debauchery  and  Drinking:  36 

O  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences; 
Or — your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state — 

Damnation  of  expenses!  40 


1  winnowed. 

*  well-going. 

7  grave. 
10  reckless. 
13  often. 
18  tremendous. 


2  grains  of  chaff. 

6  hopper. 

8  giddy. 

11  comparison. 

14  rest. 


3  larking. 
6  assembly. 
9  proffer. 
12  difference. 
'5  both. 
17  transformed. 


Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces, 
Before  you  gie  poor  Frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases: 
A  dear  loved  lad,  convenience  snug,    45 

A  treacherous  inclination — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug,18 

Ye're  aiblins19  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman;  50 

Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin20  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human: 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  Why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark,         55 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias:  60 

Then  at  the  balance,  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  can  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


TAM  O'  SHANTER 

A  TALE 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  buke. 
— Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies21  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy22  neebors  neebors  meet, 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate;23 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy,24        5 
An'  gettin  fou  and  unco25  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,26  and  stiles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame,  10 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter: 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses.)  16 


18  ear. 

19  perhaps. 

20  trifle. 

21  shopmen. 

22  thirsty. 

23  go  home. 

24  ale. 

26  wonderfully. 

26  gaps  in  the  road 

BURNS 


375 


0  Tarn!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum,1 
A  bletherin,  blusterin,  drunken  blellum;2  20 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae3  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober; 
That  ilka4  melder5  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  ev'ry  naig6  was  ca'd7  a  shoe  on,7     25 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 
That  at  the  Lord's  house,  even  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that,  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in 
Doon;  30 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks8  in  the  mirk,9 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames!  it  gars10  me  greet,11 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 
How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices,       35 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale: — Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,12  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats13  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie,  41 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  cronie: 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither;14 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better:         46 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious 
Wi'  secret  favors,  sweet  and  precious: 
The  souter15  tauld  his  queerest  stories; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus:  50 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 
E'en  drowned  himsel  amang  the  nappy: 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure,  55 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleas- 
ure; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  fiow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed;  60 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 

1  rascal.  2  prattler.  3  one.  4  every.        5  grinding. 
6  nag.      'shod.        8  wizards.  'dark.        I0  makes. 

11  weep.  12  fireside.  13  foaming  ale.  14  brother.  15  cobbler. 


Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form  65 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide: 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride, — 

That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key- 

stane, 
That  dreary  hour  Tam  mounts  his  beast 

in;  70 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last; 

The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swal- 
lowed; 75 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bel- 
lowed: 

That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 

The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, — 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, —  80 

Tam  skelpit16  on  thro'  dub17  and  mire, 
Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire; 
Whiles   holding  fast  his   guid   blue  bon- 
net, 
Whiles    crooning    o'er    some    auld    Scots 

sonnet, 
Whiles  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles18  catch  him  unawares.  86 

Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets19  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored  ;20 
And  past  the  birks21  and  meikle22  stane,  91 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane  ;23 
And  thro'  the  whins,24  and  by  the  cairn,25 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn;26 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon27  the  well,      95 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hanged  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole, 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll;  100 
When,    glimmering    thro'    the    groaning 

trees 
Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze:28 
Thro'  ilka  bore29  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 


16  hurried. 
21  birches. 
=6  child. 


17  mud. 
22  big. 
27  above. 


bogies. 
23  neck. 


19  owls.     M  smothered. 
24  gorse.    25  rock-pile. 
23  blaze.     29  opening. 


376 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn!         105 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny1  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquebae2  we'll  face  the  devil! 
The  swats3  sae  reamed4  in  Tammie's  nod- 
dle, 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle.5      no 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonished, 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  wow!  Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight! 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance;      115 
Nae  cotillion  brent-new6  frae  France, 
But    hornpipes,    jigs,    strathspeys,    and 

reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels: 
A  winnock7  bunker8  in  the  east, 
There  sat  Auld  Nick  in  shape  o'  beast;  120 
A  towsie9  tyke,10  black,  grim,  and  large, 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge; 
He  screwed  the   pipes   and  gart11   them 

skirl,12 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl.13 — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses,    125 
That    shawed    the    dead  in    their    last 

dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip14  sleight 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table  130 

A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims;15 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape16 — 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab17  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted;  135 
Five  scymitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft — 
The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft;     140 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As    Tamrnie    glowered,    amazed    and 
curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious: 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew,  145 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 


They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they 

cleekit,18 
Till  ilka  carlin19  swat20  and  reekit,21 
And  coost22  her  duddies23  to  the  wark24 
And  linket25  at  it  in  her  sark!26 


w  clutched. 

19  old  hag. 

20  sweated. 

21  steamed. 

1  twopenny  ale. 

2  whiskey. 

3  ale. 

22  threw. 

23  clothes. 

24  work. 

26  rushed. 

4  foamed. 

6  penny. 

6  brand-new. 

»  shirt. 

27  young  girls. 

28  greasy. 

29  flannel. 

7  window. 

8  bench. 

9  shaggy. 

»  these. 

31  hips. 

32  well. 

33  handsome 

10  dog. 

11  made. 

12  scream. 

34  company. 

36  barley. 

36  chemise. 

37  linen. 

13  shake. 

14  magical. 

16  irons. 

38  proud. 

39  bought. 

40  jade. 

41  eyes. 

16  rope. 

17  mouth. 

«  fidgeted. 

43  squirmed. 

44  then. 

4->  lost. 

150 


Now 


Tarn,    O    Tam!    had    thae    been 

queans,27 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie28  flannen,29 
Been      snaw-white      seventeen      hunder 

linen ! — 
Thir30  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair,      155 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aff  my  hurdies,31 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies! 


But    Tam    kend    what   was   what   fu' 
brawlie  ;32 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  wawlie,33 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core34  165 

Lang  after  kend  on  Carrick  shore 
(For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
An'  perished  monie  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear,35 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear).        170 
Her  cutty  sark36  o'  Paisley  harn,37 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie.38 
Ah!  little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie,    175 
That  sark  she  coft39  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power;     180 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jad40  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitched, 
And  thought  his  very  een41  enriched;    184 
Even  Satan  glowered  and  fidged42  fu'  fain, 
And  hotched43  and  blew  wi'  might  and 

main: 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne44  anither, 
Tam  tint45  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark:  190 

And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 


BURNS 


377 


As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke,1 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke;2 
As  open  pussie's3  mortal  foes,  195 

When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 
When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow,       199 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch4  skriech  and  hollo. 

Ah,   Tarn!   ah,   Tarn!    thou'll   get   thy 
fairin  !5 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg,         205 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig:6 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient7  a  tail  she  had  to  shake!          210 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle;8 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale,  215 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk9  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed,  220 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  Mare. 


SCOTS  WHA  HAE 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  victorie! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour; 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lour; 

See  approach  proud  Edward's  power- 
Chains  and  slaverie! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee! 


1  fury. 

-  hive. 

3  the  hare's 

4  unearthly. 

5  reward. 

6  bridge. 

7  devil. 

8  intent. 

9  every. 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa',  15 

Let  him  follow  me! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free!  20 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! — 

Let  us  do  or  die! 


SONGS 
MARY  MORISON 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor: 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure,10      5 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha',  10 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw: 

Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw,11 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sighed,  and  said  among  them  a',  15 

"Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee?  20 

If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown: 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary' Morison. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES 

Chorus. — Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I 
spend 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,  0. 

10  endure  the  struggle.  u  handsome. 


378 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


There's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han',    5 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O: 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  0? 

The  war'ly1  race  may  riches  chase, 

An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O;  10 

An'  tho'  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 

But  gie  me  a  cannie2  hour  at  e'en, 

My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O; 
An'  war'ly  cares,  an'  war'ly  men,  15 

May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,3  0. 

For  you  sae  douce,4  ye  sneer  at  this; 

Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  0: 
The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 

He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  O.  20 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O : 

Her  prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE 

Should  auld  acquaintaince  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min? 
Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  auld  lang  syne? 

Cho. — For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear,     5 
For  auld  lang  syne, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp,5 
And  surely  I'll  be  mine!  10 

And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes,6 

And  pu'd  the  gowans7  fine; 
But  we've  wandered  monie  a  weary  fit8  15 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidled9  i'  the  burn,10 

From  mornin'  sun  till  dine;11 
But  seas  between  us  braid12  hae  roared 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne.  20 

4  sedate. 
8  foot. 
u  broad. 


1  worldly. 

2  quiet. 

3  topsy-turvy 

6  pint-cup. 

6  hillsides. 

7  daisies. 

•  paddled. 

">  brook. 

12  noon. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere,13 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught14 

For  auld  lang  syne. 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN 
BLAW 

Of  a'  the  airts15  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best: 
There  wild  woods  grow  an'  rivers  row,16  5 

An'  monie  a  hill  between; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  an'  fair:  10 

I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air: 
There's  not  a  bonie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,17  or  green; 
There's  not  a  bonie  bird  that  sings,         15 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


TAM  GLEN 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  tittie,18 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len'; 

To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity, 

But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tam  Glen? 

I'm  thinking,  wi'  sic19  a  braw20  fellow,      5 
In  poortith21 1  might  mak  a  fen'  :22 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow, 
If  I  mauna  marry  Tam  Glen? 

There's  Lowrie,  the  laird  o'  Dumeller, 
"Guid-day  to  you," — brute!  he  comes 
ben:23  10 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen? 

My  minnie24  does  constantly  deave25  me, 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me;     15 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen? 


13  comrade. 
17  wood. 
M  handsome 
"in. 


14  draught. 
18  sister. 
21  poverty. 
4  mother. 


15  ways. 
19  such. 
22  shift. 
26  deafen. 


16  roll. 


BURNS 


379 


My  daddie  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him, 
He'll  gie  me  guid  hunder  marks  ten: 

But,  if  it's  ordained  I  maun  take  him, 
0  wha  will  I  get  but  Tam  Glen?  20 

Yestreen  at  the  valentines'  dealing, 
My  heart  to  my  mou1  gied  a  sten:2 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written,  "  Tam  Glen  " ! 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin3  25 

My  droukit4  sark-sleeve,5  as  ye  ken: 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin,6 
And  the  very  gray  breeks  o'  Tam  Glen! 

Come  counsel,  dear  tittie,  don't  tarry; 

I'll  gie  ye  my  bonie  black  hen,  30 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS 

Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the 

North, 
The  birth-place  of  valor,  the  country  of 

worth; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart 

is  not  here;  5 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing 

the  deer; 
A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following 

the  roe, 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I 

go- 

Farewell  to  the  mountains,  high-covered 

with  snow; 
Farewell  to  the  straths7  and  green  valleys 

below;  10 

Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging 

woods, 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 

floods. 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart 

is  not  here; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  a-chasing 

the  deer; 

1  mouth.  2  spring.  3  watching.  4  wetted. 

5  shirt-sleeve.    6  stalking.         '  river  valleys. 


A-chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following 
the  roe,  15 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever 
I  go. 

GO  FETCH  TO  ME  A  PINT  0'  WINE 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 

And  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie;8 
That  I  may  drink,  before  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  bonie  lassie: 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith,         5 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  Ferry; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready,  10 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  deep  and  bloody; 
It's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  mak  me  langer  wish  to  tarry; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar —     15 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonie  Mary! 

JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO 

John  Anderson  my  jo,9  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonie  brow  was  brent;10 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,11  John,     5 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow,12 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither;  10 

And  monie  a  cantie13  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot,         15 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 

WILLIE  BREWED  A  PECK  O'  MAUT 

O,  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  maut,14 
An'  Rob  an'  Allan  cam  to  see: 
Three  blyther  hearts  that  lee-lang15  night 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 


8  goblet. 
12  head. 


9  sweetheart. 
13  happy. 


10  smooth. 
14  malt. 


11  bald. 
15  live-long. 


38o 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Chorus. — We  are  na  fou.  we're  nae  that 
fou,  5 

But  just  a  drappie1  in  our  ee; 

The  cock  may  craw,  the  day 
may  daw,2 

And  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley 
bree.3 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys, 
Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we;  10 

An'  monie  a  night  we've  merry  been, 
And  monie  mae4  we  hope  to  be! 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 

That's  blinkin  in  the  lift5  sae  hie; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle6  us  hame,  1 5 

But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa', 

A  cuckold,  coward  loun  is  he! 

Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 

He  is  the  king  amang  us  three!  20 


FLOW   GENTLY,    SWEET   AFTON 

Flow   gently,    sweet    Afton,    among    thy 

green  braes,7 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy 

praise; 
My    Mary's   asleep   by    thy   murmuring 

stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 

dream. 

Thou   stock-dove,   whose   echo   resounds 

thro'  the  glen,  5 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny 

den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming 

forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering 

fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring 

hills, 
Far   marked   with    the   courses   of   clear 

winding  rills;  10 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my 

eye. 

'  little  drop.  2dawn.  3  brew. 


4  more. 
6  entice. 


6  sky. 

7  hillsides. 


How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys 
below, 

Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  prim- 
roses blow; 

There  oft,  as  mild  Evening  weeps  over  the 
lea,  15 

The  sweet-scented  birk8  shades  my  Mary 
and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it 

glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary 

resides; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet 

lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy 

clear  wave.  20 

Flow   gently,    sweet   Afton,    among    thy 

green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my 

lays; 
My   Mary's   asleep   by   thy   murmuring 

stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her 

dream. 

BONIE  DOON 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care? 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird,  5 

That  sings  upon  the  bough; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days, 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonie  bird, 
Thou  sings  beside  thy  mate;  10 

For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 
And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka9  bird  sang  o'  its  luve,  15 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw10  my  rose 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me.  20 


'  birch. 


9  every. 


10  stole. 


BURNS 


38i 


AE  FOND  KISS 


Ae1  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  farewell,  and  then  forever! 
Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him,  5 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 


I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy; 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  forever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted — 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 


is 


Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 

Thine  be  ilka2  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure!     20 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  farewell,  alas,  forever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee! 


HIGHLAND  MARY 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,3  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 4 
There  simmer  first  unfald  her  robes,         5 

And  there  the  langest  tarry; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel, 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk,5 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom,     10 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life,  15 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  locked  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder;  20 


2  every. 


3  hills. 


1  muddy. 


5  birch. 


But  0!  fell  death's  untimely  frost, 
That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 

Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips,  25 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  ay  the  sparkling  glance, 

That  dwalt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust, 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly!        30 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


DUNCAN  GRAY 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo, 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou,6 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Maggie  coost7  her  head  fu  high,  5 

Looked  asklent8  and  unco  skeigh,9 
Gart10  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh;11 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 

Duncan  fleeched,12  and  Duncan  prayed; 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!)  10 

Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Duncan  sighed  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat13  his  een14  baith  bleer't15  and  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowpin16  o'er  a  linn;17  15 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 

(Ha  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide,18 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!)  20 

"Shall  I,  like  a  fool,"  quoth  he, 
"  For  a  haughty  hizzie19  die? 
She  may  gae  to — France  for  me!" 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell,  25 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale, 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings;  30 

And  O!  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things! 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't! 


« full. 

10  made. 

11  eyes. 

18  endure. 


7  tossed. 
11  aside. 
16  bleared. 


8  side  wise. 
12  wheedled. 
16  leaping. 


9  very  shy. 
13  wept. 
17  waterfall. 
19  hussy. 


382 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace, 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case,  35 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!) 
Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoored1  his  wrath; 
Now  they're  crouse2  and  cantie3  baith; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooin  o't!  40 

From  THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS 

See!  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring; 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 

And  in  raptures  let  us  sing: 

Chorus 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected!  5 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest. 

What  is  title?  what  is  treasure? 

What  is  reputation's  care?  10 

If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

Tis  no  matter,  how  or  where! 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 
Round  we  wander  all  the  day; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  stable,  15 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 
Through  the  country  lighter  rove? 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 

Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love?  20 

Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes; 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum 

Who  have  characters  to  lose. 

Here's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets!       25 
Here's  to  all  our  wandering  train! 

Here's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets!4 
One  and  all  cry  out,  Amen! 

CONTENTED  WI'  LITTLE  AND 
CANTIE  WI'  MAIR 

Contented  wi'  little,  and  cantie5  wi'  mair, 
Whene'er    I    forgather6    wi'    Sorrow    and 
Care, 


1  smothered. 
*  trulls. 


2  cheerful. 
6  cheerful. 


3  happy. 
6  associate. 


I  gie  them  a  skelp7  as  they're  creeping 

alang, 
Wi'  a  cog8  o'  guid  swats9  and  an  auld 

Scottish  sang. 

I  whiles  claw10  the  elbow  o'  troublesome 
Thought;  5 

But  man  is  a  soger,  and  life  is  a  faught; 

My  mirth  and  guid  humor  are  coin  in  my 
pouch, 

And  my  freedom's  my  lairdship  nae 
monarch  daur  touch. 

A  towmond11  o'  trouble,  should  that  be 

my  fa,'12 
A  night  o'  guid  fellowship  sowthers13  it  a'; 
When  at  the  blythe  end  of  our  journey  at 

last,  11 

Wha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he 

has  past? 

Blind  Chance,  let  her  snapper14  and 
stoyte15  on  her  way; 

Be't  to  me,  be't  frae  me,  e'en  let  the  jade 
gae: 

Come  ease  or  come  travail,  come  pleasure 
or  pain,  15 

My  war st  word  is:  "Welcome,  and  wel- 
come again!" 


A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hings  his  head,  an '  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that,  5 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp; 
The  man's  the  gowd16  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden-gray,17  an'  a'  that;  10 

Gie   fools   their   silks,   and   knaves   their 
wine, 
A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that; 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor,  15 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

7  rap.  8  bowl.  '  ale. 

10  scratch.  n  twelve-month.  I2  lot. 

13  makes  it  all  up.  H  stumble.  15  stagger. 

16  gold.  17  homespun  grey. 


BLAKE 


383 


Ye  see  yon  birkie,1  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  cuif2  for  a'  that:  20 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  an'  a'  that, 
The  man  o'  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight,  25 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon3  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa4  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that,  30 

The  pith  o'  sense,  an'  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that) 
That  sense  and  wTorth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
Shall  bear  the  gree,5  an'  a'  that.  36 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  o'er, 
Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that.         40 


O,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD 
BLAST 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee. 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms  5 

Around      thee      blaw,      around      thee 
blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae    black    and    bare,    sae    black    and 
bare,  10 

The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown  15 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


1  young  chap. 

4  cannot  lay  claim  to. 


"-  fool. 


3  above. 
6  prize. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE    (1757-1827) 

From  SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE 

INTRODUCTION 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child, 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 

"Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!"  5 

So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 

"Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;" 
So  I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 

"Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer!"     10 
So  I  sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

"  Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read." 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight;  15 

And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed, 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 

And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 

And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 

Every  child  may  joy  to  hear.  20 


THE  LAMB 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bid  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight,  5 

Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  Lamb,  -who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee?      10 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee, 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild;  15 

He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee!  70 


3§4 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


CRADLE  SONG 

Sweet  dreams,  form  a  shade 
O'er  my  lovely  infant's  head; 
Sweet  dreams  of  pleasant  streams 
By  happy,  silent,  moony  beams. 

Sweet  Sleep,  with  soft  down  5 

Weave  thy  brows  an  infant  crown. 
Sweet  Sleep,  angel  mild, 
Hover  o'er  my  happy  child. 

Sweet  smiles,  in  the  night 

Hover  over  my  delight;  10 

Sweet  smiles,  mother's  smiles, 

All  the  livelong  night  beguiles. 

Sweet  moans,  dovelike  sighs, 
Chase  not  slumber  from  thy  eyes. 
Sweet  moans,  sweeter  smiles,  15 

All  the  dovelike  moans  beguiles. 

Sleep,  sleep,  happy  child, 

All  creation  slept  and  smiled; 

Sleep,  sleep,  happy  sleep, 

While  o'er  thee  thy  mother  weep.        20 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Holy  image  I  can  trace. 
Sweet  babe,  once  like  thee, 
Thy  Maker  lay  and  wept  for  me. 

Wept  for  me,  for  thee,  for  all,  25 

When  he  was  an  infant  small. 
Thou  his  image  ever  see, 
Heavenly  face  that  smiles  on  thee, 

Smiles  on  thee,  on  me,  on  all; 
Who  became  an  infant  small.  30 

Infant  smiles  are  His  own  smiles; 
Heaven  and  earth  to  peace  beguiles. 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK  BOY 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  oh  my  soul  is  white ! 

White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree,  5 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  east,  began  to  say: 


"Look  on  the  rising  sun,— there  God  does 

live, 

And  gives  his  light,  and  gives  his  heat 

away;  10 

And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men 

receive 

Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

"And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 

That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of 

love; 

And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt 

face  15 

Are  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat 
to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish,  we  shall  hear  his 
voice, 
Saying:  'Come  out  from  the  grove,  my 
love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs 
rejoice.' "  20 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me; 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 
When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white 
cloud  free, 
And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs 
we  joy, 

I'll  shade  him  from  the  heat,  till  he  can 

bear  25 

To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee; 

And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver 

hair, 

And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love 

me. 


From  SONGS  OF  EXPERIENCE 
THE  CLOD  AND  THE  PEBBLE 

"Love  seeketh  not  itself  to  please, 

Nor  for  itself  hath  any  care, 
But  for  another  gives  its  ease, 

And  builds  a  heaven  in  hell's  despair." 

So  sung  a  little  clod  of  clay,  ^ 

Trodden  with  the  cattle's  feet, 

But  a  pebble  of  the  brook 
Warbled  out  these  metres  meet: 


CRABBE 


3S5 


"Love  seeketh  only  Self  to  please, 
To  bind  another  to  its  delight,  10 

Joys  in  another's  loss  of  ease, 
And  builds  a  hell  in  heaven's  despite." 


THE  SICK  ROSE 

O  Rose,  thou  art  sick! 

The  invisible  worm, 
That  flies  in  the  night, 

In  the  howling  storm, 

Has  found  out  thy  bed 

Of  crimson  joy, 
And  his  dark  secret  love 

Does  thy  life  destroy. 


THE  TIGER 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies  5 

Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder  and  what  art 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart?         10 
And,  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?  what  dread  grasp  15 

Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  He  smile  His  work  to  see? 
Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee?  20 

Tiger,  tiger,  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


THE  SUNFLOWER 

Ah,  Sunflower!  weary  of  time, 
Who  countest  the  steps  of  the  sun, 
Seeking  after  that  sweet  golden  clime, 
Where  the  traveller's  journey  is  done; 


Where  the  youth  pined  away  with  desire,  5 
And  the  pale  virgin  shrouded  in  snow, 
Arise  from  their  graves,  and  aspire 
Where  my  Sunflower  wishes  to  go. 


From  AUGURIES  OF  INNOCENCE 

To  see  a  world  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
And  a  heaven  in  a  wild  flower; 

Hold  infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand, 
And  eternity  in  an  hour. 


From   MILTON 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountains  green? 

And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen? 

And  did  the  countenance  divine  5 

Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills? 

And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these  dark  Satanic  mills? 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire!  10 

Bring  me  my  spear!  O  clouds,  unfold! 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire! 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem  1 5 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 


GEORGE  CRABBE    (1754-1832) 

From  THE  VILLAGE,  Book  I 

The  village  life,  and  every  care  that 
reigns 

O'er    youthful    peasants    and    declining 
swains; 

What  labor  yields,  and  what,  that  labor 
past, 

Age,  in  its  hour  of  languor,  finds  at  last; 

What  form  the  real  picture  of  the  poor,     5 

Demand  a  song— the  Muse  can  give  no 
more. 
Fled  are  those  times,  when,  in  harmoni- 
ous strains, 

The  rustic  poet  praised  his  native  plains: 


386 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


No  shepherds  now,  in  smooth  alternate 

verse, 
Their  country's  beauty  or  their  nymphs' 

rehearse;  10 

Yet  still  for  these  we  frame  the  tender 

strain, 
Still  in  our  lays  fond  Corydons  complain, 
And  shepherds'  boys  their  amorous  pains 

reveal, 
The  only  pains,  alas!  they  never  feel. 
On  Mincio's  banks,  in  Caesar's  bounte- 
ous reign,  15 
If  Tityrus  found  the  Golden  Age  again, 
Must  sleepy  bards  the  flattering  dream 

prolong, 
Mechanic  echoes  of  the  Mantuan  song? 
From  Truth  and  Nature  shall  we  widely 

stray, 
Where  Virgil,  not  where  Fancy,  leads  the 

way?  20 

Yes,    thus    the    Muses   sing   of   happy 

swains, 
Because    the    Muses    never    knew    their 

pains : 
They  boast  their  peasants'  pipes;  but  peas- 
ants now 
Resign  their  pipes  and  plod  behind  the 

plough; 
And  few  amid  the  rural  tribe  have  time  25 
To    number    syllables,    and    play    with 

rhyme ; 
Save   honest   Duck,    what   son   of   verse 

could  share 
The  poet's  rapture  and  the  peasant's  care? 
Or  the  great  labors  of  the  field  degrade, 
With  the  new  peril  of  a  poorer  trade?      30 
From  this  chief  cause  these  idle  praises 

spring, 
That  themes  so  easy  few  forbear  to  sing; 
For  no  deep  thought  the  trifling  subjects 

ask; 
To  sing  of  shepherds  is  an  easy  task; 
The  happy  youth  assumes  the  common 

strain,  35 

A  nymph  his  mistress,  and  himself  a  swain; 
With  no  sad  scenes  he  clouds  his  tuneful 

prayer, 
But  all,  to  look  like  her,  is  painted  fair. 
I  grant  indeed  that  fields  and  flocks  have 

charms 
For  him  that  grazes  or  for  him  that  farms; 
But   when  amid  such  pleasing  scenes   I 

trace  41 

The  poor  laborious  natives  of  the  place, 


And  see  the  mid-day  sun  with  fervid  ray 
On  their  bare  heads  and  dewy  temples 

play; 
While  some,  with  feebler  heads  and  fainter 

hearts  45 

Deplore  their  fortune,  yet  sustain  their 

parts — 
Then  shall  I  dare  these  real  ills  to  hide, 
In  tinsel  trappings  of  poetic  pride? 

No;   cast   by   Fortune   on   a   frowning 

coast, 
Which  neither  groves  nor  happy  valleys 

boast;  50 

Where  other  cares  than  those  the  Muse 

relates, 
And   other   shepherds   dwell   with   other 

mates; 
By  such  examples  taught,  I  paint  the  cot, 
As  Truth  will  paint  it,  and  as  bards  will 

not: 
Nor  you,  ye  poor,  of  lettered  scorn  com- 
plain, 55 
To  you  the  smoothest  song  is  smooth  in 

vain; 
O'ercome  by  labor,  and  bowed  down  by 

time, 
Feel  you  the  barren  flattery  of  a  rhyme? 
Can  poets  soothe  you,  when  you  pine  for 

bread, 
By  winding  myrtles  round  your  ruined 

shed?  60 

Can  their  light  tales  your  weighty  griefs 

o'erpower, 
Or  glad  with  airy  mirth  the  toilsome  hour? 
Lo!   where   the  heath,   with  withering 

brake  grown  o'er, 
Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neigh- 
boring poor; 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  ap- 
pears, 65 
Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  withered 

ears. 
Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 
Reign  o'er  the  land,  and  rob  the  blighted 

rye; 
There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms 

afar,     . 
And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war;  70 
There  poppies,  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of 

toil, 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile 

soil; 
Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf, 
The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 


CRAB BE 


387 


O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws 

a  shade,  75 

And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly 

blade; 
With    mingled    tints    the    rocky    coasts 

abound, 
And  a  sad  splendor  vainly  shines  around. 
So  looks  the  nymph  whom  wretched  arts 

adorn, 
Betrayed  by  man,  then  left  for  man  to 

scorn ;  80 

Whose  cheek  in  vain  assumes  the  mimic 

rose, 
While  her  sad  eyes  the  troubled  breast 

disclose: 
Whose   outward   splendor   is   but   folly's 

dress, 
Exposing  most  when  most  it  gilds  distress. 
Here  joyless  roam  a  wild  amphibious 

race,  85 

With  sullen  woe  displayed  in  every  face; 
Who  far  from  civil  arts  and  social  fly, 
And  scowl  at   strangers   with  suspicious 

eye. 
Here  too  the  lawless  merchant  of  the 

main 
Draws  from  his  plough   the  intoxicated 

swain ;  90 

Want  only  claimed  the  labor  of  the  day, 
But  vice  now  steals  his  nightly  rest  away. 
Where  are  the  swains,  who,  daily  labor 

done, 
With  rural  games  played  down  the  setting 

sun; 
Who    struck    with    matchless    force    the 

bounding  ball,  95 

Or  made  the  ponderous  quoit  obliquely 

fall; 
While  some  huge  Ajax,  terrible  and  strong, 
Engaged    some    artful    stripling    of    the 

throng, 
And  fell  beneath  him,   foiled,   while  far 

around 
Hoarse  triumph  rose,  and  rocks  returned 

the  sound?  100 

Where  now  are  these? — Beneath  yon  cliff 

they  stand, 
To  show  the  freighted  pinnace  where  to 

land; 
To  load  the  ready  steed  with  guilty  haste, 
To  fly  in  terror  o'er  the  pathless  waste, 
Or,    when    detected,    in    their    straggling 

course,  105 

To  foil  their  foes  by  cunning  or  by  force; 


Or,  yielding  part  (which  equal  knaves  de- 
mand), 

To  gain  a  lawless  passport  through  the 
land. 


From  THE  BOROUGH 

Old  Peter  Grimes  made  fishing  his  em- 
ploy; 
His  wife  he  cabined  with  him  and  his  boy, 
And  seemed  that  life  laborious  to  enjoy. 
To  town  came  quiet  Peter  with  his  fish, 
And  had  of  all  a  civil  word  and  wish.  5 
He  left  his  trade  upon  the  Sabbath  day, 
And  took  young  Peter  in  his  hand  to  pray: 
But  soon  the  stubborn  boy  from  care  broke 

loose, 
At  first  refused,  then  added  his  abuse; 
His  father's  love  he  scorned,  his  power 
defied,  10 

But,  being  drunk,  wept  sorely  when  he 
died. 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES  (1762-1850) 
TIME 

0  Time!  who  knowest  a  lenient  hand  to 

lay 
Softest   on    sorrow's   wound,   and   slowly 

thence, 
Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense, 
The    faint    pang    stealest,    unperceived, 

away; 
On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last,         5 
And  think  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter 

tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held 

dear, 

1  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past, 
And  meet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a 

smile: 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour, 
Sings  in  the  sunbeam,  of  the  transient 

shower  11 

Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the 

while: 
Yet,  ah!  how  much  must  that  poor  heart 

endure 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone, 

a  cure. 


388' 


THE  AGE  OF  CLASSICISM 


HOPE 

As   one  who,    long  by   wasting   sickness 

worn, 
Weary  has  watched  the  lingering  night, 

and  heard, 
Heartless,  the  carol  of  the  matin  bird 
Salute    his    lonely    porch,    now    first    at 

morn 
Goes  forth,  leaving  his  melancholy  bed ;     5 
He   the  green   slope   and   level   meadow 

views, 
Delightful  bathed  in  slow-ascending  dews; 
Or  marks  the  clouds  that  o'er  the  moun- 
tain's head 
In  varying  forms  fantastic  wander  white; 
Or  turns  his  ear  to  every  random  song  10 
Heard   the  green  river's  winding  marge 

along, 
The  while  each  sense  is  steeped  in  still 

delight: 
With  such  delight  o'er  all  my  heart  I 

feel 
Sweet  Hope!  thy  fragrance  pure  and 

healing  incense  steal. 


TO  THE  RIVER  TWEED 

O  Tweed !  a  stranger,  that  with  wandering 

feet 
O'er  hill  and  dale  has  journeyed  many  a 

mile 
(If  so  his  weary  thoughts  he  might  be- 
guile), 
Delighted  turns  thy  beauteous  scenes  to 

greet. 
The    waving     branches     that    romantic 

bend 
O'er  thy  tall  banks,   a  soothing  charm 

bestow;  6 

The    murmurs   of    thy    wandering   wave 

below 
Seem  to  his  ear  the  pity  of  a  friend. 
Delightful  stream!  though  now  along  thy 

shore, 
When  spring  returns  in  all  her  wonted 

pride,  10 

The  shepherd's  distant  pipe  is  heard  no 

more, 
Yet  here  with  pensive  peace  I  could  abide, 
Far  from  the  stormy  world's  tumultuous 

roar, 
To  muse  upon  thy  banks  at  eventide. 


BAMBOROUGH  CASTLE 

Ye  holy  towers  that  shade  the  wave-worn 

steep, 
Long  may  ye  rear  your  aged  brows  sub- 
lime, 
Though,  hurrying  silent  by,  relentless  time 
Assail  you,  and  the  winds  of  winter  sweep 
Round   your   dark   battlements;    for   far 

from  halls  5 

Of  Pride,  here  Charity  hath  fixed  her  seat; 
Oft  listening  tearful  when  the  wild  winds 

beat 
With  hollow  bodings  round  your  ancient 

walls; 
And  Pity,  at  the  dark  and  stormy  hour 
Of  midnight,  when  the  moon  is  hid  on 

high,  10 

Keeps  her  lone  watch  upon  the  topmost 

tower, 
And  turns  her  ear  to  each  expiring  cry, 
Blest  if  her  aid  some  fainting  wretch 

may  save, 
And   snatch   him   cold   and   speechless 

from  the  wave. 


WRITTEN  AT  TYNEMOUTH  AFTER 
A  TEMPESTUOUS  VOYAGE 

As  slow  I  climbed  the  cliff's  ascending 

side, 
Much  musing  on  the  track  of  terror  past, 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  rode  the  howling 

blast, 
Pleased  I  look  back,  and  view  the  tranquil 

tide 
That  laves  the  pebbled  shore :  and  now  the 

beam  5 

Of  evening  smiles  on  the  gray  battlement, 
And  yon  forsaken  tower  that  Time  has 

rent: — 
The  lifted  oar  far  off  with  silver  gleam 
Is  touched,  and  hushed  is  all  the  billowy 

deep! 
Soothed  by  the  scene,  thus  on  tired  Na- 
ture's breast  10 
A  stillness  slowly  steals,  and  kindred  rest; 
While  sea-sounds  lull  her,  as  she  sinks 

to    sleep, 
Like  melodies  which  mourn  upon  the 

lyre, 
Waked   by    the   breeze,  and,   as   they 

mourn,  expire! 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  (1770-1850) 

From  THE   PREFACE   TO   THE 
LYRICAL    BALLADS 

The  principal  object  proposed  in  these 
poems  was  to  choose  incidents  and  situa- 
tions from  common  life,  and  to  re- 
late or  describe  them,  throughout,  as  far 
as  was  possible,  in  a  selection  of  language 
really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  throw  over  them  a  certain  coloring 
of  imagination,  whereby  ordinary  things 
should  be  presented  to  the  mind  in  an 
unusual  aspect;  and,  further,  and  [10 
above  all,  to  make  these  incidents  and 
situations  interesting  by  tracing  in  them, 
truly  though  not  ostentatiously,  the 
primary  laws  of  our  nature:  chiefly,  as 
far  as  regards  the  manner  in  which  we 
associate  ideas  in  a  state  of  excitement. 
Humble  and  rustic  life  was  generally 
chosen,  because,  in  that  condition,  the 
essential  passions  of  the  heart  find  a 
better  soil  in  which  they  can  attain  [20 
their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint, 
and  speak  a  plainer  and  more  emphatic 
language;  because  in  that  condition  of 
life  our  elementary  feelings  co-exist  in  a 
state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  conse- 
quently, may  be  more  accurately  con- 
templated, and  more  forcibly  communi- 
cated; because  the  manners  of  rural  life 
germinate  from  those  elementary  feelings; 
and  fr^>m  the  necessary  character  of  [30 
rural  occupations,  are  more  easily  com- 
prehended, and  are  more s durable;  and, 
lastly,  because  in  that  condition  the  pas- 
sions of  men  are  incorporated  with  the 
beautiful  and  permanent  forms  of  na- 
ture. The  language,  too,  of  these  men 
has  been  adopted  (purified  indeed  from 
what  appear  to  be  its  real  defects,  from 
all  lasting  and  rational  causes  of  dislike 
or  disgust)  because  such  men  hourly  [40 
communicate  with  the  best  objects  from 
which  the  best  part  of  language  is  orig- 
inally derived;  and  because,  from  their 


rank  in  society  and  the  sameness  and 
narrow  circle  of  their  intercourse,  being 
less  under  the  influence  of  social  vanity, 
they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions 
in  simple  and  unelaborated  expressions. 
Accordingly  such  a  language,  arising  out 
of  repeated  experience  and  regular  [50 
feelings,  is  a  more  permanent,  and  a  far 
more  philosophical  language,  than  that 
which  is  frequently  substituted  for  it  by 
poets,  who  think  that  they  are  conferring 
honor  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in 
proportion  as  they  separate  themselves 
from  the  sympathies  of  men,  and  indulge 
in  arbitrary'  and  capricious  habits  of  ex- 
pression, in  order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle 
tastes,  and  fickle  appetites,  of  their  [60 
own  creation. 

I  cannot,  however,  be  insensible  to  the 
present  outcry  against  the  triviality  and 
meanness,  both  of  thought  and  language, 
which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have  oc- 
casionally introduced  into  their  metrical 
compositions;  and  I  acknowledge  that 
this  defect,  where  it  exists,  is  more  dis- 
honorable to  the  writer's  own  character 
than  false  refinement  or  arbitrary  in-  [70 
novation,  though  I  should  contend  at  the 
same  time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious  in 
the  sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such 
verses  the  poems  in  these  volumes  will  be 
found  distinguished  at  least  by  one  mark 
of  difference,  that  each  of  them  has  a 
worthy  purpose.  Not  that  I  always  be- 
gan to  write  with  a  distinct  purpose 
formally  conceived;  but  habits  of  medi- 
tation have,  I  trust,  so  prompted  and  [80 
regulated  'my  feelings,  that  my  descrip- 
tions of  such  objects  as  strongly  excite 
those  feelings,  will  be  found  to  carry 
along  with  them  a  purpose.  If  this  opinion 
is  erroneous,  I  can  have  little  right  to  the 
name  of  a  poet.  For  all  good  poetry  is 
the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful 
feelings:  and  though  this  be  true,  poems 
to  which  any  value  can  be  attached  were 
never  produced  on  any  variety  of  sub-  [90 
jects  but  by  a  man,  who,  being  possessed 
of   more   than   usual   organic   sensibility, 


389 


390 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


had  also  thought  long  and  deeply.  For 
our  continued  influxes  of  feeling  are 
modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts, 
which  are  indeed  the  representatives  of 
all  our  past  feelings;  and,  as  by  contem- 
plating the  relation  of  these  general 
representatives  to  each  other,  we  discover 
what  is  really  important  to  men,  so,  [ioo 
by  the  repetition  and  continuance  of 
this  act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected 
with  important  subjects,  till  at  length, 
if  we  be  originally  possessed  of  much 
sensibility,  such  habits  of  mind  will  be 
produced,  that,  by  obeying  blindly  and 
mechanically  the  impulses  of  those  habits, 
we  shall  describe  objects,  and  utter  senti- 
ments, of  such  a  nature,  and  in  such  con- 
nection with  each  other,  that  the  un-  [no 
derstanding  of  the  reader  must  neces- 
sarily be  in  some  degree  enlightened,  and 
his  affection  strengthened  and  purified. 

It  has  been  said  that  each  of  these 
poems  has  a  purpose.  Another  circum- 
stance must  be  mentioned  which  dis- 
tinguishes these  poems  from  the  popular 
poetry  of  the  day;  it  is  this,  that  the  feeling 
therein  developed  gives  importance  to 
the  action  and  situation,  and  not  the  [120 
action  and  situation  to  the  feeling. 

A  sense  of  false  modesty  shall  not  pre- 
vent me  from  asserting,  that  the  reader's 
attention  is  pointed  to  this  mark  of  dis- 
tinction, far  less  for  the  sake  of  these  par- 
ticular poems  than  from  the  general  im- 
portance of  the  subject.  The  subject  is 
indeed  important!  For  the  human  mind 
is  capable  of  being  excited  without  the 
application  of  gross  and  violent  stimu-  [130 
lants;  and  he  must  have  a  very  faint 
perception  of  its  beauty  and  dignity  who 
does  not  know  this,  and  who  does  not 
further  know,  that  one  being  is  elevated 
above  another,  in  proportion  as  he  pos- 
sesses this  capability.  It  has  therefore 
appeared  to  me,  that  to  endeavor  to  pro- 
duce or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of 
the  best  services  in  which,  at  any  period, 
a  writer  can  be  engaged;  but  this  [140 
service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  especially 
so  at  the  present  day.  For  a  multitude 
of  causes,  unknown  to  former  times,  are 
now  acting  with  a  combined  force  to  blunt 
the  discriminating  powers  of  the  mind, 
and,  unfitting  it  for  all  voluntary  exertion, 


to  reduce  it  to  a  state  of  almost  savage 
torpor.  The  most  effective  of  these  causes 
are  the  great  national  events  which  are 
daily  taking  place,  and  the  increasing  [150 
accumulation  of  men  in  cities,  where  the 
uniformity  of  their  occupations  produces 
a  craving  for  extraordinary  incident, 
which  the  rapid  communication  of  intel- 
ligence hourly  gratifies.  To  this  ten- 
dency of  life  and  manners  the  literature 
and  theatrical  exhibitions  of  the  country 
have  conformed  themselves.  The  invalu- 
able works  of  our  elder  writers,  I  had 
almost  said  the  works  of  Shakespeare  [160 
and  Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by 
frantic  novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German 
tragedies,  and  deluges  of  idle  and  ex- 
travagant stories  in  verse. — When  I 
think  upon  this  degrading  thirst  after 
outrageous  stimulation,  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  have  spoken  of  the  feeble 
endeavor  made  in  these  volumes  to  coun- 
teract it;  and,  reflecting  upon  the  mag- 
nitude of  the  general  evil,  I  should  be  [170 
oppressed  with  no  dishonorable  melan- 
choly, had  I  not  a  deep  impression  of  cer- 
tain inherent  and  indestructible  qualities 
of  the  human  mind,  and  likewise  of  cer- 
tain powers  in  the  great  and  permanent 
objects  that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally 
inherent  and  indestructible;  and  were 
there  not  added  to  this  impression  a 
belief  that  the  time  is  approaching  when 
the  evil  will  be  systematically  opposed,  [180 
by  men  of  greater  powers,  and  with  far 
more  distinguished  success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects 
and  aim  of  these  poems,  I  shall  request  the 
reader's  permission  to  apprise  him  of  a 
few  circumstances  relating  to  their  style, 
in  order,  among  other  reasons,  that  he 
may  not  censure  me  for  not  having  per- 
formed what  I  never  attempted.  The 
reader  will  find  that  personifications  [190 
of  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur  in  these 
volumes;  and  are  utterly  rejected  as  an 
ordinary  device  to  elevate  the  style,  and 
raise  it  above  prose.  My  purpose  was  to 
imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to  adopt 
the  very  language  of  men;  and  assuredly 
such  personifications  do  not  make  any 
natural  or  regular  part  of  that  language. 
They  are,  indeed,  a  figure  of  speech  oc- 
casionally prompted  by  passion,  and  [200 


WORDSWORTH 


39i 


I  have  made  use  of  them  as  such;  but  I 
have  endeavored  utterly  to  reject  them 
as  a  mechanical  device  of  style,  or  as  a 
family  language  which  writers  in  meter 
seem  to  lay  claim  to  by  prescription.  I 
have  wished  to  keep  the  reader  in  the 
company  of  flesh  and  blood,  persuaded 
that  by  so  doing  I  shall  interest  him. 
Others  who  pursue  a  different  track  will 
interest  him  likewise;  I  do  not  inter-  [210 
fere  with  their  claim,  but  wish  to  prefer  a 
claim  of  my  own.  There  will  also  be  found 
in  these  pieces  little  of  what  is  usually 
called  poetic  diction;  as  much  pains  has 
been  taken  to  avoid  it  as  is  ordinarily 
taken  to  produce  it;  this  has  been  done 
for  the  reason  already  alleged,  to  bring 
my  language  near  to  the  language  of 
men,  and  further,  because  the  pleasure 
which  I  have  proposed  to  myself  to  [220 
impart,  is  of  a  kind  very  different  from 
that  which  is  supposed  by  many  persons  to 
be  the  proper  object  of  poetry.  Without 
being  culpably  particular,  I  do  not  know 
how  to  give  my  reader  a  more  exact  no- 
tion of  the  style  in  which  it  was  my  wish 
and  intention  to  write,  than  by  inform- 
ing him  that  I  have  at  all  times  endeavored 
to  look  steadily  at  my  subject;  conse- 
quently there  is,  I  hope,  in  these  [230 
poems  little  falsehood  of  description,  and 
my  ideas  are  expressed  in  language  fitted 
to  their  respective  importance.  Some- 
thing must  have  been  gained  by  this 
practice,  as  it  is  friendly  to  one  property 
of  all  good  poetry,  namely,  good  sense; 
but  it  has  necessarily  cut  me  off  from  a 
large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures  of 
speech  which  from  father  to  son  have 
long  been  regarded  as  the  common  [240 
inheritance  of  poets.  I  have  also  thought 
it  expedient  to  restrict  myself  still  further, 
having  abstained  from  the  use  of  many 
expressions,  in  themselves  proper  and 
beautiful,  but  which  have  been  foolishly 
repeated  by  bad  poets,  till  such  feelings  of 
disgust  are  connected  with  them  as  it  is 
scarcely  possible  by  any  art  of  association 
to  overpower. 

I  have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spon-  [250 
taneous  overflow  of  powerful  feelings; 
it  takes  its  origin  from  emotion  recol- 
lected in  tranquillity;  the  emotion  is  con- 


templated, till,  by  a  species  of  reaction, 
the  tranquillity  gradually  disappears,  and 
an  emotion,  kindred  to  that  which  was 
before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is 
gradually  produced,  and  does  itself  ac- 
tually exist  in  the  mind.  In  this  mood  suc- 
cessful composition  generally  begins,  [260 
and  in  a  mood  similar  to  this  it  is  carried 
on;  but  the  emotion  of  whatever  kind, 
and  in  whatever  degree,  from  various 
causes,  is  qualified  by  various  pleasures, 
so  that  in  describing  any  passions  what- 
soever, which  are  voluntarily  described, 
the  mind  will,  upon  the  whole,  be  in  a 
state  of  enjoyment.  If  nature  be  thus 
cautious  to  preserve  in  a  state  of  enjoyment 
a  being  so  employed,  the  poet  ought  [270 
to  profit  by  the  lesson  held  forth  to  him, 
and  ought  especially  to  take  care,  that, 
whatever  passions  he  communicates  to 
his  reader,  those  passions,  if  his  reader's 
mind  be  sound  and  vigorous,  should  al- 
ways be  accompanied  with  an  overbal- 
ance of  pleasure.  Now  the  music  of 
harmonious  metrical  language,  the  sense 
of  difficulty  overcome,  and  the  blind  asso- 
ciation of  pleasure  which  has  been  [280 
previously  received  from  works  of  rime  or 
meter  of  the  same  or  similar  construction, 
an  indistinct  perception  perpetually  re- 
newed of  language  closely  resembling 
that  of  real  life,  and  yet,  in  the  circum- 
stance of  meter,  differing  from  it  so 
widely — all  these  imperceptibly  make  up  a 
complex  feeling  of  delight,  which  is  of  the 
most  important  use  in  tempering  the 
painful  feeling  which  is  always  found  [290 
intermingled  with  powerful  descriptions 
of  the  deeper  passions.  This  effect  is 
always  produced  in  pathetic  and  impas- 
sioned poetry;  while,  in  lighter  composi- 
tions, the  ease  and  gracefulness  with 
which  the  poet  manages  his  numbers  are 
themselves  confessedly  a  principal  source 
of  the  gratification  of  the  reader.  All 
that  it  is  necessary  to  say,  however,  upon 
this  subject,  may  be  effected  by  af-  [300 
firming,  what  few  persons  will  deny,  that, 
of  two  descriptions,  either  of  passions, 
manners,  or  characters,  each  of  them 
equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  prose 
and  the  other  in  verse,  the  verse  will  be 
read  a  hundred  times  where  the  prose  is 
read  once. 


392 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes, 

While  in  a  grove  I  sat  reclined. 

In     that    sweet    mood     when     pleasant 

thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link  5 

The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through   primrose    tufts,    in   that   green 

bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths;  10 

And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure: 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made     15 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 

To  catch  the  breezy  air; 

And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there.  20 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man? 


EXPOSTULATION  AND   REPLY 

"Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone, 
Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a  day, 
Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone, 
And  dream  your  time  away? 

"Where  are  your  books? — that  light  be- 
queathed 5 
To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind! 
Up!  up!  and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

"You     look     round    on     your    Mother 

Earth, 
As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ;  10 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 
And  none  had  lived  before  you!" 


One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 
When  life  was  sweet,  I  knew  not  why, 
To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake,  15 
And  thus  I  made  reply: 

"The  eye — it  cannot  choose  but  see; 
We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still; 
Our  bodies  feel,  where'er  they  be, 
Against  or  with  our  will.  20 

"Nor  less  I  deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress; 
That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a  wise  passiveness. 

"Think  you,  'mid  all  this  mighty  sum     25 
Of  things  forever  speaking, 
That  nothing  of  itself  will  come, 
But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

" — Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone, 
Conversing  as  I  may,  30 

I  sit  upon  this  old  grey  stone, 
And  dream  my  time  away." 


THE  TABLES  TURNED 

An  Evening  Scene  on  the  same  Subject 

Up!  up!  my  friend,  and  quit  your  books; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double: 
Up!  up!  my  friend,  and  clear  your  looks; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head,       5 
A  freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 
His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books!  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife: 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet,  10 

How  sweet  his  music!  on  my  life 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark!  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings! 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher: 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things,        15 
Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness.  20 


WORDSWORTH 


393 


One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings;    25 
Our  meddling  intellect 
Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things : — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art; 
Close  up  those  barren  leaves;  30 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


LINES  COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES 
ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON  RE- 
VISITING THE  BANKS  OF  THE 
WYE  DURING  A  TOUR 

July  13,  1798 

Five  years  have  past;  five  summers,  with 
the  length 
Of  five  long  winters !  and  again  I  hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain- 
springs 
With  a  soft  inland  murmur. — Once  again 
Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs,  5 
That  on  a  wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ;  and  con- 
nect 
The    landscape    with    the    quiet    of    the 

sky. 
The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These    plots    of    cottage-ground,     these 
orchard-tufts,  n 

Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe 

fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  them- 
selves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.    Once  again  I  see 
These  hedgerows,  hardly  hedgerows,  little 
lines  1 5 

Of  sportive  wood  run  wild:  these  pastoral 

farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of 

smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees! 
With   some   uncertain   notice,    as   might 
seem 


Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  hermit's  cave,  where  by  his 

fire  21 

The  hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 
Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been 

tome 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye: 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din  25 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt   in   the   blood,  and   felt   along   the 

heart ; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings  too  30 
Of  unremembered  pleasure:  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift,  36 
Of    aspect    more    sublime;    that    blessed 

mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world,  40 

Is    lightened: — that    serene    and    blessed 

mood 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep    45 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the 

power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh!  how  oft—  50 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 
Have   hung    upon    the    beatings   of   my 

heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee,  55 
O  sylvan  Wye!  thou  wanderer  through  the 

woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee! 
And   now,   with  gleams  of  half-extin- 
guished thought, 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 
And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity,  60 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 
While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 


394 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Of  present  pleasure,   but   with   pleasing 

thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.    And  so  I  dare  to  hope,  65 
Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what 

I  was  when  first 
I  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 
I   bounded  o'er  the  mountains,   by  the 

sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led:  more  like  a  man     70 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads, 

than  one 
Who   sought   the   thing   he   loved.      For 

nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days, 
And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone 

by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint      75 
What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion;  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy 

wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to 

me 
An  appetite;  a  feeling  and  a  love,  80 

[(.That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is 

past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Not  for  this  85 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur;  other 

gifts 
Have   followed;   for   such   loss,   I   would 

believe, 
Abundant     recompense.       For     I     have 

learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth;  but  hearing  often- 
times 90 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample 

power 
To   chasten    and    subdue.     And    I    have 
J  felt 

A  presence   that   disturbs   me  with   the 

joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime,  95 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose   dwelling   is  the   light  of   setting 

suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 


A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels  100 

All    thinking    things,    all    objects   of    all 

thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore 

am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  be- 
hold 
From  this  green  earth;  of  all  the  mighty 

world  105 

Of  eye,  and  ear, — both  what  they  half 

create, 
And  what  perceive;  well  pleased  to  recog- 
nize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the 

nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and 

soul  IIO 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 
If  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the 

more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river;  thou  my  dearest  friend, 
My  dear,  dear  friend;  and  in  thy  voice  I 

catch  116 

The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and 

read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.    Oh !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once,  120 
My  dear,  dear  sister!  and  this  prayer  I 

make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to 

lead 
From  joy  to  joy:  for  she  can  so  inform  125 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With   lofty   thoughts,    that   neither   evil 

tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish 

men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor 

all  130 

The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb    V 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  be-j 

hold 
Is   full   of  blessings.     Therefore  let   the 

moon 


WORDSWORTH 


395 


Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk;         135 
And    let    the    misty   mountain-winds   be 

free 
To  blow  against  thee:  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure;  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms,  140 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  oh! 

then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing 

thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me,  145 
And  these  my  exhortations!     Nor,  per- 
chance— 
If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 
Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes 

these  gleams 
Of  past  existence — wilt  thou  then  forget 
That    on    the    banks    of    this    delightful 

stream  150 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 
A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service:  rather  say 
With  warmer  love — oh!  with  far  deeper 

zeal 
Of  holier  love.    Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 
That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty 

cliffs,  157 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were 

to  me 
More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for 

thy  sake! 


LUCY  GRAY;  OR,  SOLITUDE 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray: 
And,  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
— The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 


"To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light  15 

Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"That,  Father!  will  I  gladly  do: 

'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 

The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 

And  yonder  is  the  moon!"  20 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band; 
He  plied  his  work; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe:  25 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time: 
She  wandered  up  and  down ;  30 

And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb: 
But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight    35 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  daybreak  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  moor; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A  furlong  from  their  door.  40 

They     wept — and,     turning     homeward, 

cried, 
"In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet;" 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then   downwards   from   the   steep   hill's 
edge  45 

They  tracked  the  footmarks  small; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone- wall; 


And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed: 
The  marks  were  still  the  same; 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 


so 


They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank;  55 

And  further  there  were  none! 


30 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild.  60 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


SHE    DWELT    AMONG    THE    UN- 
TRODDEN WAYS 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love: 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  < 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be;  ic 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 
The  difference  to  me! 


THREE  YEARS  SHE  GREW 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower, 
Then  Nature  said,  "A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown; 
This  child  I  to  myself  will  take; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make  5 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

"Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower,io 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn, 

Or  up  the  mountain  springs;  15 

And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 

Of  mute  insensate  things. 

"The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend;  20 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 


Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

"The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear      25 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where    rivulets    dance    their    wayward 

round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face.  30 

"And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live  35 

Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 
This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene;  40 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


A  SLUMBER  DID  MY  SPIRIT  SEAL 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal; 

I  had  no  human  fears: 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force;         5 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course, 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 


THE  PRELUDE 

From  Book  I 

Childhood  and  Schooltime 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a  mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twi- 
light gloom, 
I  heeded  not  their  summons:  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us — for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture!     Clear  and 


loud 


43° 


WORDSWORTH 


397 


The  village  clock  tolled  six, — I  wheeled 

about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.     All  shod 

with  steel, 
We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase        435 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding 

horn, 
The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted 

hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we 

flew, 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle;  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud;         440 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the 

stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the 

west  445 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 
Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous 

throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star  450 

That   fled,   and,   flying   still   before   me, 

gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain;  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came    sweeping    through    the    darkness, 

spinning  still  455 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had 

rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round !  460 
Behind  me  did   they  stretch  in  solemn 

train, 
Feebler   and   feebler,    and   I    stood   and 

watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep. 

From  Book  IX 

Residence  in  France 

France  lured  me  forth;  the  realm  that  I 
had  crossed 
So  lately,  journeying  toward  the  snow- 
clad  Alps.  35 


But  now,  relinquishing  the  scrip  and  staff, 
And  all  enjoyment  which  the  summer  sun 
Sheds  round  the  steps  of  those  who  meet 

the  day 

With  motion  constant  as  his  own,  I  went 

Prepared  to  sojourn  in  a  pleasant  town,  40 

Washed  by  the  current  of  the  stately  Loire. 

Through  Paris  lay  my  readiest  course, 

and  there 
Sojourning  a  few  days,  I  visited 
In  haste,  each  spot  of  old  or  recent  fame. 

$  $  ♦  ♦  ♦  # 

Where  silent  zephyrs  sported  with  the 

dust 
Of  the  Bastille,  I  sate  in  the  open  sun, 
And  from  the  rubbish  gathered  up  a  stone, 
And  pocketed  the  relic,  in  the  guise  70 

Of  an  enthusiast:  yet,  in  honest  truth, 
I  looked  for  something  that  I  could  not 

find, 
Affecting  more  emotion  than  I  felt; 
For  'tis  most  certain,  that  these  various 

sights, 
However  potent   their  first  shock,   with 

me  7s 

Appeared   to  recompense   the   traveller's 

pains 
Less  than  the  painted  Magdalene  of  Le 

Brun, 
A  beauty  exquisitely  wrought,  with  hair 
Dishevelled,   gleaming   eyes,    and   rueful 

cheek 
Pale    and    bedropped    with    overflowing 

tears.  80 


I  stood  'mid  those  concussions,  uncon- 
cerned, 

Tranquil  almost,  and  careless  as  a  flower 

Glassed    in   a   green-house,    or   a   parlor 
shrub 

That   spreads   its   leaves   in   unmolested 
peace, 

While  every  bush  and  tree,  the  country 
through,  90 

Is  shaking  to  the  roots. 

****** 

A  band  of  military  Officers,  1 2 5 

Then  stationed  in  the  city,  were  the  chief 
Of   my   associates:   some  of   these   wore 

swords 
That  had  been  seasoned  in  the  wars,  and 

all 


39§ 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Were    men    well-born;    the    chivalry    of 

France. 
In  age  and   temper  differing,   they  had 
yet  130 

One  spirit  ruling  in  each  heart;  alike 
(Save  only  one,  hereafter  to  be  named) 
Were  bent  upon  undoing  what  was  done: 
This  was  their  rest  and  only  hope;  there- 
with 
No  fear  had  they  of  bad  becoming  worse, 
For  bad  to  them  was  come;  nor  would 
have  stirred,  136 

Or  deemed  it  worth  a  moment's  thought  to 

stir, 
In  anything,  save  only  as  the  act 
Looked  thitherward.     One,  reckoning  by 

years, 
Was  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  and  ere- 
while  140 

He  had  sate  lord  in  many  tender  hearts; 
Though  heedless  of  such  honors  now,  and 

changed : 
His  temper  was  quite  mastered  by  the 

times, 
And  they  had  blighted  him,  had  eaten 

away 
The  beauty  of  his  person,  doing  wrong  145 
Alike  to  body  and  to  mind:  his  port, 
Which   once   had   been  erect   and   open, 

now 
Was  stooping  and  contracted,  and  a  face 
Endowed  by  Nature  with  her  fairest  gifts 
Of  symmetry  and  light  and  bloom,  ex- 
pressed, 150 
As  much  as  any  that  was  ever  seen, 
A  ravage  out  of  season,  made  by  thoughts 
Unhealthy  and  vexatious.  .  .  . 

'Twas  in  truth  an  hour 
Of  universal  ferment ;  mildest  men 
Were  agitated;  and  commotions,  strife 
Of  passion  and  opinion,  filled  the  walls 
Of  peaceful  houses  with  unquiet  sounds.  165 
The  soil  of  life  was,  at  that  time, 
Too  hot  to  tread  upon. 


Along    that    very    Loire,    with    festal 
mirth  431 

Resounding  at  all  hours,  and  innocent  yet 
Of  civil  slaughter,  was  our  frequent  walk. 
.  .  .  And  when  we  chanced 
One  day  to  meet  a  hunger-bitten  girl,  510 
Who  crept  along  fitting  her  languid  gait 
Unto  a  heifer's  motion,  by  a  cord 


Tied  to  her  arm,  and  picking  thus  from 

the  lane 
Its  sustenance,  while  the  girl  with  pallid 

hands 
Was  busy  knitting  in  a  heartless  mood  515 
Of  solitude,  and  at  the  sight  my  friend 
In  agitation  said,  "  'Tis  against  that 
That  we  are  fighting,"  I  with  him  believed 
That  a  benignant  spirit  was  abroad 
Which    might    not    be    withstood,    that 

poverty  520 

Abject  as  this  would  in  a  little  time 
Be  found  no  more,  that  we  should  see  the 

earth 
Unthwarted  in  her  wish  to  recompense 
The  meek,  the  lowly,  patient  child  of  toil, 
All  institutes  for  ever  blotted  out  525 

That  legalised  exclusion,  empty  pomp 
Abolished,  sensual  state  and  cruel  power 
Whether  by  edict  of  the  one  or  few; 
And  finally,  as  sum  and  crown  of  all, 
Should  see  the  people  having  a  strong 

hand  530 

In  framing  their  own  laws;  whence  better 

days 
To  all  mankind. 

From  Book  X 
Residence  in  France  {continued) 

Cheered  with  this  hope,  to  Paris  I  re-  j 

turned, 

And  ranged,  with  ardor  heretofore  unfelt, 
The  spacious  city,  and  in  progress  passed 
The  prison  where  the  unhappy  Monarch  ! 

lay,  51 

Associate  with  his  children  and  his  wife 
In  bondage;  and  the  palace,  lately  stormed 
With  roar  of  cannon  by  a  furious  host. 
I  crossed  the  square  (an  empty  area  then!) 
Of  the  Carrousel,  where  so  late  had  lain  56 
The  dead,  upon  the  dying  heaped,  and 

gazed 
On  this  and  other  spots,  as  doth  a  man 
Upon  a  volume  whose  contents  he  knows 
Are  memorable,  but  from  him  locked  up, 
Being  written  in  a  tongue  he  cannot  read, 
So   that   he   questions    the    mute   leaves 

with  pain,  62 

And  half  upbraids  their  silence.    But  that 

night 
I  felt  most  deeply  in  what  world  I  was, 
What  ground   I   trod  on,   and  what  air 

I  breathed.  65 


WORDSWORTH 


399 


High  was  my  room  and  lonely,  near  the 

roof 
Of  a  large  mansion  or  hotel,  a  lodge 
That  would  have  pleased  me  in  more  quiet 

times; 
Nor  was  it  wholly  without  pleasure  then. 
With  unextinguished  taper  I  kept  watch, 
Reading  at  intervals;  the  fear  gone  by     71 
Pressed  on  me  almost  like  a  fear  to  come. 
I  thought  of  those  September  massacres, 
Divided  from  me  by  one  little  month, 
Saw  them  and  touched:  the  rest  was  con- 
jured up  75 
From  tragic  fictions  or  true  history, 
Remembrances  and  dim  admonishments. 
The  horse  is  taught  his  manage,  and  no 

star 
Of  wildest  course  but  treads  back  his  own 

steps ; 
For  the  spent  hurricane  the  air  provides  80 
As  fierce  a   successor;   the   tide   retreats 
But  to  return  out  of  its  hiding-place 
In  the  great  deep;  all  things  have  second 

birth; 
The  earthquake  is  not  satisfied  at  once; 
And  in  this  way  I  wrought  upon  myself,  85 
Until  I  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  that  cried, 
To    the   whole   city,    "Sleep    no    more." 

The  trance 
Fled  with  the  voice  to  which  it  had  given 

birth; 
But  vainly  comments  of  a  calmer  mind 
Promised  soft  peace  and  sweet  forgetful- 

ness.  90 

The  place,  all  hushed  and  silent  as  it  was, 
Appeared  unfit  for  the  repose  of  night, 
Defenceless  as  a  wood  where  tigers  roam. 

MICHAEL 

A  PASTORAL  POEM 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your 

steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Greenhead 

Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright 

path 
Your   feet   must   struggle;   in   such   bold 

ascent 
The  pastoral  mountains  front  you  face  to 

face.  5 

But  courage!  for  around  that  boisterous 

brook 


The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  them- 
selves, 
And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 
No  habitation  can  be  seen:  but  they 
Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone 
With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones, 

and  kites  n 

That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 
It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 
Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this 

Dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass 

by,  m  _         is 

Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside   the 

brook 
Appears    a    straggling    heap    of    unhewn 

stones ! 
And  to  that  simple  object  appertains 
A  story,  unenriched  with  strange  events, 
Yet  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside,       20 
Or  for  the  summer  shade.    It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I  already  loved;  not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and 

hills  25 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 
And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy 
Careless   of   books,   yet   having   felt   the 

power 
Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel        30 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and 

think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 
On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human 

life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a  history 
Homely  and  rude,  I  will  relate  the  same  35 
For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts; 
And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  Poets  who  among  these  hills 
Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  Shepherd,  Michael  was  his 

name ;  41 

An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of 

limb. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to 

age 
Of  an  unusual  strength:  his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs,      45 
And    in    his    shepherd's    calling    he    was 

prompt 


400 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all 

winds, 
Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes, 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the 
South  50 

Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 
The   Shepherd,   at  such  warning,  of  his 

flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would 

say, 
' '  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me!" 
And  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm,  that 
drives  56 

The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains;  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 
That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the 
heights.  60 

So  lived  he  till   his   eightieth  year  was 

past. 
And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should 

suppose 
That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams 

and  rocks, 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd's 

thoughts. 
Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had 
breathed  65 

The  common  air;  hills,  which  with  vigor- 
ous step 
He  had  so  often  climbed;  which  had  im- 
pressed 
So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear; 
Which  like  a  book  preserved  the  memory 
Of     the    dumb    animals    whom    he    had 
saved,  71 

Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts, 
The  certainty  of  honorable  gain; 
Those  fields,  those  hills — what  could  they 

less? — had  laid 
Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love,         76 
The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 
His  days  had  not  been  passed  in  single- 
ness. 
His  helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty 
years.  80 

She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 
Whose  heart  was  in  her  house :  two  wheels 
she  had 


Of  antique  form,  this  large  for  spinning 

wool, 
That  small  for  flax;  and  if  one  wheel  had 

rest, 
j  It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work.     85 
j  The  pair  had   but   one  inmate  in  their 

house, 
An  only  child,  who  had   been    born   to 

them 
When    Michael,    telling    o'er    his    years, 

began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's 

phrase, 
With  one  foot  in  the  grave.     This  only 

son,  90 

With  two  brave  sheep-dogs  tried  in  many 

a  storm, 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 
Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly 

say, 
That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 
For   endless   industry.      When   day   was 

gone,  95 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
The  son  and  father  were  come  home,  even 

then, 
Their  labor  did  not  cease;  unless  when 

all 
Turned  to  the  cleanly  supper-board,  and 

there, 
Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed 

milk,  100 

Sat  round   the  basket  piled  with  oaten 

cakes, 
And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.    Yet 

when  the  meal 
Was   ended,  Luke   (for  so   the   son  was 

named) 
And   his  old   father  both  betook   them- 
selves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side;  perhaps  to 

card  106 

Wool  for  the  housewife's  spindle,  or  re- 
pair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 
Down  from  the  ceiling  by  the  chimney's 

edge  no 

That    in    our    ancient    uncouth    country 

style 
With    huge   and    black   projection    over- 
browed 
Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 


WORDSWORTH 


401 


Of  day  grew  dim  the  housewife  hung  a 

lamp; 
An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed  115 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 
Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late, 
Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours, 
Which  going  by  from  year  to  year  had 

found 
And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with 

hopes,  121 

Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 
And  now,   when  Luke  had  reached  his 

eighteenth  year, 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they 

sat, 
Father  and  son,  while  far  into  the  night 
The    housewife   plied   her   own    peculiar 

work,  126 

Making   the  cottage   through   the  silent 

hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer 

flies. 
This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighbor- 
hood, 
And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life       130 
That  thrifty  pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it 

chanced, 
Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north 

and  south, 
High    into    Easedale,    up    to    Dunmail- 

Raise, 
And   westward   to   the   village   near   the 

lake;  135 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale, 
Both   old   and   young,   was   named   The 

Evening  Star. 
Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of 

years  140 

The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must 

needs 
Have   loved   his   helpmate;   but   to   Mi- 
chael's heart 
This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more 

dear — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Fond  spirit  that  blindly  works  in  the  blood 

of  all —  145 

Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other 

gifts 
That  earth  can  offer  to  declining  man, 


Brings  hope  with  it;  and  forward  looking 

thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail.   1  so 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy!  For  often- 
times 
Old  Michael,  while  he  was  a  babe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use     155 
Of  fathers,   but   with  patient   mind   en- 
forced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  as  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had   put   on   boy's   attire,   did   Michael 

love,  160 

Albeit  of  a  stern  unbending  mind, 
To  have  the  young  one  in  his  sight,  when 

he 
Wrought  in  the  field,  or  on  his  shepherd's 

stool 
Sat   with   a   fettered   sheep   before   him 

stretched, 
Under  the  large  old  oak,  that  near  his 

door  165 

Stood  single,  and,  from  matchless  depth 

of  shade, 
Chosen  for  the  shearer's  covert  from  the 

sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it 

bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the 

shade,  170 

With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and 

blithe, 
Would  Michael   exercise  his  heart  with 

looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,   or  with  his 

shouts  175 

Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath 

the  shears. 
And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the 

boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old, 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he 

hooped  181 

With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a  perfect  shepherd's  staff, 


402 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And    gave    it    to    the    boy;    wherewith 
equipped 

He  as  a  watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 

At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock; 

And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called,     187 

There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 

Something  between   a   hindrance   and   a 
help; 

And   for  this  course  not  always,   I  be- 
lieve, 190 

Receiving  from  his  father  hire  of  praise; 

Though  nought  was  left  undone  which 
staff  or  voice, 

Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could 
perform. 
But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old, 
could  stand 

Against  the  mountain  blasts;  and  to  the 
heights,    _  195 

Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 

He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 

Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 

That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved 
before 

Were  dearer  now?  that  from  the  boy  there 
came  200 

Feelings   and   emanations — things   which 
were 

Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind; 

And  that  the  old  man's  heart  seemed  born 
again? 

Thus  in  his  father's  sight  the  boy  grew  up; 

And  now  when  he  had  reached  his  eight- 
eenth year,  205 

He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 
While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household 
lived 

From  day  to  day,  to  Michael's  ear  there 
came 

Distressful  tidings.    Long  before  the  time 

Of  which  I  speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been 
bound  210 

In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 

Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means; 

But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 

Had  pressed  upon  him;  and  old  Michael 
now 

Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfei- 
ture, 215 

A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 

Than  half  his  substance.    This  unlooked 
for  claim 

At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 

More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 


That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost.  220 
As  soon  as  he  had  armed  himself  with 

strength 
To  look  his  trouble  in  the  face,  it  seemed 
The  Shepherd's  sole  resource  to  sell  at 

once 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first   resolve;   he   thought 

again,  225 

And  his  heart  failed  him.     "Isabel,"  said 

he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy 

years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 
Have  we  all  lived;  yet  if  these  fields  of 

ours  230 

Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 
That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 
Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 
Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I; 
And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last        235 
To  my  own  family.    An  evil  man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false, 
There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like 

this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.    I  forgive  him — but 
'T  were  better  to  be  dumb,  than  to  talk 

thus.  241 

When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 
Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel;  the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 
He  shall  possess  it  free  as  is  the  wind  246 
That   passes   over   it.     We   have,    thou 

know'st, 
Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.    He  is  a  prosperous  man, 
Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall 

go,       m  2So 

And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own 

thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
He  may  return  to  us.    If  here  he  stay, 
What  can  be  done?    Where  every  one  is 

poor, 
What  can  be  gained?  "  255 

At  this  the  old  man  paused, 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 
There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to 

herself, 
He  was  a  parish-boy — at  the  church-door 


WORDSWORTH 


403 


They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings, 

pence,  260 

And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neighbors 

bought 
A  basket,  which  they  filled  with  pedlar's 

wares ; 
And  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 
Who  out  of  many  chose  the  trusty  boy  265 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas:  where  he  grew  wondrous 

rich, 
And  left  estates  and  monies  to  the  poor, 
And  at  his  birthplace  built  a  chapel  floored 
With  marble  which  he  sent  from  foreign 

lands.  270 

These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like 

sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  old  man 

was  glad, 
And  thus  resumed: — "Well,  Isabel!  this 

scheme 
These  two  days  has  been  meat  and  drink 

to  me.  275 

Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
We  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger, — but  this  hope  is  a  good 

hope. 
Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the 

best 
Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him 

forth  280 

To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night: 

If  he  could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to-night." 

Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields 

went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  housewife  for 

five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day 

long  285 

Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  pre- 
pare 
Things   needful   for   the  journey   of   her 

son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work:  for,  when  she 

lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  last  two 

nights  290 

Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his 

sleep: 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could 

see 


That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.    That  day 

at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  them- 
selves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must  not 
go:  _  295 

We  have  no  other  child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away, 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  father  he  will  die." 
The  youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund 

voice; 
And    Isabel,    when    she    had    told    her 
fears,  300 

Recovered  heart.    That  evening  her  best 

fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 
With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work; 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  ap- 
peared 305 
As  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  spring:  at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman 

came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  boy; 
To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forth- 
with 310 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.    Ten  times  or 

more 
The  letter  was  read  over;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors 

round; 

Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 

A   prouder   heart    than    Luke's.      When 

Isabel  315 

Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  old  man 

said, 
"He  shall  depart  to-morrow."     To  this 

word 
The  housewife  answered,  talking  much  of 

things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.    But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at 
ease.  320 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green- 
head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  sheepfold;  and,  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss,  325 

For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's 

edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 


4°4 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he 

walked; 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he 

stopped,  330 

And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him: — 

"My  son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me:  with  full 

heart 
I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 
That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 
And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy.  335 
I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories;  't  will  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should 

touch 
On  things  thou  canst  not  know  of. — After 

thou 
First  cam'st  into  the  world — as  oft  befalls 
To   new-born   infants — thou   didst   sleep 

away  341 

Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  father's 

tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.    Day  by  day  passed 

on, 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fire- 
side 346 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural 

tune; 
While  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy 

joy 
Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.    Month  fol- 
lowed month, 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains;  else  I  think  that 

thou  351 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  father's 

knees. 
But  we  were   playmates,   Luke:   among 

these  hills, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and 

young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst 

thou  355 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart;  but  at  these 

words 
He  sobbed  aloud.    The  old  man  grasped 

his  hand 
And  said,  "Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not 

speak.  360 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 


A  kind  and  a  good  father:  and  herein 
I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 
Received  at  others'  hands;  for,  though  now 

old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still  365 
Remember  them  who  loved  me  in   my 

youth. 
Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they 

lived, 
As  all   their  forefathers   had   done;   and 

when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were 

not  loath 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould.  3  70 
I  wished  that  thou  should 'st  live  the  life 

they  lived. 
But  't  is  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  son, 
And   see   so   little  gain   from   threescore 

years. 
These  fields  were   burdened   when   they 

came  to  me; 
Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more    375 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 
I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my 

work, 
And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land 

was  free. 
It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another    master.      Heaven    forgive    me, 

Luke,  380 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 
That  thou  should'st  go." 

At  this  the  old  man  paused ; 
Then,  pointing  to  the  stones  near  which 

they  stood, 
Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed: 
"This  was  a  work  for  us;  and  now,  my 

son,  385 

It  is  a  work  for  me.    But  lay  one  stone- 
Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own 

hands. 
Nay,  boy,  be  of  good  hope; — we  both  may 

live 
To  see  a  better  day.    At  eighty-four 
I  still  am  strong  and  hale; — do  thou  thy 

part,    _  390 

I  will  do  mine. — I  will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to 

thee; 
Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the 

storms, 
Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All    works    which    I    was    wont    to    do 

alone,  395 


WORDSWORTH 


405 


Before  I  knew  thy  face. — Heaven  bless 

thee,  boy! 
Thy   heart    these    two   weeks   has   been 

beating  fast 
With  many  hopes;  it  should  be  so — yes — 

yes — 
I  knew  that  thou  could'st  never  have  a 

wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke:  thou  hast  been  bound 

to  me  400 

Only  by  links  of  love:   when   thou  art 

gone, 
What  will  be  left  to  us! — But  I  forget 
My  purposes.    Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 
As  I  requested;  and  hereafter,  Luke, 
When  thou  art  gone  away,  should   evil 

men  405 

Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  son, 
And   of   this   moment;   hither   turn    thy 

thoughts, 
And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all 

fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 
May'st  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers 

lived,  410 

Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.     Now,  fare 

thee  well — 
When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place 

wilt  see 
A  work  which  is  not  here:  a  covenant 
'T  will  be  between  us;  but,  whatever  fate 
Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last,  416 
And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the 

grave." 
The  Shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke 

stooped  down, 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  sheepfold.    At  the 

sight  420 

The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him;  to 

his  heart 
He  pressed  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and 

wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 
Hushed  wTas  that  house  in  peace,  or  seem- 
ing peace, 
Ere  the  night  fell; — with  morrow's  dawn 

the  boy  425 

Began   his   journey,    and   when   he   had 

reached 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face; 
And  all  the  neighbors,  as  he  passed  their 

doors, 


Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell 

prayers, 
That   followed   him   till   he   was   out   of 

sight.  430 

A  good  report  did  from  their  kinsman 

come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well  doing:  and  the  boy 
Wrote   loving    letters,    full   of   wondrous 

news, 
Which,  as  the  housewife  phrased  it,  were 

throughout 
"The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read   them   with   rejoicing 

hearts.  436 

So,  many  months  passed  on:  and  once 

again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;  and 

now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure 

hour  440 

He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought   at   the   sheepfold.      Meantime 

Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses:  ignominy  and  shame    445 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 
There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of 

love; 
'T  will  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the 

heart:  450 

I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who 

well 
Remember  the  old  man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to 

age  454 

Of  an  unusual  strength.    Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  to  sun  and 

cloud 
And  listened  to  the  wind;  and  as  before 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep, 
And  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  fold  of  which  461 
His  flock  had  need.    'T  is  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  old  man — and  't  is  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither 

went,  465 

And  never  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 


406 


THE  AGR  OF  ROMANTICISM 


There,  by  the  sheepfold,  sometimes  was 

he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  or  with  his  faithful  dog, 
Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 
The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time 

to  time,  470 

He    at    the    building    of    this    sheepfold 

wrought, 
And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 
Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  husband:  at  her  death  the 

estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  stranger's  hand. 
The  cottage  which  was  named  The  Evening 

Star  .   476 

Is  gone— the  ploughshare  has  been  through 

the  ground 
On  which  it  stood;  great  changes  have  been 

wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood: — yet  the  oak  is 

left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;  and  the  re- 
mains 480 
Of  the  unfinished  sheepfold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Greenhead 

Ghyll. 


MY    HEART    LEAPS    UP    WHEN    I 
BEHOLD 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky: 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old,  5 

Or  let  me  die! 
The  child  is  father  of  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 


RESOLUTION   AND   INDEPEND- 
ENCE 

There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods 
But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright 
The    birds    are    singing    in    the    distant 

woods: 
Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  stock-dove 

broods;  5 


The   jay   makes   answer   as   the   magpie 

chatters; 
And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise 

of  waters. 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of 

doors ; 
The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning's  birth; 
The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops; — on 

the  moors  10 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth; 
And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy 

earth 
Raises  a  mist,  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Runs  with  her  all  the  way   wherever  she 

doth  run. 

I  was  a  traveller  then  upon  the  moor;  15 
I  saw  the   hare   that  raced  about  with 

joy; 
I   heard   the  woods  and   distant  waters 

roar, 
Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a  boy: 
The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ : 
My    old    remembrances    went    from    me 
wholly;  20 

And  all  the  ways  of  men  so  vain  and  mel- 
ancholy. 

But,  as  it  sometimes  chanceth,  from  the 

might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go, 
As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low,         25 
To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so; 
And  fears,   and  fancies,   thick  upon  me 

came; 
Dim  sadness — and  blind  thoughts,  I  knew 

not,  nor  could  name. 

I  heard  the  sky-lark  warbling  in  the  sky; 
And  I  bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare:  30 
Even  such  a  happy  child  of  earth  am  I; 
Even    as    these    blissful    creatures    do    I 

fare; 
Far  from  the  world  I  walk,  and  from  all 

care; 
But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,    pain    of    heart,    distress,    and 

poverty.  35 

My  whole  life  I  have  lived  in  pleasant 

thought, 
As  if  life's  business  were  a  summer  mood; 


WORDSWORTH 


407 


As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  un- 
sought 

To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good; 

But  how  can  he  expect  that  others  should 

Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his 
call  41 

Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no 
heed  at  all? 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvelous 
boy, 

The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his 
pride; 

Of  him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy     45 

Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain- 
side: 

By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified: 

We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  glad- 
ness; 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency 
and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace,  50 
A  leading  from  above,  a  something  given, 
Yet  it  befell,  that,  in  this  lonely  place, 
When   I   with   these  untoward   thoughts 

had  striven, 
Beside  a  pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 
I  saw  a  man  before  me  unawares:  55 

The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore 

gray  hairs. 

As  a  huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 

Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence; 

Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy, 

By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and 
whence;  60 

So  that  it  seems  a  thing  endued  with 
sense: 

Like  a  sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a 
shelf 

Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  it- 
self; 

Such  seemed  this  man,  not  all  alive  nor 

dead, 
Nor  all  asleep — in  his  extreme  old  age:     65 
His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coming  together  in  life's  pilgrimage; 
As  if   some  dire   constraint  of  pain,   or 

rage 
Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 
A   more   than   human   weight    upon   his 

frame  had  cast.  70 


Himself  he  propped,  limbs,  body,  and  pale 

face, 
Upon  a  long  gray  staff  of  shaven  wood: 
And,   still    as   I   drew   near   with   gentle 

pace, 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a  cloud  the  old  man  stood; 
That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when 

they  call,  76 

And  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at  all. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff  and  fixedly  did  look 
Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned, 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a  book:  81 
And  now  a  stranger's  privilege  I  took; 
And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say 
"This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a 
glorious  day." 

A  gentle  answer  did  the  old  man  make,   85 

In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he 
slowly  drew: 

And  him  with  further  words  I  thus  be- 
spake, 

''What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue? 

This  is  a  lonesome  place  for  one  like 
you." 

Ere  he  replied,  a  flash  of  mild  surprise 

Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet  vivid 
eyes.  91 

His   words    came   feebly,   from   a   feeble 

chest, 
But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each, 
With    something    of    a    lofty    utterance 

dressed ; 
Choice  word,  and  measured  phrase,  above 

the  reach  9$ 

Of  ordinary  men;  a  stately  speech; 
Such  as  grave  Livers  do  in  Scotland  use, 
Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  man 

their  dues. 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 
To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor:  100 
Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome! 
And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure: 
From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor 

to  moor; 
Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice 

or  chance; 
And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  main- 
tenance. 105 


4o8 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


The  old  man  still  stood  talking  by  my 

side; 
But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a  stream 
Scarce  heard;  nor  word  from  word  could 

I  divide; 
And  the  whole  body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like  one  whom  I  had  met  with  in  a  dream ; 
Or  like  a  man  from  some  far  region  sent, 
To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  ad- 
monishment. 112 

My  former  thoughts  returned:  the  fear 

that  kills; 
And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed; 
Cold,  pain  and  labor,  and  all  fleshly  ills; 
And  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead. 
Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted, 
My  question  eagerly  did  I  renew,  118 

"How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it 

you  do?" 

He  with  a  smile  did  then  his  words  repeat ; 
And  said,  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and 

wide  121 

He  travelled;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 
The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 
"Once  I  could  meet  with  them  on  every 

side; 
But   they  have  dwindled   long  by   slow 

decay;  125 

Yet  still  I  persevere,  and  find  them  where 

I  may." 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely 
place, 

The  old  man's  shape,  and  speech,  all 
troubled   me: 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  seemed  to  see  him 
pace 

About  the  weary  moors  continually,     130 

Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 

While  I  these  thoughts  within  myself 
pursued, 

He,  having  made  a  pause,  the  same  dis- 
course renewed. 

And    soon    with    this    he    other    matter 

blended, 
Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanor  kind, 
But  stately  in  the  main;  and  when  he 

ended,  136 

I  could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn  to 

find 
In  that  decrepit  man  so  firm  a  mind. 


"God,"   said  I,   "be  my  help  and  stay 

secure; 
I'll   think   of   the  leech-gatherer  on   the 

lonely  moor!"  140 


YEW-TREES 

There  is  a  Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton 

Vale, 
Which  to  this  day  stands  single,  in  the 

midst 
Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of  yore; 
Not  loth  to  furnish  weapons  for  the  bands 
Of  Umfraville  or  Percy  ere  they  marched  5 
To    Scotland's    heaths;    or    those    that 

crossed  the  sea 
And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azin- 

cour, 
Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  Poictiers. 
Of  vast  circumference  and  gloom  profound 
This  solitary  Tree!  a  living  thing  10 

Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay; 
Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 
To    be    destroyed.      But    worthier    still 

of  note 
Are  those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined    in    one    solemn    and    capacious 

grove;  15 

Huge  trunks!  and  each  particular  trunk 

a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 
Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved; 
Nor  uninformed  with  Phantasy,  and  looks 
That   threaten   the   profane; — a   pillared 

shade,  20 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown 

hue, 
By  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage 

tinged 
Perennially — beneath  whose  sable  roof 
Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose,  decked 
With  unrejoicing  berries — ghostly  Shapes 
May  meet  at  noontide;  Fear  and  trembling 

Hope,  26 

Silence  and  Foresight;  Death  the  Skeleton 
And  Time  the  Shadow; — there  to  cele- 
brate, 
As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 
With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone,  30 
United  worship;  or  in  mute  repose 
To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 
Murmuring     from     Glaramara's    inmost 

caves. 


WORDSWORTH 


409 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS 

SEVEN  YEARS  AFTER  HIS  DEATH 

I  shiver,  Spirit  fierce  and  bold, 

At  thought  of  what  I  now  behold: 

As  vapors  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 

Strike  pleasure  dead, 
So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould       5 

Where  Burns  is  laid. 

And  have  I  then  thy  bones  so  near, 
And  thou  forbidden  to  appear? 
As  if  it  were  thyself  that's  here 

I  shrink  with  pain;  10 

And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 

Alike  are  vain. 

Off  weight — -nor  press  on  weight! — away 
Dark  thoughts! — they  came,  but  not  to 

stay; 
With  chastened  feelings  would  I  pay     15 

The  tribute  due 
To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower,  whose  modest  worth 
He  sang,  his  genius  "glinted"  forth,      20 
Rose  like  a  star  that  touching  earth, 

For  so  it  seems, 
Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 

With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow,  25 
The    struggling    heart,    where    be    they 

now? — 
Full  soon  the  Aspirant  of  the  plough, 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 
Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 

And  silent  grave.  30 

I  mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 
More  deeply  grieved,  for  He  was  gone 
Whose  light  I  hailed  when  first  it  shone, 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  verse  may  build  a  princely  throne   35 

On  humble  truth. 

Alas!  where'er  the  current  tends, 
Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends, — 
Huge  Criffel's  hoary  top  ascends 

By  Skiddaw  seen, —  40 

Neighbors  we  were,  and  loving  friends 

We  might  have  been; 


True  friends  though  diversely  inclined; 
But  heart  with  heart  and  mind  with  mind, 
Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined,       45 

Through  Nature's  skill, 
May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 

More  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow; 

Thou  "poor  Inhabitant  below,"  50 

At  this  dread  moment — even  so — 

Might  we  together 
Have  sat  and  talked  where  gowans  blow, 

Or  on  wild  heather. 

What   treasures   would   have    then   been 
placed  55 

Within  my  reach;  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy  what  a  rich  repast! 

But  why  go  on? — 
Oh!  spare  to  sweep,  thou  mournful  blast, 

His  grave  grass-grown.  60 

There,  too,  a  son,  his  joy  and  pride, 
(Not  three  weeks  past  the  stripling  died,) 
Lies  gathered  to  his  father's  side, 

Soul-moving  sight! 
Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied  65 

Some  sad  delight: 

For  he  is  safe,  a  quiet  bed 

Hath  early  found  among  the  dead, 

Harbored  where  none  can  be  misled, 

Wronged,  or  distressed;  70 

And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 

That  such  are  blest. 

And  oh!  for  thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  oft-times  in  a  devious  race, 
May  He  who  halloweth  the  place  75 

Where  man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  spirit  in  the  embrace 

For  which  it  prayed! 

Sighing  I  turned  away;  but  ere 

Night  fell  I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,      80 

Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near, 

A  ritual  hymn, 
Chaunted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 

By  Seraphim. 


THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass! 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain        5 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain; 
Oh  listen!  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands  10 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands: 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas  15 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? — 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago:  20 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang  25 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill,  30 

The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO 

0  blithe  New-comer!    I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers,  1 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing,  1 

A  voice,  a  mystery; 


The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 
I  listened  to;  that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky.  20 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet;  25 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird!  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be  30 

An  unsubstantial  faery  place, 
That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 

SHE  WAS  A  PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair;  5 

Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay.  10 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin-liberty; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet  15 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food; 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,    blame,    love,    kisses,    tears,    and 
smiles.  20 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 

A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  traveller  between  life  and  death; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will,       25 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 

And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 

With  something  of  angelic  light.  30 


WORDSWORTH 


411 


I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils; 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees,  5 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay:  10 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced;  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee: 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay  15 

In  such  a  jocund  company: 

I  gazed — and  gazed— but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood,  20 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God ! 
O  Duty !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law  5 

When  empty  terrors  overawe; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  hu- 
manity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who,  in  love  and  truth,  10 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth: 
Glad  Hearts !  without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not: 
Oh!  if  through  confidence  misplaced        15 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power! 
around  them  cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security.  20 


And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried;  25 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred  30 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly, 
if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control;  35 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought: 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires: 

My  hopes  no  more  must   change   their 

name; 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same.  40 

Stern  Lawgiver!  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face: 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds  45 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through 
thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 
I  call  thee:  I  myself  commend  50 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 
Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give;  55 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let 
me  live! 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY 
WARRIOR 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?  Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
It    is    the    generous    Spirit,    who,    when 

brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish 

thought :  5 


412 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always 

bright : 
Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent 

to  learn; 
Abides  by   this   resolve,   and   stops   not 

there,  10 

But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 
Who,   doomed   to   go   in   company   with 

Pain, 
And    Fear,    and    Bloodshed,    miserable 

train ! 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain; 
In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power       15 
Which    is    our    human    nature's    highest 

dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes, 

bereaves, 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  re- 
ceives ; 
By  objects,  which  might  force  the  soul  to 

abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 
Is  placable — because  occasions  rise  21 

So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice; 
More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more 

pure, 
As  tempted  more;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more   exposed   to   suffering  and  dis- 
tress; 25 
Thence,  also  more  alive  to  tenderness. 
'Tis  he  whose  law  is  reason;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 
Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted 

still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill,       30 
And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest, 
He  labors  good  on  good  to  fix,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  he  knows; 
Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command,    35 
Rises  by  open  means;  and  there  will  stand 
On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire; 
Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the 

same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim;  40 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in 

wait 
For  wealth  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state; 
Whom  they  must  follow;  on  whose  head 

must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all: 


Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  com- 
mon strife,  45 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace; 
But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has 

joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind, 
Is  happy  as  a  lover;  and  attired  51 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  in- 
spired; 
And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict  keeps  the 

law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  fore- 
saw; 
Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed,  55 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 
He  who  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To    homefelt    pleasures    and    to    gentle 
scenes;  60 

Sweet  images!  which,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 
More  brave  for  this  that  he  hath  much  to 

love: — 
'Tis,  finally,  the  man,  who,  lifted  high     65 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  nation's  eye, 
Or  left  unthought-of  in  obscurity, — 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not, 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be 
won:  71 

Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand 

fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last,     75 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpassed: 
Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the 

earth 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  fall  to  sleep  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead  unprofitable  name,       So 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering, 

draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  ap- 
plause: 
This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  he 
Whom  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to 
be.  85 


WORDSWORTH 


4*3 


ODE 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 
FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
EARLY  CHILDHOOD 

"  The  child  is  father  of  the  man; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety." 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove 

and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  5 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 
By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can 
see  no  more. 

11 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,  10 
And  lovely  is  the  Rose; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are 
bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from 
the  earth. 


in 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous 
_  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound    20 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a   thought  of 

grief; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  re- 
lief, 
And  I  again  am  strong: 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from 
the  steep;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 

wrong; 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains 
throng, 


The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of 
sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday; — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts, 
thou  happy  shepherd-boy  135 

IV 

Ye  blessed  creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubi- 
lee: 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal,  40 

The  fullness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it 
all. 
Oh  evil  day!  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 
And  the  children  are  culling  45 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines 
warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's 
arm: — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!         50 
— But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is 
gone: 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat :  55 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,         60 
And  cometh  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home:  65 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growing  boy, 


414 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it 
flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy;  70 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the 
east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest. 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away,  75 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her 

own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural 

kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's 
mind, 
And  no  unworthy  aim,  80 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And    that    imperial    palace    whence    he 
came. 

VII 

Behold   the   Child  among  his  new-born 
blisses,  85 

A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he 

lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's 

eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart,  90 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human 

life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 
A  wedding  or  a  festival, 
A  mourning  or  a  funeral ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart,    95 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 
But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  100 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous 

stage" 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 
As  if  his  whole  vocation  106 

Were  endless  imitation. 


VIII 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity; 
Thou    best    philosopher,    who    yet    dost 

keep  no 

Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal 

deep, 
Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 
Mighty  prophet!     Seer  blest! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest,      115 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In    darkness    lost,    the    darkness   of    the 

grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by;    120 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's 

height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou 

provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus    blindly    with    thy    blessedness    at 

strife?  125 

Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly 

freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

rx 

O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live,  130 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth 

breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 
For   that   which   is   most   worthy   to   be 
blest —  13  s 

Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his 
breast : — 
Not  for  these  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise;       140 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised,     145 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal 
nature 


WORDSWORTH 


4i5 


Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may,         150 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 
Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to 

make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never;  156 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  en- 
deavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy!  160 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither,  165 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  ever- 


Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous 
song! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound!  170 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once 
so  bright  175 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the 
hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the 
flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind;  180 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering;  184 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  O  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and 

groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 


Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight      190 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  chan- 
nels fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as 
they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 
Is  lovely  yet;  195 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting 
sun 

Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 

That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mor- 
tality; 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms 
are  won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we 
live,  200 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can 
give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for 
tears. 

TO  A  SKY-LARK 

Ethereal  minstrel!  pilgrim  of  the  sky! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares 

abound? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and 

eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at 

will,  5 

Those   quivering   wings   composed,    that 

music  still! 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine ; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a 

flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine;  10 
Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam ; 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and 

Home! 

SONNETS 

ON    THE    EXTINCTION    OF    THE 
VENETIAN  REPUBLIC 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee ; 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  west:  the 

worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 


416 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 

She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free;    5 

No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 

And,  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 

She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  sea. 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories 
fade, 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  de- 
cay; 10 

Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final 
day: 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even 
the  shade 

Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed 
away. 


LONDON,  1802 

Milton!  thou  should'st  be  living  at  this 

hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and 

bower,  , 

Have    forfeited    their    ancient     English 

dower  5 

Of  inward  happiness.    We  are  selfish  men ; 
Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,   virtue,   freedom, 

power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like 

the  sea:  10 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way, 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


COMPOSED   UPON  WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE,   SEPT.   3,    1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more 

fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth,  like  a  garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning;  silent,  bare,  5 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  tem- 
ples lie 
Open   unto  the  fields,   and   to  the  sky; 


All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless 

air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep!  n 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God!  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still! 


ON  THE  SEA-SHORE  NEAR  CALAIS 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 
The   gentleness   of   heaven   broods   o'er 

the  Sea:  5 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 
Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  that  walkest  with 

me  here, 
If    thou    appear    untouched    by    solemn 

thought,  10 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the 

year; 
And    worship 'st    at    the    temple's    inner 

shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH 
US 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us:  late  and 

soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our 

powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid 

boon! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the 

moon ;  5 

The  winds   that  will   be  howling  at  all 

hours, 
And   are  up-gathered  now   like  sleeping 

flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of 

tune; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn;       10 


COLERIDGE 


417 


So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less 

forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


TO  TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men! 
Whether   the  whistling    rustic    tend    his 

plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless 

den; 
O  miserable  Chieftain !  where  and  when     5 
Wilt  thou  find  patience?    Yet  die  not!  do 

thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow: 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left 

behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee,  air,  earth, 

and  skies:  10 

There's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common 

wind 
That  will   forget  thee;   thou  hast  great 

allies; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

(1772-1834) 

FRANCE:  AN  ODE 
1 

Ye  Clouds!  that  far  above  me  float  and 

pause, 
Whose   pathless   march   no   mortal   may 

control! 
Ye  Ocean  Waves!  that,  whereso'er  ye 

roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws! 
Ye  Woods!  that  listen  to  the  night-bird's 

singing,  5 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope 

reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches 

swinging, 
Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind ! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman 

trod,  10 


How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I 
wound, 
Inspired  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquer- 
able sound! 

0  ye  loud  Waves!  and  O  ye  Forests  high !  1 5 
And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me 

soared ! 
Thou  rising  Sun!  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky! 
Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be 

free! 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still 
adored  20 

The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 

11 

When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  up- 
reared, 
And  with  that  oath  which  smote  air, 

earth  and  sea, 
Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she 
would  be  free, 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and 
feared!  25 

With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band: 
And   when   to   whelm   the   disenchanted 
nation, 
Like   fiends  embattled   by  a   wizard's 
wand, 
The  Monarchs  marched  in  evil  day,  30 
And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array; 
Though  dear  her  shores  and   circling 
ocean, 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful 
loves 
Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion 
And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills 
and  groves;  35 

Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 
To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling 
lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain 

retreat ! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty!  with  partial  aim 

1  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy 

flame;  4° 

But    blessed    the   paeans    of    delivered 
France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's 
name. 


4i8 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


in 

•  And  what,"  I  said,  "  though  Blasphemy's 
loud  scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance 

strove! 
Though    all    the    fierce    and    drunken 
passions  wove  45 

A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's 
dream! 
Ye   storms,    that    round    the   dawning 
east  assembled, 
The  Sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his 
light!" 
And  when  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped 
and  trembled, 
The  dissonance   ceased,   and  all   seemed 
calm  and  bright;  50 

When    France   her   front   deep-scarred 

and  gory 
Concealed  with   clustering  wreaths  of 
glory; 
When,  insupportably  advancing, 
Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's 
ramp; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing,  55 
Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her 
fatal  stamp, 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his 
gore; 
Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would 
not  flee; 
"And  soon,"  I  said,  "shall  Wisdom  teach 

her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and 
groan ;  60 

And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 
Shall    France    compel    the   nations    to 
be  free, 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call 
the  earth  their  own." 

rv 

Forgive  me,  Freedom!  Oh  forgive  those 
dreams! 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 
From    bleak    Helvetia's    icy    caverns 
sent —  66 

I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stained 
streams! 
Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country 
perished, 
And  ye,  that  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain 
snows 


With  bleeding  wounds';  forgive  me,  that 
I  cherished  70 

One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel 
foes! 
To  scatter  rage  and  traitorous  guilt 
Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built; 
A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 
Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so 
dear;  75 

And  with  inexpiable  spirit 
To   taint   the   bloodless  freedom  of   the 

mountaineer — 
O   France,   that  mockest  Heaven,  adul- 
terous, blind, 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils! 
Are    these    thy    boasts,     Champion    of 
human  kind?  80 

To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of 
sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous 

.prey; 

To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 
From  freemen  torn;  to  tempt  and  to 
betray? 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in 

vain,  85 

Slaves   by   their   own   compulsion!   In 

mad   game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the 
name 
Of   Freedom,   graven   on    a   heavier 
chain! 
O    Liberty!    with    profitless    endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour; 
But   thou   nor   swell'st   the   victor's 
strain,  nor  ever  91 

Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human 
power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee, 
(Nor  prayer,  nor  boastful  name  de- 
lays thee) 
Alike  from  Priestcraft's  harpy  minions,  95 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 

Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  play- 
mate of  the  waves! 
And  there  I  felt  thee! — on  that  sea-cliff's 
verge,  _ 
Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the 
breeze  above,  100 

Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant 
surge ! 


COLERIDGE 


419 


Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples 

bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea,  and 

air, 
Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 

0  Liberty !  my  spirit  felt  thee  there.  105 


KUBLA  KHAN:  OR,  A  VISION  IN  A 
DREAM 

A   FRAGMENT 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea.  5 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And    there    were    gardens    bright    with 

sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing 

tree; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery.  n 

But  oh!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which 

slanted 
Down   the  green   hill   athwart   a  cedarn 

cover! 
A  savage  place!  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As    e'er    beneath    a    waning    moon    was 

haunted  15 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 
And    from    this    chasm,    with    ceaseless 

turmoil  seething, 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were 

breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced: 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding 

hail,  21 

Or   chaffy  grain   beneath   the    thresher's 

flail: 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and 

ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  mo- 
tion 25 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river 

ran, 
Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to 

man, 


And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from 

far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war!        30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 
Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  35 

A    sunny   pleasure-dome    with    caves   of 
ice! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,      40 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win 
me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long,  45 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, — 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! — 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair!         50 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
MARINER 

IN   SEVEN  PARTS 

Part  I 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner,       An  ancient  Mar- 

.     1 ,      .  »     .  /  -     iner  meeteth  three 

And     he     StOppeth     One     Of    Gallants  bidden  to 

tli  rpp  a    vvefMing-feast, 

Lilicc.    j  ^  t  ancj  detaineth  one. 

"By  thy  long  gray  beard 

and  glittering  eye, 
Now     wherefore     stopp'st 

thou  me? 

"The   Bridegroom's   doors 

are  opened  wide,        5 
And  I  am  next  of  kin; 
The   guests   are    met,    the 

feast    is    set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 


420 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


He 


his 


holds    him    with 

skinny  hand, 
"There  was  a  ship,"  quoth 

he.  10 

"Hold    off!    unhand    me, 

graybeard  loon!" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

Guest    k    spe£   He    holds    him    with    his 

oFtheoMyseafar^  glittering  eye- 

man,    and    con-   The    wedding-guest    stood 

strained     to     hear  ,.,i 

his  tale.  Still, 

And    listens    like    a    three 
child: 


years 


15 


The  Mariner  tells 
how  the  ship  sailed 
southward  with  a 
good  wind  and  fair 
weather  till  it 
reached  the  Line. 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  heareth  the 
briilal  music;  but 
the  Mariner  con- 
tinueth  his  tale. 


The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on 

a  stone: 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And    thus    spake   on    that 

ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner.  20 

"The  ship  was  cheered, 
the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the 
hill, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

"The  sun  came  up  upon 
the   left,  25 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he! 

And  he  shone  bright,  and 
on  the  right 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"Higher  and  higher  every 

day, 
Till     over     the     mast     at 

noon — "  30 

The     wedding-guest     here 

beat    his    breast, 
For    he    heard    the    loud 

bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into 
the  hall, 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 

Nodding  their  heads  be- 
fore her  goes  35 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 


The  wedding-guest  he  beat 

his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but 

hear; 
And    thus    spake   on    that 

ancient  man, 
The   bright-eyed   Mariner: 

"And   nOW   the   Storm-blast    The  ship  driven  by 
„  „    „  „  j  l,  „  a  storm  toward  the 

came,  and  he  41   south  poie. 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertak- 

ing  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

"With   sloping  masts  and 

dipping  prow,  45 

As  who  pursued  with  yell 

and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of 

his  foe, 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud 

roared  the  blast, 
And    southward    aye    we 

fled.  50 

"And  now  there  came  both 

mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold; 
And  ice,   mast-high,   came 

floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald; 

"  And  through  the  drifts  the  The  land  of  ice, 

i'e.  and       of       fearful 

SnOWy  CllltS  55     sounds    where    no 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen:  &  nthing  was  t0 
Nor    shapes    of    men    nor 

beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

"The  ice  was  here,  the  ice 

was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around :     60 
It    cracked    and    growled, 

and  roared  and  howled, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound! 

"At   length   did   cross   an  Till  a  great  sea- 
Albatross:  *»£•    called    the 

.  Albatross,       came 

Thorough   the   fog   it   Came:    through  the  snow- 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  Cefved\itha  great 

soul  6?    J°y  ancl   hosP'tal- 

'  "    ity . 

We    hailed    it    in    God's 
name. 


COLERIDGE 


421 


"It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er 

had  eat, 
And   round  and  round  it 

flew. 
The  ice   did   split   with   a 

thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us 


through 


70 


frofs  °!proveth  aa"   "And  a  good  south  wind 
andtCetHhe      ,     sprung  up  behind; 

ship  as  it  returned     The  AlbatrOSS  did  follow, 
northward  through      *      j  j  r        r       j 

fog   and   floating   And  every  day,  for  food  or 
ice-  play, 

Came  to  the  mariners' 
hollo! 

"In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast 
or  shroud,  75 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine; 

Whiles  all  the  night, 
through  fog-smoke 
white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moon- 
shine." 


The  ancient  Mar- 
iner inhospitably 
killeth  the  pious 
bird  of  good  omen. 


His  shipmates  cry 
out  against  the  an- 
cient Mariner  for 
killing  the  bird  of 
good  luck. 


"God    save    thee,    ancient 

Mariner! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague 

thee  thus! —  80 

Why  look'st   thou   so?" — 

"With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross!" 

Part  II 

"The  sun  now  rose  upon 

the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the 

left  85 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"And  the  good  south  wind 

still  blew  behind, 
But    no    sweet    bird    did 

follow, 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or 

play, 
Came     to     the     mariners' 

hollo!  90 

"And  I  had  done  a  hellish 

thing, 
And    it    would    work    'em 

woe; 


For    all    averred,    I    had 

killed    the   bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to 

blow. 
Ah  wretch!  said  they,  the 

bird  to  slay  95 

That  made   the  breeze  to 

blow! 

"Nor    dim    nor    red,    like 

God's   own   head, 
The  glorious  sun  uprist: 
Then    all    averred,    I    had 

killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and 

mist.  100 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such 

birds  to  slay, 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

"The  fair  breeze  blew,  the 
white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free: 

We  were  the  first  that  ever 
burst  105 

Into  that  silent  sea. 


But  when  the  fog 
cleared  off,  they 
justify  the  same, 
and  thus  make 
themselves  accom- 
plices in  the  crime. 


The  fair  breeze 
continues;  the  ship 
enters  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  and  sails 
northward,  even 
till  it  reaches  the 
Line. 


"Down    dropt    the    breeze,    The  ship  hath  been 
the    Sails    dropt    down,    suddenly  becalmed. 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to 

break 
The  silence  of  the  sea!     no 

"All  in  a  hot  and  copper 

sky, 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast 

did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

"Day  after  day,  day  after 

day,  115 

We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor 

motion ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

"Water,  water,  everywhere,   And  the  Albatross 
And    all    the    boards    did  avenged. 

shrink;  120 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


422 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


A  Spirit  had  fol- 
lowed them;  one 
of  the  invisible  in- 
habitants of  this 
planet,  neither  de- 
parted souls  nor 
angels. 


The  shipmates,  in 
their  sore  distress, 
would  fain  throw 
the  whole  guilt  on 
the  ancient  Mar- 
iner: in  sign 
whereof  they  hang 
the  dead  seabird 
round  his  neck. 


The  ancient  Mar- 
iner beholdeth  a 
sign  in  the  element 
afar  off. 


"The   very   deep   did   rot: 

O  Christ! 
That  ever  this  should  be! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl 

with  legs  125 

Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"About,  about,  in  reel  and 

rout, 
The  death-fires  danced  at 

night; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's 

oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and 

white.  130 

"And  some  in  dreams  as- 
sured were 

Of  the  spirit  that  plagued 
us  so: 

Nine  fathom  deep  he  had 
followed  us, 

From  the  land  of  mist  and 
snow. 

"  And  every  tongue,  through 
utter  drought,  135 

Was  withered  at  the  root; 

We  could  not  speak,  no 
more  than  if 

We  had  been  choked  with 
soot. 

"Ah!  well-a-day!  what  evil 

looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young! 
Instead   of   the   cross,   the 

Albatross  141 

About  my  neck  was  hung. 

Part  III 

"There    passed    a    weary 

time.     Each   throat 
Was   parched,    and   glazed 

each  eye. 
A    weary    time!    A    weary 

time!  145 

How    glazed    each    weary 

eye! 
When  looking  westward  I 

beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 


"At  first  it  seemed  a  little 

speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist: 
It  moved  and  moved,  and 

took  at  last  151 

A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

"A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape, 
I  wist! 

And  still  it  neared  and 
neared: 

As  if  it  dodged  a  water- 
sprite,  155 

It  plunged  and  tacked  and 
veered. 

"With    throats    unslaked, 

with  black  lips  baked, 
We   could   nor    laugh    nor 

wail; 
Through  utter  drought  all 

dumb  we  stood! 
I  bit  my  arm;  I  sucked  the 

blood,  160 

And  cried,  'A  sail!  a  sail!' 

"With  throats  unslaked, 
with  black  lips  baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call: 

Gramercy!  they  for  joy  did 
grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath 
drew  in,  165 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 


At  its  nearer  ap- 
proach, it  seemeth 
him  to  be  a  ship; 
and  at  a  dear  ran- 
som he  freeth  his 
speech  from  the 
bonds  of  thirst. 


A  flash  of  joy; 


"'See!    see    (I    cried) 
tacks  no  more! 


cUp    And     horror     fol- 

S11C    lows.     For  can   it 

be     a     ship     that 

,       comes  onward  with- 

Hither   to   work    us   weal ;  out  wind  or  tide? 
Without  a  breeze,  without 

a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright 

keel ! '  1 70 


"The  western  wave  was  all 

a-flame : 
The  day  was  well  nigh  done : 
Almost   upon    the   western 

wave 
Rested    the    broad    bright 

sun; 
When   that   strange   shape 

drove  suddenly         175 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 


COLERIDGE 


4->3 


It  seemeth  him 
but  the  skeleton  of 
a  ship. 


And  its  ribs  are 
seen  as  bars  on  the 
(ace  of  the  setting 
sun. 


The  Spectre- 
Woman  and  her 
Death-mate,  and 
no  other  on  board 
the  skeleton -ship. 


Like    vessel,     like 
crew! 


Death  and  Life-in- 
Death  have  diced 
for  the  ship's  crew, 
and  she  (the  lat- 
ter) winneth  the 
ancient    Mariner. 


No  twilight  within 
the  courts  of  the 


"And  straight  the  sun  was 

flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us 

grace!) 
As   if   through   a   dungeon 

grate  he  peered, 
With    broad    and   burning 

face.  i 80 

"Alas!  (thought  I,  and  my 

heart  beat  loud) 
How    fast    she    nears    and 

nears ! 
Are    those    her    sails    that 

glance  in  the  sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres? 

"Are  those  her  ribs  through 

which  the  sun  185 

Did    peer,    as    through    a 

grate? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her 

crew? 
Is  that  a  Death?  and  are 

there  two? 
Is    Death    that    woman's 

mate? 

"Her    lips    were    red,    her 

looks  were  free,        190 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as 

gold: 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as 

leprosy, 
The      nightmare     Life-in- 

Death  was  she, 
Who    thicks    man's    blood 

with  cold. 

"The  naked  hulk  alongside 

came,  195 

And  the  twain  were  casting 

dice; 
'The   game   is   done!   I've 

won,  I've  won!' 
Quoth    she,    and    whistles 

thrice. 

"The  sun's  rim  dips;  the 

stars  rush  out: 
At   one    stride   comes    the 

dark;  200  1 

With     far-heard     whisper, 

o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 


"We   listened   and   looked 

sideways  up! 
Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a 

cup, 
My    life-blood    seemed    to 


At  the  rising  of  the 
moon, 


sip! 


205 


The  stars   were  dim,   and 

thick  the  night, 
The  steersman's  face  by  his 

lamp  gleamed  white ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did 

drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern 

bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one 

bright  star  210 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

"One  after  one,  by  the  star- 
dogged  moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or 
sigh, 

Each  turned  his  face  with 
a  ghastly  pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his 
eye.  215 

"Four  times  fifty  living 
men, 

(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor 
groan) 

With  heavy  thump,  a  life- 
less lump, 

They  dropped  down  one 
by  one. 

"The  souls  did  from  their 
bodies  fly, —  220 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe! 

And  every  soul,  it  passed 
me  by, 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross- 
bow!" 

Part  IV 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mar- 
iner! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand!  225 

And  thou  art  long,  and 
lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

"I  fear  thee  and  thy  glitter- 
ing eye,  > 

And  thy  skinny  hand,  so 
brown." — 


One  after  another. 


His  shipmates  drop 
down  dead. 


But  Life-in-Death 
begins  her  work  on 
the   ancient    Mar- 


The  Wedding- 
Guest  feareth  that 
a  spirit  is  talking  to 
him; 


424 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Mariner6   a=h  "  *«*    not,    fear    not,     thoU 
him  of  his   bodily  Wedding-gUest !  2T.O 

life,    and    proceed-  rni  •     i      j       j  i 

eth   to    relate    his  InlS   DOay  dropt  not  down, 
horrible   penance. 

"Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea! 
And    never    a    saint    took 

pity   on 
My  soul  in  agony.  235 

He    despiseth    the     "The   many   men,    SO   beau- 
creatures    of     the  , .  r    1 1 
calm,                                       tlful! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie: 
And  a  thousand  thousand 

slimy  things 
Lived  on;  and  so  did  I. 

And  envieth  that   "I  looked  upon  the  rotting 

they    should    live,  *  ° 

and    so    many    be  Sea,  240 

dead'  And  drew  my  eyes  away; 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting 

deck, 
And  there   the  dead  men 

lay. 

"I  looked  to  heaven,  and 
tried  to  pray; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had 
gusht,  245 

A  wicked  whisper  came,  and 
made 

My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

"  I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept 

them  close, 
And   the  balls   like   pulses 

beat; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea, 

and   the   sea  and   the 

sky,  250 

Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary 

eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my 

feet. 


Hut  the  curse  liv- 
eth  for  him  in  the 
eye  of  the  dead 
men. 


"The  cold  sweat  melted 
from   their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they: 

The  look  with  which  they 
looked  on  me  255 

Had  never  passed  away. 

"An  orphan's  curse  would 

drag  to  hell 
A  spirit  from  on  high; 


In  his  loneliness 
and  fixedness  he 
yearneth  towards 
the  journeying 
moon,  and  the  stars 
that  still  sojourn, 
yet  still  move  on- 
ward; and  every- 
where the  blue  sky 
belongs  to  them, 
and  is  their  ap- 
pointed rest,  and 
their  native  coun- 
try and  their  own 
natural  homes, 
which  they  enter 
unannounced,  as 
lords  that  are  cer- 
tainly expected; 
and  yet  there  is  a 
silent  joy  at  their 
arrival. 

By  the  light  of  the 
moon  he  beholdeth 
God's  creatures  of 
the  great  calm. 


But  oh!  more  horrible  than 

that 
Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's 

eye!  260 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I 

saw  that  curse, 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"The  moving  moon   went 

up  the  sky, 
And  nowhere  did  abide: 
Softly  she  was  going  up,  265 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

"Her  beams  bemocked  the 

sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge 

shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt 

alway  270 

A  still  and  awful  red. 

"Beyond    the    shadow    of 

the  ship, 
I  watched  the  water-snakes : 
They  moved  in   tracks  of 

shining    white, 
And  when  they  reared,  the 

elfish  light  275 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

"Within    the    shadow    of 

the  ship 
I  watched  their  rich  attire: 
Blue,    glossy    green,    and 

velvet  black, 
They    coiled    and    swam; 

and  every  track       280 
Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

"O     happy     living     things!    Their  beauty  and 
*.___  their  happiness. 

no     tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare: 

A   spring   of    love    gushed 
from  my  heart, 

And    I    blessed    them    un-  He  biesseth  them 
aware!  285  inhisheart- 

Sure   my   kind   saint   took 
pity   on   me, 

And    I    blessed    them    un- 
aware. 


"The   selfsame   moment   I 

could  pray; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 


The  spell  begins  to 
break. 


COLERIDGE 


425 


Bv  grace  of  the 
Holy  Mother,  the 
ancient  Mariner  is 
refreshed  with  rain. 


The  Albatross  fell  off,  and 
sank  290 

Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

Part  V 

"Oh  sleep!   it  is   a  gentle 

thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise 

be  given! 
She   sent   the  gentle   sleep 

from  Heaven,  295 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

"The  silly  buckets  on  the 

deck, 
That  had  so  long  remained, 
I   dreamt   that   they   were 

filled  with  dew; 
And    when    I    awoke,    it 

rained.  300 

"My  lips  were  wet,  my 
throat  was  cold, 

My  garments  all  were  dank ; 

Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my 
dreams, 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

"I  moved,  and  could  not 
feel  my  limbs:        305 

I   was    so   light — almost 

I  thought  that  I  had  died 
in  sleep, 

And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


He  heareth  sounds   "And  soon  I  heard  a  roar- 

and   seeth    strange  i"no-winrl- 

sights  and  commo-  lng  Wind . 

tions  in  the  sky   it  did  not  come  anear;    310 

and  the  element.       _  •   i     .,  i   ..     i        i 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook 

the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


"The  upper  air  burst  into 
life! 

And  a  hundred  fire-flags 
sheen, 

To  and  fro  they  were  hur- 
ried about;  315 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and 
out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  be- 
tween. 


"And  the  coming  wind  did 

roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like 

sedge; 
And  the  rain  poured  down 

from  one  black  cloud; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

"The  thick  black  cloud  was 
cleft,  and  still  322 

The  moon  was  at  its  side: 

Like  waters  shot  from  some 
high  crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with 
never  a  jag,  325 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 


"The     loud     wind 
reached  the  ship, 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and 
the  moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

"They  groaned,  they  stirred, 

they  all  uprose,  331 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their 

eyes; 
It  had  been  strange,  even 

in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen   those  dead 

men  rise. 

"The    helmsman    steered, 

the  ship  moved  on;  335 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up-blew; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work 

the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to 

do: 
They    raised    their    limbs 

like  lifeless  tools — 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

"The  body  of  my  brother's 
son  341 

Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee: 

The  body  and  I  pulled  at 
one  rope, 

But  he  said  nought  to  me." 

"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mar- 
iner!" 345 

"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding- 
Guest  ! 


never  ^"ne  bodies  °f  tne 

ship's  crew  are  in- 
spired, and  the 
ship  moves  on; 


426 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


But  not  by  the 
souls  of  the  men, 
nor  by  demons  of 
e;irth  or  middle 
air,  but  by  a 
blessed  troop  of 
angelic  spirits,  sent 
down  by  the  in- 
vocation of  the 
guardian  saint. 


'Twas  not  those  souls  that 

fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came 

again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest: 

"For  when  it  dawned — 
they  dropped  their 
arms,  350 

And  clustered  round  the 
mast; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly 
through  their  mouths, 

And  from  their  bodies 
passed. 

"Around,  around,  flew  each 

sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  sun;  355 
Slowly    the    sounds    came 

back  again, 
Now  mixed,   now   one  by 

one. 

"  Sometimes        a-dropping 

from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing; 
Sometimes   all   little   birds 

that  are,  360 

How   they   seemed    to   fill 

the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning! 

"And   now    'twas   like   all 

instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's 

song,  365 

That  makes  the  heavens  be 

mute. 

"It   ceased;   yet   still    the 

sails  made  on 
A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
A   noise  like  of  a  hidden 

brook 
In    the    leafy    month    of 

June,  370 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods 

all  night 
Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

"Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed 

on, 
Yet    never    a    breeze    did 
breathe: 


Slowly  and  smoothly  went 
the  ship,  375 

Moved  onward  from  be- 
neath. 

"Under     the     keel     nine 

fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and 

snow, 
The  spirit  slid;  and  it  was 

he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off 

their  tune,  381 

And    the    ship    stood    still 

also. 

"The  sun,  right  up  above 
the  mast, 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean; 

But  in  a  minute  she  'gan 
stir,  385 

With  a  short  uneasy  mo- 
tion— 

Backwards  and  forwards 
half  her  length, 

With  a  short  uneasy  mo- 
tion. 

"Then  like  a  pawing  horse 

let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound: 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my 

head,  391 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

"How  long  in  that  same  fit 

Hay, 
I  have  not  to  declare; 
But    ere    my    living    life 

returned,  395 

I   heard,   and  in   my   soul 

discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"'Is  it  he?'  quoth  one, 
'is  this  the  man? 

By  Him  who  died  on  cross, 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid 
full  low  400 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

"'The    spirit    who    bideth 

by  himself 
In   the   land   of  mist   and 

snow, 


The  lonesome 

Spirit  from  the 
south  pole  carries 
on  the  ship  as  far 
as  the  Line,  in 
obedience  to  the 
angelic  troop,  but 
still  requireth  ven- 
geance. 


The  Polar  Spirit's 
fellow-demons,  the 
invisible  inhabit- 
antsof  the  element, 
take  part  in  his 
wrong,  and  two  of 
them  relate,  one 
to  the  other,  that 
penance  long  and 
heavy  for  the  an- 
cient Mariner  hath 
been  accorded  to 
the  Polar  Spirit, 
who  returnetb 

southward. 


COLERIDGE 


427 


The  Mariner  hath 
been  cast  into  a 
trance;  for  the  an- 
gelic power  causeth 
the  vessel  to  drive 
northward  faster 
than  human  life 
could  endure. 


He    loved    the    bird    that 

loved  the  man 
Who-  shot    him    with    his 

bow.'  405 

"The   other   was   a   softer 

voice, 
As  soft  as  honey-dew: 
Quoth  he,  'The  man  hath 

penance  done, 
And  penance  more  will  do.' 

Part  VI 
First  Voice 

'"But  tell  me,  tell  me! 
speak  again,  410 

Thy  soft  response  renew- 
ing— 

What  makes  that  ship  drive 
on  so  fast? 

What  is  the  ocean  doing?' 

Second  Voice 

"'Still    as    a    slave   before 

his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast; 
His  great  bright  eye  most 

silently  416 

Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 

"'If  he  may  know  which 
way  to  go; 

For  she  guides  him,  smooth 
or  grim. 

See,  brother,  see!  how  gra- 
ciously 420 

She  looketh  down  on  him.' 

First  Voice 

"'But  why  drives  on  that 

ship  so  fast, 
Without  or  wave  or  wind? ' 

Second  Voice 

"'The    air    is    cut    away 

before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

"'Fly,  brother,  fly!  more 
high,  more  high!      426 

Or  we  shall  be  belated: 

For  slow  and  slow  that  ship 
will  go, 

When  the  Mariner's  trance 
is  abated.' 


The  supernatural 
motion  is  retarded; 
the  Mariner 
awakes,  and  his 
penance  begins 
anew. 


"I  woke,  and  we  were 
sailing  on,  430 

As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

'Twas  night,  calm  night, 
the  moon  was  high; 

The  dead  men  stood  to- 
gether. 

"All  stood  together  on  the 

deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony 

eyes,  _   436 

That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

1  "The  pang,  the  curse,  with 

which  they  died, 

Had  never  passed  away: 

I  could  not  draw  my  eyes 

from  theirs,  440 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


"And    nOW    this    Spell    Was    The  curse  is  finally 
x  expiated. 

snapt:  once  more 
I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 
And  looked  far  forth,  yet 

little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

"Like  one,  that  on  a  lone- 
some road  446 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turned 
round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his 
head ; 

Because  he  knows  a  fright- 
ful fiend  450 

Doth  close  behind  him 
tread. 

"But  soon  there  breathed 

a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the 

sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade.      455 

"It    raised    my    hair,     it 

fanned  my  cheek 
Like    a     meadow-gale    of 

spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  with 

my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 


428 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


"Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the 
ship,  460 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too: 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the 
breeze — 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

And   the  ancient    "Oh!  dream  of  joy!  is  this 

Mariner  beholdeth  .      ,        , 

his  native  country.  indeed 

The  lighthouse  top  I  see? 
Is  this  the  hill?  is  this  the 
kirk?  466 

Is  this  mine  own  countree? 

"  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor- 
bar, 

And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

'0  let  me  be  awake,  my 
God!  470 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway.' 

"The  harbor-bay  was  clear 
as  glass, 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moon- 
light lay, 

And  the  shadow  of  the 
moon.  475 

"The  rock  shone  bright, 
the  kirk  no  less, 

That  stands  above  the  rock : 

The  moonlight  steeped  in 
silentness 

The  steady  weathercock. 

"And  the  bay  was  white 
with  silent  light,       480 

Till  rising  from  the  same, 

Full  many  shapes,  that 
shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colors  came. 
And  appear  in  their   "A  little  distance  from  the 

own  forms  of  light. 

prow 
Those     crimson     shadows 

were :  485 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the 

deck — 
Oh,    Christ!    what    saw    I 

there ! 

"Each  corse  lay  flat,  life- 
less and  flat, 

And,  by  the  holy  rood! 

A  man  all  light,  a  seraph- 
man,  490 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 


The  angelic  spirits 
leave  the  dead 
bodies. 


"This  seraph-band,  each 
waved  his  hand: 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight! 

They  stood  as  signals  to 
the  land, 

Each  one  a  lovely  light: 

"This  seraph-band,  each 
waved  his  hand,       496 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 

No  voice;  but  oh!  the 
silence  sank 

Like  music  on  my  heart. 

"But  soon  I  heard  the 
dash  of  oars,  500 

I  heard  the  pilot's  cheer; 

My  head  was  turned  per- 
force away, 

And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

"The  pilot,  and  the  pilot's 

boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast: 
Dear  Lord  in   Heaven!  it 

was  a  joy  506 

The  dead   men  could   not 

blast. 

"I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his 

voice: 
It  is  the  Hermit  good! 
He  singeth  loud  his  godly 

hymns  510 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 
He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll 

wash  away 
The  Albatross's  blood. 


Part  VII 


lives 


"This   Hermit   good 

in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the 

sea.  515 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice 

he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  mari- 

neres 
That    come    from    a    far 

countree. 

"He  kneels  at  morn,  and 

noon,  and  eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump: 


The  Hermit  of  the 
wood. 


COLERIDGE 


429 


It  is  the  moss  that  wholly 

hides  521 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

"  The  skiff-boat  neared:  I 
heard  them  talk, 

'Why,  this  is  strange,  I 
trow! 

Where  are  those  lights  so 
many  and  fair,        525 

That  signal  made  but  now? ' 

Approacheth    the   "'Strange,   by   my   faith!' 

ship  with  wonder.  ^  ^^  gaid_ 

'  And  they  answered  not  our 

cheer! 
The   planks   look   warped! 

and  see  those  sails, 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to 

them,  531 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

"'Brown       skeletons       of 

leaves  that  lag 
My    forest-brook    along: 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy 

with  snow,  535 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to 

the  wolf  below, 
That    eats    the    she-wolf's 

young.' 

'"Dear  Lord!  it  hath  a 
fiendish  look' — 

(The   pilot   made   reply) 

'I  am  a- feared' — 'Push  on, 
push  on!'  540 

Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

"The  boat  came  closer  to 
the  ship, 

But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred; 

The  boat  came  close  be- 
neath the  ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was 
heard.  545 

The  ship  suddenly    "Under  the  water  it  rum- 

sinketh.  ,  ,     , 

bled  on, 
Still  louder  and  more  dread: 
It    reached    the    ship,    it 

split  the  bay; 
The  ship  went  down   like 

lead. 


The  ancient  Mar 
iner  is  saved  ii 
the  Pilot's  boat. 


"Stunned  by  that  loud  and 
dreadful  sound,         550 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been 
seven  days  drowned, 

My  body  lay  afloat; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  my- 
self I  found 

Within  the  pilot's  boat.  555 

"Upon    the    whirl,    where 

sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and 

round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that 

the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

"I    moved    my    lips — the 

pilot  shrieked,  560 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his 

eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did 

sit. 

"I  took  the  oars:  the  pilot's 

boy, 
Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 
Laughed    loud    and    long, 

and  all  the  while  566 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 
'Ha!  ha!'   quoth  he,   'full 

plain  I  see, 
The  Devil  knows  how  to 

row.' 

"And  now,  all  in  my  own 

countree,  570 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth 

from  the  boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"'0  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  The  ancient  Mar- 

'  '     iner   earnestly    en 

holy    man!  treateth    the    Her- 

The    Hermit    crossed    his 

brow.  575 

'Say  quick,'  quoth  he,   'I 

bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art 

thou?' 


mit  to  shrieve  him; 
and  the  penance  of 
life  falls  on  him. 


"Forthwith   this   frame 
mine  was  wrenched 
With  a  woeful  agony, 


of 


43° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Which  forced  me  to  begin 
my  tale;  580 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 


an  uncer- 


And  ever  and  anon     «  Since    then    at 

throughout  his  fu-  . 

ture  life  an  agony  tain     hour, 

totSritanfi!   That  agony  returns; 
to  land,  And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is 

told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 


"I  pass,   like   night,   from 

land  to  land;  586 

I    have    strange   power   of 

speech; 
That  moment  that  his  face 

I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must 

hear  me: 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach.  590 

"What  loud  uproar  bursts 

from  that  door: 
The     wedding-guests     are 

there; 
But    in    the    garden-bower 

the  bride 
And     bride-maids     singing 

are; 
And  hark  the  little  vesper 
_  bell,  595 

Which     biddeth     me     to 


prayer 


"O    Wedding-Guest!    this 

soul   hath   been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea: 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God 

himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

"0  sweeter  than  the  mar- 
riage-feast, 601 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the 
kirk 

With  a  goodly  company! — 

"To  walk  together  to  the 
kirk,  605 

And  all  together  pray, 
While    each    to    his    great 
Father  bends, 


Old  men,  and  babes,  and 

loving   friends, 
And   youths   and   maidens 

gay! 


"Farewell,     farewell!     but  And  to  teach,  by 

t-Vii      T  tpll  A  *"S    0Wn    examP'e' 

LUIS  1  tell  OI O    iove  an(j  reverence 

To    thee,    thou    Wedding-  l£Jli  ^h«f  Jj* 

Guest !  loveth. 

He     prayeth     well,     who 

loveth    well 
Both   man   and   bird   and 

beast. 

"He    prayeth    best,  who 

loveth  best 

All  things  both  great  and 

small;  615 

For    the    dear    God  who 

loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all." 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye 
is  bright, 

Whose  beard  with  age  is 
hoar, 

Is  gone;  and  now  the  Wed- 
ding-Guest 620 

Turned  from  the  bride- 
groom's door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath 

been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn: 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT 

The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.    The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again!  loud  as  be- 
fore. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits  5 
Abstruser  musings:  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis   calm  indeed!  so  calm,  that  it   dis- 
turbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme   silentness.     Sea,   hill,   and 
wood,  10 

This  populous  village!    Sea,  and  hill,  and 
wood, 


COLERIDGE 


43i 


With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life 
Inaudible  as  dreams!  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low-burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not; 
Only  that  film,   which  fluttered  on   the 

grate,  15 

Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form, 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling 

Spirit  20 

By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But  oh!  how  oft, 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing 

mind,  25 

Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars, 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger!  and  as 

oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of   my   sweet   birth-place,    and    the   old 

church-tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music, 

rang  30 

From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair- 
day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted 

me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to 

come! 
So  gazed   I,   till    the   soothing   things   I 

dreamt  35 

Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my 

dreams! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine 

eye 
Fixed  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming 

book: 
Save   if   the   door   half   opened,    and    I 

snatched  40 

A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leaped 

up 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  be- 
loved, 
My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed 

alike! 
Dear  babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my 

side,  45 

Whose  gentle  breathings,   heard   in   this 

deep  calm. 


Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With   tender  gladness,    thus   to   look  at 

thee,  50 

And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other 

lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes!    For  I  was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and 

stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe!  shalt  wander  like  a 

breeze  55 

By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the 

crags 
Of  ancient   mountain,   and   beneath   the 

clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and 

shores 
And  mountain  crags:  so  shalt  thou  see  and 

hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God  61 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher!  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask.     65 
Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to 

thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general 

earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and 

sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare 

branch 

apple-tree,    while    the    nigh 


Of 


mossy 

thatch  70 

Smokes   in    the    sun-thaw;    whether    the 

eavedrops  fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon.  75 


HYMN 

BEFORE    SUNRISE    IN   THE    VALE 
OF  CHAMOUNI 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning- 
star 
In  his  steep  course?      So  long  he  seems 
to  pause 


43  2 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly;  but  thou,  most  awful 

Form !  5 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently!    Around  thee  and  above 
Deep   is   the  air  and   dark,   substantial, 

black, 
An  ebon  mass:  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge!    But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 

shrine,  n 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!    I  gazed  upon 

thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought:  entranced 

in  prayer  15 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening 

to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with 

my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret 

joy:  20 

Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to 

Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 

Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 

Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy!    Awake, 

Voice  of  sweet  song!    Awake,  my  heart, 

awake!  27 

Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my 

Hymn.     ■ 
Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the 

Vale! 
O  struggling  with   the  darkness  all   the 

night,  30 

And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they 

sink: 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald!    wake,   oh    wake,    and    utter 

praise!  35 

Who   sank    thy   sunless   pillars    deep   in 

Earth? 
Who    filled    thy   countenance   with    rosy 

light? 
Who    made    thee    parent    of    perpetual 

streams? 


And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely 
glad! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter 
death,  40 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  . 
forth, 

Down    those   precipitous,    black,   jagged 
rocks, 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 
your  joy,  45 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 

And  who  commanded   (and  the  silence 
came), 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 
Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the  moun- 
tain's brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain —  50 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty 
voice, 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless  torrents!  silent  cataracts! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?    Who  bade 
the  sun  55 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who,  with 
living  flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your 
feet?— 

God!  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  na- 
tions, 

Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 

God!  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  glad- 
some voice!  60 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul- 
like sounds! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of 
snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder, 
God! 
Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 
frost! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's 
nest !  65 

Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain- 
storm  ! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 
clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element! 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with 
praise! 


COLERIDGE 


433 


Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!  with  thy  sky- 
pointing  peaks,  70 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  un- 
heard, 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 
pure  serene 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy 
breast — 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain! 
thou 

That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed 
low  75 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow-travelling  with  dim  eyes  diffused 
with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me — Rise,  oh  ever  rise, 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth! 

Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the 
hills,  81 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to 
heaven, 

Great  hierarch!  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising 
sun, 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises 
God.  •  85 


DEJECTION:  AN  ODE 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms; 

And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  Master  dear! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spens. 


Well!    If  the  Bard  was  weather-wise,  who 
made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of   Sir  Patrick 

Spens, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go 
hence 
Unroused  by   winds,   that   ply   a  busier 

trade 
Than   those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in 
lazy  flakes,  5 

Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and 
rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  iEolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute; 
For  lo !  the  new-moon  winter  bright ! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light,  10 


(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'er- 

spread 
But   rimmed   and   circled   by   a   silver 
thread) 
I  see  the  old  moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 
The    coming-on   of    rain    and    squally 
blast. 
And  oh!  that  even  now  the  gust  were 
swelling,  15 

And    the    slant    night-shower    driving 
loud  and  fast! 
Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me, 
whilst  they  awed, 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 
Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse 

give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it 
live!  20 

11 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and 
drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

0  Lady !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood,  25 
To   other   thoughts   by   yonder    throstle 

wooed, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 

Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 
And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green: 

And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an 
eye!  30 

And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and 
bars, 

That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars; 

Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  be- 
tween, 

Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but  al- 
ways seen: 

Yon  crescent  moon,  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew  35 

In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are! 

m 

My  genial  spirits  fail; 
And  what  can  these  avail  40 

To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my 
breast? 
It  were  a  vain  endeavor, 
Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the 
west: 


434 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to 
win  45 

The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains 
are  within. 

IV 

O  Lady,  we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live: 
Ours  is  her  wedding  garment,  ours  her 
shroud ! 
And  what  we  ought  behold,  of  higher 
worth,  50 

Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah!  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  earth —  55 

And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 
A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own 
birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 


0  pure  of  heart!  thou  need'st  not  ask  of 

me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may 

be!  60 

What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 
This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous 

mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 
Joy,  virtuous  Lady!    Joy  that  ne'er  was 

given, 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour, 
Life,  and  Life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once 

and  shower,  66 

Joy,  Lady!  is  the  spirit  and  the  power, 
Which   wedding   Nature   to   us   gives   in 

dower, 
A  new  earth  and  new  heaven, 
Undreamt    of   by    the    sensual    and    the 

proud —  70 

Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous 

cloud — 
We  in  ourselves  rejoice! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear 

or  sight, 
All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 
All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light.      75 

VI 

There  was  a  time  when,  though  my  path 
was  rough, 
This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress, 


And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 
Whence  Fancy  made  me  dreams  of  hap- 
piness : 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining 
vine,  80 

And    fruits,    and    foliage,    not    my    own, 

seemed  mine. 
But    now    afflictions    bow   me   down    to 

earth : 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth; 

But  oh!  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  Nature  gave  me  at  my 
birth,  85 

My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural 
man —  90 

This  was    my  sole  resource,  my  only 
plan: 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the 

whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my 
soul. 

VTI 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around 
my  mind, 
Reality's  dark  dream!  95 

I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind, 
Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed. 
What  a  scream 
Of  agony  by  torture  lengthened  out 
That  lute  sent  forth!     Thou  Wind,  that 
ravest  without, 
Bare  crag,  or  mountain-tairn,  or  blasted 
tree,  100 

Or   pine-grove   whither   woodman    never 

clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches' 
home, 
Methinks   were   fitter   instruments   for 
thee, 
Mad    Lutanist!    who    in    this   month    of 

showers, 
Of  dark-brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping 
flowers,  105 

Makest    Devils'    yule,    with   worse    than 

wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves 
among. 
Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  even  to  frenzy  bold! 


COLERIDGE 


435 


What  tell'st  thou  now  about?         no 

'Tis   of   the   rushing   of   an   host   in 

rout, 

With   groans   of   trampled    men,    with 

smarting  wounds — 

At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder 

with  the  cold! 
But   hush!   there  is   a  pause  of  deepest 
silence! 
And   all   that   noise,   as   of   a   rushing 
crowd,  115 

With  groans  and  tremulous  shudderings — 
all  is  over —    x 
It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less 
deep  and  loud ! 
A  tale  of  less  affright, 
And  tempered  with  delight, 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender 
lay;  120 

'Tis  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 
Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her 

way: 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and 

fear, 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make 
her  mother  hear.  125 


VIII 

'Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I 

of  sleep : 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils 

keep! 
Visit   her,   gentle   Sleep!   with   wings   of 
healing, 
And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain 
birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her 
dwelling,  130 

Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleep- 
ing Earth! 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 
Joy    lift    her    spirit,    joy    attune    her 
voice ; 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to 
pole,  135 

Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear    Lady!     friend    devoutest    of     my 

choice, 
Thus    mayest    thou    ever,    evermore    re- 
joice. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Verse,  a  breeze  mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine!    Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young!  5 

When  I  was  young? — Ah,  woeful  When! 
Ah !  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then ! 
This    breathing    house    not    built    with 

hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands,  10 

How  lightly  then  it  flashed  along: — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide !  1 5 

Nought    cared    this    body    for    wind    or 

weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like; 

Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree; 

Oh!    the  joys,   that  came  down  shower- 
like, 20 

Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 
Ere  I  was  old! 

Ere  I  was  old?    Ah  woeful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here! 

0  Youth!  for  years  so  many  and  sweet,  25 
'Tis  known,  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  tolled: — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold!  30 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe,  that  thou  art  gone? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size: 
But  Spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips,     35 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes! 
Life  is  but  thought:  so  think  I  will 

That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve!  40 

Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve, 

When  we  are  old: 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave,  45 


436 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismissed ; 
Yet  hath  out-stayed  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave 

their  lair — 
The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  on  the 

wing — 
And  Winter  slumbering  in  the  open  air, 
Wears   on  his  smiling  face  a   dream   of 

Spring! 
And  I  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  thing,     5 
Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor 

sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken   the   banks  where  ama- 
ranths blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of 

nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  0  ye  amaranths!  bloom  for  whom 

ye  may, 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !  Glide,  rich  streams, 

away!  10 

With  lips  unbrightened,  wreathless  brow, 

I  stroll: 
And    would   you    learn    the    spells    that 

drowse  my  soul? 
Work  without  Hope  draws  nectar  in  a 

sieve, 
And  Hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


From  the  BIOGRAPHIA  LITERARIA 

Chapter  XIV 

During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Words- 
worth and  I  were  neighbors,  our  con- 
versations turned  frequently  on  the  two 
cardinal  points  of  poetry,  the  power  of 
exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  by 
a  faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  na- 
ture, and  the  power  of  giving  the  interest 
of  novelty  by  the  modifying  colors  of 
imagination.  The  sudden  charm,  which 
accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which  [10 
moonlight  or  sunset,  diffused  over  a  known 
and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  rep- 
resent the  practicability  of  combining 
both.  These  are  the  poetry  of  nature. 
The  thought  suggested  itself  (to  which  of 


us  I  do  not  recollect)  that  a  series  of  poems 
might  be  composed  of  two  sorts.  In  the 
one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to 
be,  in  part  at  least,  supernatural;  and 
the  excellence  aimed  at  was  to  consist  [20 
in  the  interesting  of  the  affections  by  the 
dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions  as  would 
naturally  accompany  such  situations,  sup- 
posing them  real.  And  real  in  this  sense 
they  have  been  to  every  human  being 
who,  from  whatever  source  of  delusion, 
has  at  any  time  believed  himself  under 
supernatural  agency.  For  the  second 
class,  subjects  were  to  be  chosen  from 
ordinary  life;  the  characters  and  [30 
incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  found 
in  every  village  and  its  vicinity,  where 
there  is  a  meditative  and  feeling  mind  to 
seek  after  them,  or  to  notice  them  when 
they  present  themselves. 

In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the 
Lyrical  Ballads;  in  which  it  was  agreed 
that  my  endeavors  should  be  directed  to 
persons  and  characters  supernatural,  or 
at  least  romantic;  yet  so  as  to  transfer  [40 
from  our  inward  nature  a  human  in- 
terest and  a  semblance  of  truth  sufficient 
to  procure  for  these  shadows  of  imagina- 
tion that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief 
for  the  moment,  which  constitutes  poetic 
faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  to  propose  to  himself  as  his 
object,  to  give  the  charm  of  novelty  to 
things  of  every  day,  and  to  excite  a  feeling 
analogous  to  the  supernatural,  by  [50 
awakening  the  mind's  attention  from 
the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  directing  it 
to  the  loveliness  and  the  wonders  of  the 
world  before  us;  an  inexhaustible  treasure, 
but  for  which,  in  consequence  of  the  film 
of  familiarity  and  selfish  solicitude,  we 
have  eyes,  yet  see  not,  ears  that  hear 
not,  and  hearts  that  neither  feel  nor 
understand. 

With  this  view  I  wrote  The  Ancient  [60 
Mariner,  and  was  preparing,  among  other 
poems,  The  Dark  Ladie,  and  the  Chris- 
label,  in  which  I  should  have  more  nearly 
realized  my  ideal  than  I  had  done  in  my 
first  attempt.  But  Mr.  Wordsworth's 
industry  had  proved  so  much  more  suc- 
cessful, and  the  number  of  his  poems  so 
much  greater,  that  my  compositions, 
instead  of  forming  a  balance,  appeared 


COLERIDGE 


437 


rather  an  interpolation  of  heterogene-  [70 
ous  matter.  Mr.  Wordsworth  added  two 
or  three  poems  written  in  his  own  char- 
acter, in  the  impassioned,  lofty,  and  sus- 
tained diction  which  is  characteristic  of 
his  genius.  In  this  form  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  were  published;  and  were  pre- 
sented by  him,  as  an  experiment,  whether 
subjects,  which  from  their  nature  rejected 
the  usual  ornaments  and  extra-colloquial 
style  of  poems  in  general,  might  not  [80 
be  so  managed  in  the  language  of  ordinary 
life  as  to  produce  the  pleasurable  interest 
which  it  is  the  peculiar  business  of  poetry 
to  impart.  To  the  second  edition  he 
added  a  preface  of  considerable  length;  in 
which,  notwithstanding  some  passages 
of  apparently  a  contrary  import,  he  was 
understood  to  contend  for  the  extension 
of  this  style  to  poetry  of  all  kinds,  and 
to  reject  as  vicious  and  indefensible  all  [90 
phrases  and  forms  of  style  that  were  not 
included  in  what  he  (unfortunately,  I 
think,  adopting  an  equivocal  expression,) 
called  the  language  of  real  life.  From 
this  preface,  prefixed  to  poems  in  which 
it  was  impossible  to  deny  the  presence  of 
original  genius,  however  mistaken  its  di- 
rection might  be  deemed,  arose  the  whole 
long-continued  controversy.  For  from 
the  conjunction  of  perceived  power  [100 
with  supposed  heresy  I  explain  the  in- 
veteracy, and  in  some  instances,  I  grieve 
to  say,  the  acrimonious  passions,  with 
which  the  controversy  has  been  con- 
ducted by  the  assailants. 

Had  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poems  been  the 
silly,  the  childish  things,  which  they  were 
for  a  long  time  described  as  being;  had 
they  been  really  distinguished  from  the 
compositions  of  other  poets  merely  by  [no 
meanness  of  language,  and  inanity  of 
thought;  had  they  indeed  contained  noth- 
ing more  than  what  is  found  in  the  paro- 
dies and  pretended  imitations  of  them; 
they  must  have  sunk  at  once,  a  dead 
weight,  into  the  slough  of  oblivion,  and 
have  dragged  the  preface  along  with 
them.  But  year  after  year  increased  the 
number  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  admirers. 
They  were  found,  too,  not  in  the  lower  [120 
classes  of  the  reading  public,  but  chiefly 
among  young  men  of  strong  sensibility 
and  meditative  minds;  and  their  admira- 


tion (inflamed  perhaps  in  some  degree  by 
opposition)  was  distinguished  by  its 
intensity,  I  might  almost  say  by  its  re- 
ligious fervor.  These  facts,  and  the  in- 
tellectual energy  of  the  author,  which 
was  more  or  less  consciously  felt,  where 
it  was  outwardly  and  even  bois-  [130 
terously  denied,  meeting  with  sentiments 
of  aversion  to  his  opinions,  and  of  alarm 
at  their  consequences,  produced  an  eddy 
of  criticism,  which  would  of  itself  have 
borne  up  the  poems  by  the  violence  with 
which  it  whirled  them  round  and  round. 
With  many  parts  of  this  preface,  in  the 
sense  attributed  to  them,  and  which 
the  words  undoubtedly  seem  to  authorize, 
I  never  concurred;  but,  on  the  con-  [140 
trary,  objected  to  them  as  erroneous  in 
principle,  and  as  contradictory  (in  ap- 
pearance at  least)  both  to  other  parts  of 
the  same  preface  and  to  the  author's 
own  practice  in  the  greater  number  of 
the  poems  themselves.  Mr.  Wordsworth, 
in  his  recent  collection,  has,  I  find,  de- 
graded this  prefatory  disquisition  to  the 
end  of  his  second  volume,  to  be  read  or 
not  at  the  reader's  choice.  But  he  [150 
has  not,  as  far  as  I  can  discover,  an- 
nounced any  change  in  his  poetic  creed. 
At  all  events,  considering  it  as  the  source 
of  a  controversy,  in  which  I  have  been 
honored  more  than  I  deserve  by  the  fre- 
quent conjunction  of  my  name  with  his, 
I  think  it  expedient  to  declare,  once  for 
all,  in  what  points  I  coincide  with  his 
opinions,  and  in  what  points  I  altogether 
differ.  But  in  order  to  render  myself  [160 
intelligible,  I  must  previously,  in  as  few 
words  as  possible,  explain  my  ideas,  first, 
of  a  poem;  and  secondly,  of  poetry  itself, 
in  kind  and  in  essence. 

The  office  of  philosophical  disquisition 
consists  in  just  distinction;  while  it  is 
the  privilege  of  the  philosopher  to  pre- 
serve himself  constantly  aware  that  dis- 
tinction is  not  division.  In  order  to  ob- 
tain adequate  notions  of  any  truth,  [170 
we  must  intellectually  separate  its  dis- 
tinguishable parts;  and  this  is  the  tech- 
nical process  of  philosophy.  But  having 
so  done,  we  must  then  restore  them  in  our 
conceptions  to  the  unity  in  which  they 
actually  coexist;  and  this  is  the  result  of 
philosophy.     A  poem  contains  the  same 


43« 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


elements  as  a  prose  composition;  the  dif- 
ference, therefore,  must  consist  in  a  dif- 
ferent combination  of  them,  in  conse-  [180 
quence  of  a  different  object  proposed. 
According  to  the  difference  of  the  object 
will  be  the  difference  of  the  combination. 
It  is  possible  that  the  object  may  be 
merely  to  facilitate  the  recollection  of 
any  given  facts  or  observations  by  arti- 
ficial arrangement;  and  the  composition 
will  be  a  poem,  merely  because  it  is  dis- 
tinguished from  prose  by  meter,  or  by 
rime,  or  by  both  conjointly.  In  this,  [190 
the  lowest  sense,  a  man  might  attribute 
the  name  of  a  poem  to  the  well-known 
enumeration  of  the  days  in  the  several 
months : 

"Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June,  and  November,"  etc., 

and  others  of  the  same  class  and  pur- 
pose. And  as  a  particular  pleasure  is 
found  in  anticipating  the  recurrence  of 
sound  and  quantities,  all  compositions  [200 
that  have  this  charm  superadded,  what- 
ever be  their  contents,  may  be  entitled 
poems. 

So  much  for  the  superficial  form.  A 
difference  of  object  and  contents  supplies 
an  additional  ground  of  distinction.  The 
immediate  purpose  may  be  the  communi- 
cation of  truths:  either  of  truth  absolute 
and  demonstrable,  as  in  works  of  science; 
or  of  facts  experienced  and  recorded,  [210 
as  in  history.  Pleasure,  and  that  of  the 
highest  and  most  permanent  kind,  may 
result  from  the  attainment  of  the  end; 
but  it  is  not  itself  the  immediate  end. 
In  other  works  the  communication  of 
pleasure  may  be  the  immediate  purpose; 
and  though  truth,  either  moral  or  intel- 
lectual, ought  to  be  the  ultimate  end,  yet 
this  will  distinguish  the  character  of  the 
author,  not  the  class  to  which  the  [220 
work  belongs.  .  .  . 

But  the  communication  of  pleasure  may 
be  the  immediate  object  of  a  work  not 
metrically  composed;  and  that  object 
may  have  been  in  a  high  degree  attained, 
as  in  novels  and  romances.  Would  then 
the  mere  superaddition  of  meter,  with  or 
without  rime,  entitle  these  to  the  name 
of  poems?  The  answer  is,  that  nothing 
can  permanently  please,  which  does  [230 


not  contain  in  itself  the  reason  why  it  is 
so,  and  not  otherwise.  If  meter  be  super- 
added, all  other  parts  must  be  made 
consonant  with  it.  They  must  be  such  as 
to  justify  the  perpetual  and  distinct  at- 
tention to  each  part,  which  an  exact  cor- 
respondent recurrence  of  accent  and 
sound  are  calculated  to  excite.  The  final 
definition  then,  so  deduced,  may  be 
thus  worded.  A  poem  is  that  species  [240 
of  composition,  which  is  opposed  to  works 
of  science,  by  proposing  for  its  immediate 
object  pleasure,  not  truth;  and  from  all 
other  species  (having  this  object  in  com- 
mon with  it)  it  is  discriminated  by  pro- 
posing to  itself  such  delight  from  the 
whole,  as  is  compatible  with  a  distinct 
gratification  from  each  component  part. 
Controversy  is  not  seldom  excited  in 
consequence  of  the  disputants  at-  [250 
taching  each  a  different  meaning  to  the 
same  word;  and  in  few  instances  has  this 
been  more  striking  than  in  disputes  con- 
cerning the  present  subject.  If  a  man 
chooses  to  call  every  composition  a  poem, 
which  is  rime,  or  measure,  or  both,  I  must 
leave  his  opinion  uncontroverted.  The 
distinction  is  at  least  competent  to  char- 
acterize the  writer's  intention.  If  it  were 
subjoined,  that  the  whole  is  likewise  [260 
entertaining  or  affecting  as  a  tale,  or  as 
a  series  of  interesting  reflections,  I  of 
course  admit  this  as  another  fit  ingredi- 
ent of  a  poem,  and  an  additional  merit. 
But  if  the  definition  sought  for  be  that 
of  a  legitimate  poem,  I  answer,  it  must 
be  one  the  parts  of  which  mutually  sup- 
port and  explain  each  other;  all  in  their 
proportion  harmonizing  with,  and  sup- 
porting the  purpose  and  known  in-  [270 
fluences  of  metrical  arrangement.  The 
philosophic  critics  of  all  ages  coincide  with 
the  ultimate  judgment  of  all  countries, 
in  equally  denying  the  praises  of  a  just 
poem,  on  the  one  hand,  to  a  series  of 
striking  lines  or  distichs,  each  of  which 
absorbing  the  whole  attention  of  the 
reader  to  itself,  disjoins  it  from  its  con- 
text, and  makes  it  a  separate  whole,  in- 
stead of  a  harmonizing  part;  and  on  [280 
the  other  hand,  to  an  unsustained  com- 
position, from  which  the  reader  collects 
rapidly  the  general  result  unattracted  by 
the  component  parts.    The  reader  should 


COLERIDGE 


439 


be  carried  forward,  not  merely  or  chiefly 
by  the  mechanical  impulse  of  curiosity,  or 
by  a  restless  desire  to  arrive  at  the  final 
solution;  but  by  the  pleasurable  activity 
of  mind  excited  by  the  attractions  of  the 
journey  itself.  Like  the  motion  of  a  [290 
serpent,  which  the  Egyptians  made  the 
emblem  of  intellectual  power;  or  like  the 
path  of  sound  through  the  air,  at  every 
step  he  pauses  and  half  recedes,  and  from 
the  retrogressive  movement  collects  the 
force  which  again  carries  him  onward. 
PrcBcipitandus  est  liber  spiritus,  says 
Petronius  Arbiter  most  happily.  The  epi- 
thet, liber,  here  balances  the  preceding 
verb:  and  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  [300 
more  meaning  condensed  in  fewer  words. 

But  if  this  should  be  admitted  as  a 
satisfactory  character  of  a  poem,  we  have 
still  to  seek  for  a  definition  of  poetry. 
The  writings  of  Plato,  and  Bishop  Taylor, 
and  the  Theoria  Sacra  of  Burnet,  furnish 
undeniable  proofs  that  poetry  of  the 
highest  kind  may  exist  wdthout  meter, 
and  even  without  the  contra-distinguish- 
ing objects  of  a  poem.  The  first  chap-  [310 
ter  of  Isaiah  (indeed  a  very  large  propor- 
tion of  the  whole  book)  is  poetry  in  the 
most  emphatic  sense;  yet  it  would  be  not 
less  irrational  than  strange  to  assert,  that 
pleasure,  and  not  truth,  was  the  imme- 
diate object  of  the  prophet.  In  short, 
whatever  specific  import  we  attach  to  the 
word  poetry,  there  will  be  found  involved 
in  it,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  that  a 
poem  of  any  length  neither  can  be,  [320 
nor  ought  to  be,  all  poetry.  Yet  if  a  har- 
monious whole  is  to  be  produced,  the  re- 
maining parts  must  be  preserved  in  keep- 
ing with  the  poetry;  and  this  can  be  no 
otherwise  effected  than  by  such  a  studied 
selection  and  artificial  arrangement  as 
will  partake  of  one,  though  not  a  peculiar 
property  of  poetry.  And  this  again  can 
be  no  other  than  the  property  of  exciting 
a  more  continuous  and  equal  atten-  [330 
tion  than  the  language  of  prose  aims  at, 
whether  colloquial  or  written.  .  .  . 

What  is  poetry?  is  so  nearly  the  same 
question  with,  what  is  a  poet?  that  the 
answer  to  the  one  is  involved  in  the  solu- 
tion of  the  other.  For  it  is  a  distinction 
resulting  from  the  poetic  genius  itself, 
which  sustains  and  modifies  the  images, 


thoughts,  and  emotions  of  the  poet's 
own  mind.  The  poet,  described  in  [340 
ideal  perfection,  brings  the  whole  soul 
of  man  into  activity,  with  the  subordina- 
tion of  its  faculties  to  each  other,  ac- 
cording to  their  relative  worth  and  dig- 
nity. He  diffuses  a  tone  and  spirit  of 
unity,  that  blends,  and  (as  it  were) 
fuses,  each  into  each,  by  that  synthetic 
and  magical  power,  to  which  we  have 
exclusively  appropriated  the  name  of 
imagination.  This  power,  first  put  [350 
in  action  by  the  will  and  understanding, 
and  retained  under  their  irremissive, 
though  gentle  and  unnoticed,  control 
(laxis  ejfertur  habenis),  reveals  itself  in  the 
balance  or  reconciliation  of  opposite  or 
discordant  qualities:  of  sameness,  with 
difference;  of  the  general,  with  the  con- 
crete; the  idea,  with  the  image;  the  in- 
dividual, wTith  the  representative;  the 
sense  of  novelty  and  freshness,  with  [360 
old  and  familiar  objects;  a  more  than 
usual  state  of  emotion,  with  more  than 
usual  order;  judgment  ever  awake  and 
steady  self-possession  with  enthusiasm 
and  feeling  profound  or  vehement;  and 
while  it  blends  and  harmonizes  the  nat- 
ural and  the  artificial,  still  subordinates 
art  to  nature;  the  manner  to  the  matter; 
and  our  admiration  of  the  poet  to  our 
sympathy  with  the  poetry.  "Doubt-  [370 
less,"  as  Sir  John  Davies  observes  of  the 
soul  (and  his  words  may  with  slight  al- 
teration be  applied,  and  even  more  ap- 
propriately, to  the  poetic  imagination), — 

"  Doubtless  this  could  not  be,  but  that  she 
turns 

Bodies  to  spirit  by  sublimation  strange, 
As  fire  converts  to  fire  the  things  it  burns, 

As  we  our  food  into  our  nature  change. 

"From  their  gross  matter  she  abstracts 

their  forms, 

And  draws  a  kind  of  quintessence  from 

things;  [380 

Which  to  her  proper  nature  she  transforms 

To   bear   them   light   on   her   celestial 

wings. 

"Thus  does  she,   when   from  individual 
states 
She  doth  abstract  the  universal  kinds; 


44Q 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Which  then  re-clothed  in  divers  names  and 
fates 
Steal  access  through  our  senses  to  our 
minds." 

Finally,  good  sense  is  the  body  of  poetic 
genius,  fancy  its  drapery,  motion  its  life, 
and  imagination  the  soul  that  is  every- 
where, and  in  each,  and  forms  all  into  [390 
one  graceful  and  intelligent  whole. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY  (1774-1843) 

THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be, 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without   either   sign   or   sound   of   their 
shock  5 

The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 

Had  placed  that  bell  on   the   Inchcape 

Rock;  10 

On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and 

swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's 

swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock,  15 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled 

round, 
And  there  was  joyaunce  in  their  sound.  20 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 


He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring, 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 


25 


His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat,  30 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And    I'll    plague    the    Abbot    of    Aber- 
brothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 
And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat,          35 
And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape 
float. 

Down  sunk  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound, 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "The  next  who  comes 

to  the  rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok."  40 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away, 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day; 
And  now  grown  rich  with  plundered  store 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky         45 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand, 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land.  50 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"Canst  hear,"  said  one,   "the   breakers 

roar? 
For   methinks    we   should   be    near   the 

shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell,  55 

But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen  they  drift 

along, 
Till   the   vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering 

shock, — 
' '  Oh  Christ !  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock ! "     60 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair; 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear  65 

One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear, 
A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  Bell 
The  Devil  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 


SCOTT 


441 


MY  DAYS  AMONG  THE  DEAD  ARE 
PASSED 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  passed; 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  -casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they,  5 

With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe,  10 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead;  with 
them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn,  15 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be,  20 

And  I  with  them  will  travel  on 
Through  all  futurity; 

Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 

That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  (1771-1832) 

From  MARMION,  CANTO  V 

LOCHINVAR 

0,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 
west, 

Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was 
the  best; 

And,  save  his  good  broadsword,  he  weap- 
ons had  none, 

He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in 
war,  5 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young 
Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped 

not  for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  River  where  ford  there 

was  none; 


But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 
late;  10 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in 
war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Loch- 
invar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 
Among    bridesmen,    and    kinsmen,    and 

brothers,  and  all. 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand 

on  his  sword  15 

(For   the   poor   craven   bridegroom   said 

never  a  word), 
"0,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 

war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord 

Lochinvar?" 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you 

denied ; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like 

its  tide, —  20 

And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 

mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup 

of  wine. 
There    are    maidens    in    Scotland    more 

lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 

Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  knight 

took  it  up,  25 

He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw 

down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she -looked 

up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her 

eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother 

could  bar, — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure,"  said  young 

Lochinvar.  30 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard1  did 

grace; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father 

did  fume, 
And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his 

bonnet  and  plume; 

1  lively  dance. 


44^ 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  the  bridemaidens  whispered,  "  'Twere 
better  by  far  35 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with 
young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in 

her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the 

charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he 

swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung; 
"  She  is  won !  we  are  gone !  over  bank,  bush, 

and  scaur;1  41 

They'll    have   fleet   steeds    that   follow," 

quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the 

Netherby  clan; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they 

rode  and  they  ran: 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Can- 

nobie  Lee,  45 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did 

they  see. 
So  daring   in   love,  and   so  dauntless  in 

war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 

Lochinvar? 


From  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE 
SOLDIER,  REST! 

Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall,  5 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest!  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ;  10 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 
Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 

Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here  15 

Mustering  clan  or  squadron  tramping. 

•cliff. 


Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow.        20 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here. 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champ- 
ing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping. 

Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done;         25 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep!  the  deer  is  in  his  den; 

Sleep!  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying:  30 
Sleep !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest!  thy  chase  is  done; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye  35 

Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille. 


BOAT  SONG 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who   in   triumph  ad- 
vances ! 
Honored  and  blessed  be  the  ever-green 
Pine! 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that 
glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our 
line! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew,  5 

Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 
Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow, 
While  every  Highland  glen 
Sends  back  our  shout  again, 
Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!      10 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the 
fountain, 
Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every 
leaf  on  the  mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her 
shade. 
Moored  in  the  rifted  rock,  15 

Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow; 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 
Echo  his  praise  again, 
Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!       20 


SCOTT 


443 


Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen 
Fruin, 
And  Bannochar's  groans  to  our  slogan 
replied ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking 
in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie  dead 
on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid  25 

Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with 
woe; 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  again, 
Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho!  ieroe!     30 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the 
Highlands! 
Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  ever-green 
Pine! 
O!  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  is- 
lands 
Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him 
to  twine! 
O  that  some  seedling  gem,  35 

Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honored  and  blessed  in  their  shadow 
might  grow! 
Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho !  ieroe !      40 


CORONACH 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing,  5 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary,  10 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing,  15 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 


Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever! 


HARP  OF  THE  NORTH 

Harp  of  the  North,  farewell!     The  hills 
grow  dark, 
On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descend- 
ing; 
In  twilight  copse  the  glow-worm  lights  her 
spark, 
The  deer,  half-seen,  are  to  the  covert 
wending. 
Resume    thy   wizard   elm!    the   fountain 
lending,  5 

And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  min- 
strelsy; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  with  nature's  vespers 
blending, 
With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea, 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of 
housing  bee. 

Yet  once  again  farewell,   thou  Minstrel 
harp!  10 

Yet  once  again  forgive  my  feeble  swayv 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains  on  life's 
long  way, 
Through    secret    woes    the    world    has 
never  known,  15 

When  on  the  weary  night  dawned  wearier 
day, 
And   bitterer   was   the   grief  devoured 
alone. 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  Enchantress! 
is  thine  own. 

Hark!  as  my  lingering  footsteps  slow  re- 
tire, 
Some  Spirit  of  the  Air  has  waked  thy 
string!  20 

'Tis  now  a  seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 
'Tis   now   the   brush   of   Fairy's   frolic 
wing. 


444 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Receding  now,  the  dying  numbers  ring 
Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged 
dell, 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely 
bring  25 

A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant 
spell — 
And   now,    'tis   silent   all! — Enchantress, 
fare  thee  well ! 

JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 

"  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride; 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie,  5 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale;  10 

Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa'         15 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair;  20 

And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen" — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide,     25 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha' ; 

The  lady  was  not  seen!  30 

She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

BRIGNALL  BANKS 

Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 


And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily: — 
"Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green;  10 

I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." — 

"  If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we  15 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed, 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May." —  20 

Yet  sung  she:  "Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

"  I  read  you  by  your  bugle-horn,  25 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn 

To  keep  the  King's  greenwood." — 
"A  ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light:  30 

His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night." — 
Yet  sung  she:  "Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay: 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there,        35 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May. 

"With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  dragoon 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum." —  40 

"I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear, 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  oh,  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair,    45 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May! 

"Maiden,  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 
A  nameless  death  I'll  die:  50 

The  fiend,  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 
Were  better  mate  than  I! 

And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met, 
Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 


SCOTT 


445 


What  once  we  were  we  all  forget,  55 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 
Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen."  60 

COUNTY  GUY 

Ah!  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrilled  all  day,       5 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh: 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear;  10 

To  beauty  shy  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky; 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know —  15 

But  where  is  County  Guy? 


BONNY  DUNDEE 


To 


the    Lords    of    Convention    't    was 

CI  aver 'se  who  spoke, 
"Ere  the  King's  crown  shall  fall  there  are 

crowns  to  be  broke; 
So  let  each  Cavalier  who  loves  honor  and 

me, 
Come  follow  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 

can,  5 

Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up 

your  men; 
Come  open  the  West  Port  and  let  me 

gang  free, 
And  it's  room   for   the   bonnets  of 

Bonny  Dundee!" 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the 

street, 
The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums 

they  are  beat;  10 

But  the  provost,  douce1  man,  said,  "Just 

e'en  let  him  be, 
The  Gude  Town  is  weel  quit  of  that  Deil 

of  Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

1  sedate. 


As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of 

the  Bow, 
Ilk  ca-rline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her 

pow; 
But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked 

couthie  and  slee,  15 

Thinking,    luck    to    thy    bonnet,    thou 

Bonny  Dundee! 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grass- 
market  was  crammed 

As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be 
hanged ; 

There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was 
fear  in  each  e'e, 

As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee.  20 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and 
had  spears, 

And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers; 

But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads  and  the 
causeway  was  free, 

At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  spurred  to  the  foot  of  the  proud  Castle 

rock,  25 

And  with  the  gay  Gordon  he  gallantly 

spoke ; 
"Let  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows2  speak 

twa  words  or  three, 
For   the   love   of   the   bonnet   of   Bonny 

Dundee." 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

The  Gordon  demands  of  him  which  way 

he  goes — 
"Where'er  shall  direct  me  the  shade  of 

Montrose !  30 

Your    Grace   in    short    space   shall    hear 

tidings  of  me, 
Or  that  low  lies   the  bonnet  of  Bonny 

Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There  are  hills  beyond   Pentland  and 

lands  beyond  Forth, 
If  there's  lords  in  the  Lowlands,  there's 

chiefs  in  the  North; 

2  companions. 


446 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


There  are  wild  Duniewassals  three  thou- 
sand times  three,  35 

Will  cry  hoigh!  for  the  bonnet  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"There's  brass  on  the  target  of  barkened1 
bull-hide; 

There's  steel  in  the  scabbard  that  dangles 
beside ; 

The  brass  shall  be  burnished,   the  steel 
shall  flash  free, 

At  a  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonny  Dun- 
dee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

"Away  to  the  hills,  to  the  caves,  to  the 

rocks —  41 

Ere  I  own  an  usurper,  I'll  couch  with  the 

fox; 
And  tremble,  false  Whigs,  in  the  midst  of 

your  glee, 
You  have  not  seen  the  last  of  my  bonnet 

and  me!" 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  etc. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand  and  the  trump- 
ets were  blown,  45 
The  kettle-drums  clashed  and  the  horse- 
men rode  on, 
Till   on   Ravelston's   cliffs   and   on   Cler- 

miston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my 

can, 
Come  saddle  the  horses  and  call  up 
the  men,  50 

Come  open  your  gates  and  let  me  gae 

free, 
For  it's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  Bonny 
Dundee! 


GEORGE  GORDON,  LORD  BYRON 

(1788-1824) 

WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED 

When  we  two  parted 
In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted 
To  sever  for  years, 

1  tanned. 


Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame: 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well: — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 


15 


25 


3° 


KNOW  YE  THE  LAND? 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and 

myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in 

their  clime? 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of 

the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to 

crime? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine,     5 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams 

ever  shine; 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed 

with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her 

bloom; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of 

fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is 

mute;  10 


BYRON 


447 


Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues 

of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they 

twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine?  15 
Tis  the  clime  of  the  East;  'tis  the  land  of 

the  Sun — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children 

have  done? 
Oh!  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the 

tales  which  they  tell. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes: 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light  5 

Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face;  10 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling- 
place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow,  15 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent! 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF 
SENNACHERIB 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 

the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple 

and  gold; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like 

stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep 

Galilee. 


Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Sum- 
mer is  green,  5 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset 
were  seen: 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn 
hath  blown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered 
and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings 

on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 

passed;  10 

And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly 

and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and 

for  ever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all 

wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath 

of  his  pride; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on 

the  turf,  15 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating 

surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow,  and  the  rust  on 
his  mail: 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners 
alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  un- 
blown. 20 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their 

wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of 

Baal; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by 

the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the 

Lord! 

STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  thee; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me: 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing        5 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing, 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lulled  winds  seem  dreaming. 


448 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep;        10 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 
As  an  infant's  asleep: 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion,  15 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 


SO,  WE'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A-ROVING 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 

So  late  into  the  night, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath,  5 

And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 
And  the  day  returns  too  soon,  10 

Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 
By  the  light  of  the  moon. 


MY  BOAT  IS  ON  THE  SHORE 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee! 

Here's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me,      5 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate; 

And,  whatever  sky's  above  me, 
Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 
Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on;  10 

Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 
It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 
As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell,  15 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore.  20 


SONNET  ON  CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty!  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can 

bind; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  con- 
signed— s 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless 

gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyr- 
dom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every 

wind. 
Chillon !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place, 
And  thy  sad  steps  an  altar — for  't  was 
trod,  io 

Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 
Worn,  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard!     May  none  those  marks 

efface ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON 

My  hair  is  gray,  but  not  with  years; 
Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a  single  night, 
As  men's  have  grown  from  sudden  fears: 
My   limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with 
toil, 

But  rusted  with  a  vile  repose,  6 

For  they  have  been  a  dungeon's  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned,  and  barred — forbidden  fare;  10 
But  this  was  for  my  father's  faith 
I  suffered  chains  and  courted  death: 
That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake; 
And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race  15 

In  darkness  found  a  dwelling-place. 
We  were  seven — who  now  are  one; 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 
Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  Persecution's  rage;  20 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 
Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed 
Dying  as  their  father  died, 
For  the  God  their  foes  denied; — 
Three  were  in  a  dungeon  cast,  25 

Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 


BYRON 


449 


There  are  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon's  dungeons  deep  and  old; 
There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray,  30 

A  sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 
And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left: 
Creeping  o'er  the  floor  so  damp, 
Like  a  marsh's  meteor  lamp:  35 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain ; 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away,      40 
Till  I  have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I  cannot  count  them  o'er; 
I  lost  their  long  and  heavy  score  45 

When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I  lay  living  by  his  side. 

They  chained  us  each  to  a  column  stone, 

And  we  were  three — yet  each  alone; 

We  could  not  move  a  single  pace,  50 

We  could  not  see  each  other's  face, 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 

That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight: 

And  thus  together — yet  apart, 

Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart,     55 

'Twas  still  some  solace  in  the  dearth 

Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 

To  hearken  to  each  other's  speech, 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each, 

With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old,  60 

Or  song  heroically  bold; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a  dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A  grating  sound— not  full  and  free      65 
As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be: 
It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

I  was  the  eldest  of  the  three; 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest        70 

I  ought  to  do — and  did — my  best, 
And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 

The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother's  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven, —  75 

For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved. 
And  truly  might  it  be  distressed 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a  nest; 


So 


For  he  was  beautiful  as  day — 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free) — 
A  polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A  sunset  till  its  summer's  gone, 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 
The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun :  85 

And  thus  he  was  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 
With  tears  for  naught  but  others'  ills, 
And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  woe 
Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 


90 


The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 
But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a  mood 
Which  'gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank  96 

With  joy — but  not  in  chains  to  pine: 
His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank, 

I  saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so  perchance  in  sooth  did  mine;  100 
But  yet  I  forced  it  on  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a  home  so  dear. 
He  was  a  hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf; 

To  him  this  dungeon  was  a  gulf,  105 

And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  walls: 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow; 
Thus  much  the  fathom  line  was  sent      '  no 
From  Chillon's  snow-white  battlement, 

Which  round  about  the  wave  enthralls: 
A  double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a  living  grave. 
Below  the  surface  of  the  lake  115 

The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay; 
We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day; 

Sounding  o'er  our  heads  it  knocked; 
And  I  have  felt  the  winter's  spray 
Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were 
high  120 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 

And  I  have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked, 
Because  I  could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free.  125 

I  said  my  nearer  brother  pined, 
I  said  his  mighty  heart  declined, 
He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food: 
It  was  not  that  'twas  coarse  and  rude 


45° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


For  we  were  used  to  hunters'  fare,  130 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care: 
The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat; 
Our  bread  was  such  as  captives'  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a  thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men       136 
Like  brutes  within  an  iron  den; 
But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him? 
These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb; 
My  brother's  soul  was  of  that  mould     140 
Which  in  a  palace  had  grown  'cold, 
Had  his  free-breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain's  side. 
But  why  delay  the  truth? — he  died. 
I  saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head,       145 
Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead — 
Though   hard    I    strove,    but    strove   in 

vain, 
To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 
He  died — and  they  unlocked  his  chain 
And  scooped  for  him  a  shallow  grave    150 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 
I  begged  them,  as  a  boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a  foolish  thought, 
But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought,     155 
That  even  in  death  his  free-born  breast 
In  such  a  dungeon  could  not  rest. 
I  might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 
They  coldly  laughed — and  laid  him  there: 
The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above  160 

The  being  we  so  much  did  love; 
His  empty  chain  above  it  leant, 
Such  murder's  fitting  monument! 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour,       165 

His  mother's  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyred  father's  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care,  for  whom  I  sought 

To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be      170 

Less  wretched  now,  and  one  day  free; 

He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 

A  spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  by  day 

Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away.  175 

O  God!  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 

In  any  shape,  in  any  mood: — 

I've  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood, 

I've  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean         180 

Strive  with  a  swollen  convulsive  motion, 


I've  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  Sin  delirious  with  its  dread: 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  woe 

Unmixed  with  such, — but  sure  and  slow: 

He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek,  186 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender, — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind; 

With  all  the  while  a  cheek  whose  bloom 

Was  as  a  mockery  of  the  tomb,  191 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 

As  a  departing  rainbow's  ray — 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright,  195 

And  not  a  word  of  murmur — not 

A  groan  o'er  his  untimely  lot! 

A  little  talk  of  better  days, 

A  little  hope  my  own  to  raise, 

For  I  was  sunk  in  silence — lost  200 

In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most: 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 

Of  fainting  nature's  feebleness, 

More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less. 

I  listened,  but  I  could  not  hear —  205 

I  called,  for  I  was  wild  with  fear; 

I  knew  'twas  hopeless,  but  my  dread 

Would  not  be  thus  admonished; 

I  called,  and  thought  I  heard  a  sound — 

I  burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

And  rushed  to  him;— I  found  him  not;  211 

I  only  stirred  in  this  black  spot, 

7"  only  lived — I  only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew; 

The  last, — the  sole, — the  dearest  link    215 

Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink 

Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

Was  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe: 

I  took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still;        221 

Alas,  my  own  was  full  as  chill; 

I  had  not  strength  to  stir  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I  was  still  alive — 

A  frantic  feeling,  when  we  know  225 

That  what  we  love  shall  ne'er  be  so. 

I  know  not  why 

I  could  not  die; 
I  had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 
And  that  forbade  a  selfish  death.  230 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I  know  not  well — I  never  knew: — 
First  came  the  loss  of  light,  and  air, 
And  then  of  darkness  too: 


BYRON 


45i 


I  had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none —  235 

Among  the  stones  I  stood  a  stone, 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I  wist, 

As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray, 

It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day;  240 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight, 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness,  without  a  place: 

There    were    no    stars, — no    earth, — no 

time,—  245 

No    check, — no    change, — no    good, — no 

crime, — 
But  silence,  and  a  stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death ; 
A  sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 
Blind, boundless,  mute,  and  motionless!  250 

A  light  broke  in  upon  my  brain — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a  bird; 
It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again, 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard; 
And  mine  was  thankful,  till  my  eyes     255 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 
And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I  was  the  mate  of  misery; 
But  then  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track,  260 

I  saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before, 
I  saw  the  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done, 
But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came  265 
That  bird  was  perched,  as  fond  and  tame, 

And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree; 
A  lovely  bird,  with  azure  wings, 
And  song  that  said  a  thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me!  270 

I  never  saw  its  like  before, 

I  ne'er  shall  see  its  likeness  more: 

It  seemed,  like  me,  to  want  a  mate, 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate, 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when         275 

None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And  cheering  from  my  dungeon's  brink, 

Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I  know  not  if  it  late  were  free. 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine,  280 
But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird,  I  could  not  wish  for  thine ! 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 
A  visitant  from  Paradise; 


For — Heaven   forgive   that   thought!   the 
while  285 

Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile; 
I  sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother's  soul  come  down  to  me; 
But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 
And  then  'twas  mortal — well  I  knew,    290 
For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 
And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone — 
Lone, — as  the  corse  within  its  shroud; 
Lone, — as  a  solitary  cloud, 

A  single  cloud  on  a  sunny  day,  295 

While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 
A  frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 
That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue  and  earth  is  gay. 

A  kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate,        300 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate: 

I  know  not  what  had  made  them  so, 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe; 

But  so  it  was — my  broken  chain 

With  links  unfastened  did  remain,  305 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 

Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one,  310 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun, 

Avoiding  only,  as  I  trod, 

My  brothers'  graves  without  a  sod; 

For  if  I  thought  with  heedless  tread 

My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed,         315 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 

And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

I  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 
For  I  had  buried  one  and  all  320 

Who  loved  me  in  a  human  shape; 
And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A  wider  prison  unto  me: 
No  child — no  sire — no  kin  had  I, 
No  partner  in  my  misery;  325 

I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  glad, 
For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad; 
But  I  was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more,  upon  the  mountains  high,  330 
The  quiet  of  a  loving  eye. 
I  saw  them — and  they  were  the  same, 
They  were  not  changed  like  me  in  frame; 
I  saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide  long  lake  below,    335 
And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow; 


45^ 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


I  heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O'er  channeled  rock  and  broken  bush; 
I  saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 
And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down;     340 
And  then  there  was  a  little  isle, 
Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile, 

The  only  one  in  view: 
A  small  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 
Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor;  345 
But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 
And  o'er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 
And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  grow- 
ing, 

Of  gentle  breath  and  hue.  350 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 
And  they  seemed  joyous,  each  and  all; 
The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast, 
Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly,  355 

And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 
And  I  felt  troubled — and  would  fain 
I  had  not  left  my  recent  chain; 
And  when  I  did  descend  again, 
The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode  360 

Fell  on  me  as  a  heavy  load; 
It  was  as  is  a  new-dug  grave, 
Closing  o'er  one  we  sought  to  save. 
And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  oppressed, 
Had  almost  need  of  such  a  rest.  365 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days, 

I  kept  no  count — I  took  no  note, 
I  had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote; 
At  last  men  came  to  set  me  free,  370 

I  asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 
Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be, 

I  learned  to  love  despair. 
And  thus,  when  they  appeared  at  last,  375 
And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 
These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A  hermitage — and  all  my  own! 
And  half  I  felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a  second  home ;  380 

With  spiders  I  had  friendship  made, 
And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade, 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play, 
And  why  should  I  feel  less  than  they? 
We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place,  385 

And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 
Had  power  to  kill — yet,  strange  to  tell! 
In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell — 


My  very  chains  and  I  grew  friends, 
So  much  a  long  communion  tends      390 
To  make  us  what  we  are: — even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a  sigh. 


CHILDE  HAROLD'S  PILGRIMAGE 
From  CANTO  III 

Waterloo 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And    Belgium's    capital    had    gathered 

then  182 

Her    Beauty    and    her    Chivalry,    and 

bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and 

brave  men; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and 

when  185 

Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft   eyes   looked  love  to  eyes  which 

spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush!  hark!  a  deep  sound  strikes  like 

a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it? — No;  'twas  but  the 
wind,  190 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street; 

On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  uncon- 
fined; 

No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and 
Pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying 
feet. — 

But  hark!  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in 
once  more,  195 

As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 

And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  be- 
fore! 
Arm!  arm!  it  is! — it  is — the  cannon's  open- 
ing roar! 

Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high 
hall 

Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain;  he  did 
hear  200 

That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 

And  caught  its  tone  with  Death's  pro- 
phetic ear, 

And  when  they  smiled  because  he 
deemed  it  near, 


BYRON 


453 


His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal 

too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody 

bier,  205 

And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone 

could  quell. 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost 

fighting,  fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and 

fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of 

distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour 

ago  210 

Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  love- 
liness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such 

as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and 

choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated:  who 

could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual 

eyes,      _  215 

Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn 

could  rise! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste: 

the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clat-  j 

tering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous 

speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in   the  ranks  of 

war;  220 

And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning 

star; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror 

dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white  lips — "The  foe! 

They  come!  they  come!"  225 

And   wild   and   high   the    "Cameron's 

Gathering"  rose, 
The  war-note  of  Lochiel,  which  Albyn's 

hills 
Have  heard,  and  heard,  too,  have  her 

Saxon  foes; 
How  in  the  noon  of  night  that  pibroch 

thrills 
Savage  and  shrill!    But  with  the  breath 

which  fills  230 


Their  mountain  pipe,  so  fill  the  moun- 
taineers 

With  the  fierce  native  daring  which 
instils 

The   stirring   memory   of   a    thousand 
years, 
And  Evan's,  Donald's,  fame  rings  in  each 
clansman's  ears! 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her 

green  leaves,  235 

Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they 

pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above 

shall  grow  240 

In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder 

cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last   eve   in    Beauty's    circle    proudly 

gay,_ 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound 

of  strife,  246 

The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms — 

the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which 

when  rent 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other 

clay,  250 

Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped 

and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse — friend,  foe, — in  one  red 

burial  blent! 

Lake  Leman 

Lake  Leman  woos  me  with  its  crystal 
face, 

The  mirror  where  the  stars  and  moun- 
tains view  645 

The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each 
trace 

Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height 
and  hue; 

There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look 
through 

With  a  fit  mind  the  might  which  I  be- 
hold; 


454 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


But  soon  in  me  shall  loneliness  renew  650 
Thoughts  hid,   but  not  less  cherished 

than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  had  penned  me 

in  their  fold. 

To  fly  from,  need  not  be  to  hate,  man- 
kind; 
All  are  not  fit  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind  655 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the 

spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the 

coil, 
In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for 
wrong  660 

'Midst    a     contentious    world,    striving 
where  none  are  strong. 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our 

years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight 
Of  our  own  soul  turn  all  our  blood  to 

tears, 
And  color  things  to  come  with  hues  of 

night:  665 

The   race   of   life   becomes   a   hopeless 

flight 
To  those  that  walk  in  darkness;  on  the 

sea 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports 

invite, 
But  there  are  wanderers  o'er  Eternity 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  an- 
chored ne'er  shall  be.  670 

Is  it  not  better,  then,  to  be  alone, 
And  love  Earth  only  for  its  earthly  sake? 
By    the   blue    rushing    of    the    arrowy 

Rhone, 
Or  the  pure  bosom  of  its  nursing  lake, 
Which  feeds  it  as  a  mother  who  doth 

make  675 

A  fair  but  fro  ward  infant  her  own  care, 

Kissing  its  cries  away  as  these  awake ; — 

Is  it  not  better  thus  our  lives  to  wear, 

Than  join  the  crushing  crowd,  doomed  to 

inflict  or  bear? 

I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become     680 
Portion  of  that  around  me :  and  to  me, 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the 

hum 
Of  human  cities  torture;  I  can  see 


Nothing  to  loathe  in  Nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain,  685 
Classed  among  creatures,  when  the  soul 

can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heav- 
ing plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in 
vain. 

And  thus  I  am  absorbed,  and  this  is 

life: 
I  look  upon  the  peopled  desert  past,  690 
As  on  a  place  of  agony  and  strife, 
Where,  for  some  sin,  to  sorrow  I  was 

cast, 
To  act  and  suffer,  but  remount  at  last 
With  a  fresh  pinion;  which  I  feel  to 

spring. 
Though  young,  yet  waxing  vigorous  as 

the  blast  695 

Which  it  would  cope  with,  on  delighted 

wing, 
Spurning  the  clay-cold  bonds  which  round 

our  being  cling. 

And  when,  at  length,  the  mind  shall  be 

all  free 
From  what  it  hates  in  this  degraded 

form, 
Reft  of  its  carnal  life,  save  what  shall 

be  700 

Existent  happier  in  the  fly  and  worm, — 
When  elements  to  elements  conform, 
And  dust  is  as  it  should  be,  shall    I 

not 
Feel  all  I  see,  less  dazzling,  but  more 

warm? 
The  bodiless  thought?  the  Spirit  of  each 

spot?  705 

Of  which,  even  now,  I  share  at  times  the 

immortal  lot? 

Are  not  the  mountains,  waves,  and 
skies,  a  part 

Of  me  and  of  my  soul,  as  I  of  them? 

Is  not  the  love  of  these  deep  in  my 
heart 

With  a  pure  passion?  should  I  not  con- 
temn 710 

All  objects,  if  compared  with  these?  and 
stem 

A  tide  of  suffering  rather  than  forego 

Such  feelings  for  the  hard  and  worldly 
phlegm 


BYRON 


455 


Of  those  whose  eyes  are  only  turned 
below, 
Gazing  upon  the  ground,  with  thoughts 
which  dare  not  glow?  715 


Clear,   placid   Leman!    thy   contrasted 
lake,  797 

With  the  wild  world  I  dwelt  in,  is  a 
thing 

Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to 
forsake 

Earth's    troubled    waters    for   a    purer 
spring.  800 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 

To  waft  me  from    distraction;  once  I 
loved 

Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  mur- 
muring 

Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  re- 
proved 
That   I   with   stern   delights   should   e'er 
have  been  so  moved.  S05 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk, 

yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly 

seen, 
Save    darkened    Jura,    whose    capped 

heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from 

the  shore,  81 1 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;  on 

the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended 

oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night 

carol  more. 

He  is  an  evening  reveller,  who  makes  815 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the 

brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the 

hill, 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil,     821 
Weeping    themselves    away,    till    they 

infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of 

her  hues. 


Ye  stars !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven ! 

If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read 
the  fate  825 

Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  for- 
given, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 

Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal 
state, 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for  ye 
are 

A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create  830 

In  us   such  love   and   reverence  from 
afar, 
That    fortune,    fame,    power,    life,    have 
named  themselves  a  star. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though 
not  in  sleep, 

But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling 
most; 

And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too 
deep:—  83  s 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:  from  the 
high  host 

Of  stars,  to  the  lulled  lake  and  moun- 
tain-coast, 

All  is  concentered  in  a  life  intense, 

Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is 
lost, 

But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense  840 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  De- 
fence. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 
In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone; 
A  truth  which  through  our  being  then 

doth  melt, 
And  purifies  from  self:  it  is  a  tone,     845 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which 

makes  known 
Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm, 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 
Binding  all  things  with  beauty;  'twould 

disarm 
The  spectre   Death,   had   he   substantial 

power  to  harm.  850 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 
Of     earth-o'ergazing    mountains,     and 

thus   take 
A  fit  and  unwalled  temple,  there  to  seek 
The  Spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  are 

weak,  855 


456 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Upreared  of  human  hands.    Come,  and 

compare 
Columns  and  idol  dwellings,   Goth  or 

Greek, 
With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth 

and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe 

thy  prayer! 

The  sky  is  changed! — and  such  a 
change!  O  night,  860 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  won- 
drous strong, 

Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the 
light 

Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!  Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags 
among 

Leaps  the  live  thunder!  Not  from  one 
lone  cloud,  865 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a 
tongue, 

And   Jura  answers,  through  her  misty 
shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her 
aloud! 

And  this  is  in  the  night : — Most  glorious 
night !  869 

Thouwert  not  sent  for  slumber!  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the 

earth! 
And  now  again  'tis  black,— and  now, 
the  glee  875 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  moun- 
tain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earth- 
quake's birth. 

From  CANTO  IV 

VENICE 

I  stood  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs; 

A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand: 

I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures 
rise 

As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's 
wand: 

A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  ex- 
pand 5 


Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times,  when  many  a  subject 

land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on 

her  hundred  isles ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers  1 1 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers; 
And  such  she  was;  her  daughters  had 

their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaust- 
less  East  15 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling 

showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dig- 
nity increased. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone — but  Beauty  still  is 

here.  23 

States  fall,  arts  fade — but  Nature  doth 

not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity,       26 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of 

Italy! 

ROME 

O  Rome!  my  country!  city  of  the  soul! 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to 
thee,  695 

Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 

In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

What    are    our    woes    and    sufferance? 
Come  and  see 

The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your 
way 

O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  tem- 
ples, Ye!  700 

Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations!  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless 
woe;  704 

An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago; 


BYRON 


457 


TheScipios'  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers:  dost  thou  flow, 
Old  Tiber!  through  a  marble  wilderness? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle 
her  distress.  711 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  Time,  War, 

Flood,  and  Fire, 
Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's 

pride ; 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 
And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs 

ride,  715 

Where  the  car1  climbed  the  Capitol;  far 

and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left 

a  site: 
Chaos  of  ruins!  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "Here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is 

doubly  night?  720 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's     daughter,     Ignorance,     hath 

wrapped  and  wrap 
All  round  us ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  his  chart,  the  stars  their 

map, 
And  Knowledge  spreads  them  on  her 

ample  lap;  725 

But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we 

steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections;  now  we  clap 
Our   hands,    and    cry    "Eureka!    it   is 

clear!" — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises 

near. 

Alas!  the  lofty  city!  and,  alas,  730 

The  trebly  hundred  triumphs;  and  the 

day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge 

surpass 
The  Conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame 

away! 
Alas,  for  Tully's  voice,  and  Virgil's  lay, 
And  Livy's  pictured  page; — but  these 

shall  be  735 

Her  resurrection;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas,  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when 

Rome  was  free ! 

1  chariot. 


THE   COLISEUM 


Arches  on  arches!  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one 

dome,  1 1 46 

Her  Coliseum  stands;  the  moonbeams 

shine 
As  't  were  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should  be  the  light  which  streams  here, 

to  illume 
This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless 

mine  1150 

Of  contemplation;  and  the  azure  gloom 

Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies 

assume 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye 

of  heaven, 
Floats    o'er    this    vast    and    wondrous 

monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.    There  is 

given  _         1 1 55 

Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time 

hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is 

a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 
For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are 

its  dower.  n  61 


And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 

In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  ap- 
plause, 

As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow  man . 

And  wherefore  slaughtered?  wherefore, 
but  because  1246 

Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 

And  the  imperial  pleasure. — Wherefore 
not? 

What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the 
maws 

Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 

Both  are  but  theaters  where  the   chief 

actors  rot.  1251 

I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually 
low —  1255 


45§ 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebb- 
ing slow 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower;  and 
now 

The  arena  swims  around  him — he  is  gone, 

Ere    ceased    the    inhuman    shout    which 

hailed  the  wretch  who  won.  1260 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not — his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far 

away; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
B  ut  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at 

play,  1265 

There  was   their   Dacian   mother — he, 

their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood — Shall  he 

expire 
And  unavenged?     Arise!  ye  Goths,  and 

glut  your  ire! 

But  here,  where  Murder  breathed  her 
bloody  steam;  1270 

And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked 
the  ways, 

And  roared  or  murmured  like  a  moun- 
tain stream 

Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays; 

Here,  where  the  Roman  millions'  blame 
or  praise 

Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a 
crowd,  1275 

My  voice  sounds  much — and  fall  the 
stars'  faint  rays 

On  the  arena  void — seats  crushed — walls 
bowed — 
And  galleries,  where  my  steps  seem  echoes 
strangely  loud. 

A  ruin — yet  what  ruin!  from  its  mass 
Walls,   palaces,   half-cities,  have  been 

reared;  1280 

Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And  marvel  where  the  spoil  could  have 

appeared. 
Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but 

cleared? 

Alas!  developed,  opens  the  decay,     1284 

When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared : 

It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 

Which  streams  too  much  on  all,  years, 

man  have  reft  away. 


But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to 

climb 
Its  topmost  arch,   and  gently  pauses 

there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the 

loops  of  time,  1290 

And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along 

the  air 
The  garland-forest  which  the  gray  walls 

wear, 
Like  laurels  on  thebald  first  Caesar's  head ; 
When  the  light  shines  serene  but  doth 

not  glare, 
Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead: 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot — 'tis  on  their 

dust  ye  tread.  1296 

"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall 

stand ; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall, 
And   when   Rome   falls — the   World." 

From  our  own  land 
Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty 

wall  1300 

In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to 

call 
Ancient;  and  these  three  mortal  things 

are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's 

skill, 
The  world,  the  same  wide  den — of  thieves, 

or  what  ye  will.  1305 

NATURE 

Oh  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling 
place,  1585 

With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister, 
That  I  might  all  forget  the  human  race, 
And,  hating  no  one,  love  but  only  her! 
Ye  Elements,  in  whose  ennobling  stir 
I  feel  myself  exalted,  can  ye  not         1590 
Accord  me  such  a  being?    Do  I  err 
In  deeming  such  inhabit  many  a  spot, 
Though  with  them  to  converse  can  rarely 
be  our  lot? 

There   is   a   pleasure   in    the   pathless 
woods,  1594 

There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 
By   the   deep   sea,  and   music   in   its 
roar: 


BYRON 


450 


I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature 

more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I 

steal 
From  all  I  may  be  or  have  been  before, 
To    mingle    with    the    universe,    and 

feel  1601 

What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  can  not  all 

conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean 

— roU! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in 

vain; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his 

control  1605 

Stops  with  the  shore; — upon  the  watery 

plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth 

remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling 

groan,  1610 

Without  a  grave,   unknelled,   uncofnned 

and  unknown. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths — thy 

fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him — thou  dost  arise 
And   shake   him   from    thee;    the   vile 

strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction   thou  dost  all 

despise,  161 5 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the 

skies, 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  play- 
ful spray, 
And  howling,  to  his  Gods,  where  haply 

lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth — there 

let  him  lay.  1620 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the 

walls 
Of    rock-built    cities,    bidding    nations 

quake, 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,   whose  huge  ribs 

make 
Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take  1625 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war; 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy 

flake, 


They  melt   into   thy  yeast   of  waves, 
which  mar 
Alike   the  Armada's  pride,   or   spoils   of 
Trafalgar. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all 

save  thee —  1630 

Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what 

are  they? 
Thy  waters  washed  them  power  while 

they  were  free, 
And  many  a  tyrant  since;  their  shores 

obey 
The   stranger,    slave   or   savage;    their 

decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts: — not  so 

thou,  1635 

Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves' 

Play- 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure 

brow — 
Such    as    creation's    dawn    beheld,    thou 

rollest  now. 

Thou   glorious   mirror,   where   the   Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests: in  all  time,  1640 
Calm  or  convulsed — in  breeze,  or  gale,  or 

storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving; — boundless,  endless,  and 

sublime — 
The  image  of  Eternity — the  throne 
Of  the   Invisible;   even  from  out   thy 
slime  1645 

The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made; 
each  zone 
Obeys    thee;    thou    goest    forth,    dread, 
fathomless,  alone. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean!  and  my 

joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast 

to  be 
Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward:  from 

a  boy  1650 

I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers — they  to 

me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror — 'twas  a  pleasing 

fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane — as  I 

do  here.  1656 


460 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


DON  JUAN 

From  the  Dedication 

I 

Bob    Southey!    You're    a    poet — Poet- 
laureate, 
And  representative  of  all  the  race; 
Although  'tis  true  that  you  turned  out  a 
Tory  at 
Last, — yours  has  lately  been  a  common 
case; 
And  now,  my  Epic  Renegade!  what  are  ye 
at?  5 

With  all  the  Lakers,  in  and  out  of  place? 
A  nest  of  tuneful  persons,  to  my  eye 
Like  "  four  and  twenty  Blackbirds  in  a  pye; 

II 

"Which  pye  being  opened  they  began  to 
sing" 
(This  old  song  and  new  simile  holds 
good),  10 

"A  dainty  dish  to  set  before  the  King," 
Or  Regent,  who  admires  such  kind  of 
food ; — 
And  Coleridge,  too,  has  lately  taken  wing, 
But  like  a  hawk  encumbered  with  his 
hood, — 
Explaining  metaphysics  to  the  nation —  15 
I  wish  he  would  explain  his  Explanation. 

Ill 

You,  Bob!  are  rather  insolent,  you  know, 

At  being  disappointed  in  your  wish 
To  supersede  all  warblers  here  below, 

And  be  the  only  Blackbird  in  the  dish; 

And  then  you  overstrain  yourself,  or  so,   21 

And  tumble  downward  like  the  flying 

fish 

Gasping  on  deck,  because  you  soar  too 

high,  Bob, 
And  fall,  for  lack  of  moisture  quite  a-dry, 
Bob! 

IV 

And  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "Ex- 
cursion" 25 
(I  think  the  quarto  holds  five  hundred 
pages), 
Has  given  a  sample  from  the  vasty  ver- 
sion 
Of  his  new  system  to  perplex  the  sages; 


'Tis  poetry — at  least  by  his  assertion, 
And  may  appear  so  when  the  dog-star 


rages- 


30 


And  he  who  understands  it  would  be  able 
To  add  a  story  to  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

****** 

XVII 

Meantime,    Sir   Laureate,    I    proceed    to 
dedicate 
In   honest   simple  verse,   this   song   to 
you.  130 

And,  if  in  flattering  strains  I  do  not  pred- 
icate, 
'Tis  that  I  still  retain  my  "buff  and 
blue"; 
My  politics  as  yet  are  all  to  educate: 

Apostasy's  so  fashionable,  too, 
To  keep  one  creed's  a  task  grown  quite 
Herculean:  135 

Is  it  not  so,  my  Tory,  Ultra-Julian? 


From    CANTO    III 
The  Isles  of  Greece 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, — 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phcebus  sprung! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet, 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse,  695 

The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse: 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon —  701 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free; 

For  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave,     705 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  king  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 
And  men  in  nations ; — all  were  his!     710 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they? 


BYRON 


461 


And  where  are  they?  and  where  art  thou, 
My  country?    On  thy  voiceless  shore 

The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now —  715 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine? 

'Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a  fettered  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame,  721 

Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest? 

Must  we  but  blush? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth!  render  back  from  out  thy  breast  727 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead! 
Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae!  730 

What,  silent  still?  and  silent  all? 

Ah!  no;  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "Let  one  living  head, 
1  But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come!"     735 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

I  In  vain — in  vain:  strike  other  chords: 
Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 
And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine!     740 
\  Hark!  rising  to  the  ignoble  call — 
i  How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal! 

J  You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet: 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone? 
j  Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget  745 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a  slave? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these! 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine;  751 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 
A  tyrant;  but  our  masters  then 
Were  still,  at  least,  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese  755 

Was  freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend; 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades! 
Oh!  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind.     760 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore; 
And  there,  perhaps,  some  seed  is  sown,  765 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 
They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells: 

In  native  swords  and  native  ranks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ;         770 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine;     775 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep;  781 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die: 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine! 


Thus  sung,  or  would,  or  could,  or  should 
have  sung,  785 

The  modern  Greek,  in  tolerable  verse; 
If  not  like  Orpheus  quite,  when  Greece 
was  young, 
Yet  in  these  times  he  might  have  done 
much  worse: 
His  strain  displayed   some  feeling — right 
or  wrong; 
And  feeling,  in  a  poet,  is  the  source     790 
Of  others'  feeling;  but  they  are  such  liars, 
And   take   all   colors,   like   the   hands   of 
dyers. 

But  words  are  things,  and  a  small  drop  of 
ink 
Falling,    like    dew,    upon    a    thought, 
produces 
That    which    makes    thousands,    perhaps 
millions,  think;  795 

'Tis  strange,  the  shortest  letter  which 
man   uses 
Instead  of  speech,  may  form  a  lasting  link 
Of  ages;  to  what  straits  old  Time  re- 
duces 


462 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Frail  man,  when  paper — even  a  rag  like 

this, 
Survives  himself,  his  tomb,  and  all  that's 

his.  800 

And  when  his  bones  are  dust,  his  grave  a 
blank, 

His  station,  generation,  even  his  nation, 
Become  a  thing,  or  nothing,  save  to  rank 

In  chronological  commemoration, 
Some  dull  MS.  oblivion  long  has  sank,  805 

Or  graven  stone  found  in  a  barrack's 
station 
In  digging  the  foundation  of  a  closet, 
May  turn  his  name  up  as  a  rare  deposit. 

And  glory  long  has  made  the  sages  smile; 
'Tis  something,  nothing,  words,  illusion, 
wind —  810 

Depending    more    upon    the    historian's 
style, 
Than  on  the  name  a  person  leaves  be- 
hind. 
Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist  owes  to 
Hoyle: 
The  present  century  was  growing  blind 
To  the  great  Marlborough's  skill  in  giving 
knocks,  815 

Until  his  late  Life  by  Archdeacon  Coxe. 

Milton's  the  prince  of  poets — so  we  say; 

A  little  heavy,  but  no  less  divine: 
An  independent  being  in  his  day — 
Learned,  pious,  temperate  in  love  and 
wine :  820 

But  his  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way, 
We're  told  this  great  high  priest  of  all 
the  Nine 
Was  whipt  at  college, — a  harsh  sire, — odd 

spouse, 
For  the  first  Mrs.  Milton  left  his  house. 

All  these  are,  certes,  entertaining  facts,  825 
Like  Shakespeare's  stealing  deer,  Lord 
Bacon's  bribes; 
Like  Titus'  youth,  and  Caesar's  earliest 
acts; 
Like  Burns  (whom  Doctor  Currie  well 
describes) ; 
Like   Cromwell's   pranks; — but   although 
truth  exacts 
These    amiable   descriptions   from    the 
scribes,  830 

As  most  essential  to  their  hero's  story, 
They  do  not  much  contribute  to  his  glory. 


All  are  not  moralists,  like  Southey,  when 
He  prated  to  the  world  of  "Pantisoc- 
racy  " ; 
Or  Wordsworth,  unexcised,  unhired,  who 
then  835 

Seasoned  his  peddler  poems  with  de- 
mocracy : 
Or  Coleridge,  long  before  his  flighty  pen 

Let  to  the  Morning  Post  its  aristocracy; 
When  he  and  Southey,  following  the  same 

path, 
Espoused  two  partners  (milliners  of  Bath). 

Such   names   at   present   cut   a    convict 
figure,  841 

The  very  Botany  Bay  in  moral  geog- 
raphy; 
Their  loyal  treason,  renegado  rigor, 
Are  good  manure  for  their  more  bare 
biography. 
Wordsworth's  last  quarto,  by  the  way,  is 
bigger  >  845 

Than  any  since  the  birthday  of  typog- 
raphy; 
A  drowsy,  frowsy  poem  called  The  Excur- 
sion, 
Writ  in  a  manner  which  is  my  aversion. 
****** 

But  let  me  to  my  story:  I  must  own, 
If  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  digression — 

Leaving  my  people  to  proceed  alone, 
While  I  soliloquize  beyond  expression; 

But   these   are   my   addresses   from   the 
throne,  861 

Which  put  off  business  to  the  ensuing 
session, 

Forgetting  each  omission  is  a  loss  to 

The  world,  not  quite  so  great  as  Ariosto. 

I  know  that  what  our  neighbors  called 
longueurs  865 

(We've  not  so  good  a  word,  but  have  the 
thing, 
In    that   complete    perfection   which   en- 
sures 
An    epic    from    Bob    Southey    every 
spring—) 
Form    not    the    true    temptation    which 
allures 
The  reader;  but  'twould  not  be  hard  to 
bring  870 

Some  fine  examples  of  the  epopee 
To  prove  its  grand  ingredient  is  ennui. 


BYRON 


46.3 


We   learn   from  Horace,   "Homer  some- 
times sleeps"; 
We  feel  without  him,  Wordsworth  some- 
times wakes, — 
To  show  with  what  complacency  he  creeps, 
With  his  dear  " — Waggoners,"  around  his 
lakes.  876 

He  wishes  for  "a  boat"  to  sail  the  deeps — 
Of  ocean? — No,   of   air;   and   then   he 
makes 
Another  outcry  for  "a  little  boat," 
And  drivels  seas  to  set  it  well  afloat.     880 

If  he  must  fain  sweep  o'er  the  ethereal 
plain, 
And  Pegasus  runs  restive  in  his  "Wag- 
gon," 
Could  he  not  beg  the  loan  of  Charles's 
Wain, 
Or  pray  Medea  for  a  single  dragon? 
Or  if  too  classic  for  his  vulgar  brain,       885 
He  feared  his  neck  to  venture  such  a 
nag  on, 
And  he  must  needs  mount  nearer  to  the 

moon, 
Could  not  the  blockhead  ask  for  a  balloon? 


O    Hesperus!     thou    bringest    all    good 
things—  945 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding 
wings, 
The  welcome  stall   to  the  o'erlabored 
steer; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearthstone 
clings, 
Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect 
of  dear,  950 

Are  gathered  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest; 
Thou    bring'st    the    child,    too,    to    the 
mother's  breast. 

Soft   hour!    which   wakes   the   wish   and 
melts  the  heart 

Of  those  who  sail  the  seas,  on  the  first  day 

When  they  from  their  sweet  friends  are 

torn  apart;  955 

Or  fills  with  love  the  pilgrim  on  his  way 
As  the  far  bell  of  vesper  makes  him  start, 

Seeming  to  weep  the  dying  day's  decay; 
Is  this  a  fancy  which  our  reason  scorns? 
Ah!   surely  nothing   dies  but   something 


mourns. 


960 


When  Nero  perished  by  the  justest  doom 
Which  ever  the  destroyer  yet  destroyed, 
Amidst  the  roar  of  liberated  Rome, 

Of  nations  freed,  and  the  world  over- 
joyed, 
Some  hands  unseen  strewed  flowers  upon 
his  tomb;  965 

Perhaps  the  weakness  of  a  heart  not 
void 
Of  feeling  for  some  kindness  done,  when 

power 
Had  left  the  wretch  an  uncorrupted  hour. 

But  I'm  digressing;  what  on  earth  has 
Nero, 
Or  any  such  like  sovereign  buffoons,  970 
To  do  with  the  transactions  of  my  hero, 
More  than  such  madmen's  fellow-man — 
the  moon's? 
Sure  my  invention  must  be  down  at  zero, 
And  I  grown  one  of  many  "wooden 
spoons " 
Of  verse  (the  name  with  which  we  Can- 
tabs  please  975 
To  dub  the  last  of  honors  in  degrees). 

I  feel  this  tediousness  will  never  do — 
'T  is  being  too  epic,  and  I  must  cut  down 

(In  copying)  this  long  canto  into  two; 
They'll  never  find  it  out,  unless  I  own  980 

The  fact,  excepting  some  experienced  few; 
And  then  as  an  improvement  'twill  be 
shown: 

I'll  prove  that  such  the  opinion  of  the 
critic  is 

From  Aristotle  passim. — See  HotrjTiKrjs. 


CANTO  IV 

Nothing  so  difficult  as  a  beginning 
In  poesy,  unless  perhaps  the  end; 
For  oftentimes,  when  Pegasus  seems  win- 
ning 
The  race,  he  sprains  a  wing,  and  down 
we  tend, 
Like  Lucifer,  when  hurled  from  heaven 
for  sinning;  5 

Our  sin  the  same,  and  hard  as  his  to 
mend, 
Being  pride,  which  leads  the  mind  to  soar 

too  far, 
Till  our  own  weakness  shows  us  what  we 
are. 


464 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


But  Time,  which  brings  all  beings  to  their 
level, 
And    sharp    Adversity,    will    teach    at 
last  10 

Man,  and — as  we  would  hope — perhaps 
the  devil, 
That  neither  of  their  intellects  are  vast: 
While  youth's  hot  wishes  in  our  red  veins 
revel, 
We  know  not  this — the  blood  flows  on 
too  fast; 
But  as  the  torrent  widens  towards  the 
ocean,  15 

We  ponder  deeply  on  each  past  emotion. 

As  boy,  I  thought   myself   a  clever  fel- 
low, 
And  wished  that  others  held  the  same 
opinion ; 

They  took  it  up  when  my  days  grew  more 
mellow, 
And    other    minds    acknowledged    my 
dominion:  20 

Now  my  sere  fancy  "falls  into  the  yellow 
Leaf,"    and    Imagination    droops    her 
pinion, 

And  the  sad  truth  which  hovers  o'er  my 
desk 

Turns  what  was  once  romantic  to  bur- 
lesque. 

And  if  I  laugh  at  any  mortal  thing,  25 

'T  is  that  I  may  not  weep;  and  if  I 
weep, 
'T  is  that  our  nature  cannot  always  bring 

Itself  to  apathy,  for  we  must  steep 
Our  hearts  first  in  the  depth  of  Lethe's 
spring, 
Ere  what  we  least  wish  to  behold  will 
sleep:  30 

Thetis  baptized  her  mortal  son  in  Styx; 
A  mortal  mother  would  on  Lethe  fix. 

Some  have  accused  me  of  a  strange  design 
Against   the  creed  and  morals  of  the 
land, 
And  trace  it  in  this  poem  every  line:      35 
I  don't  pretend  that  I  quite  understand 
My  own  meaning  when  I  would  be  very 
fine; 
But  the  fact  is,  that  I  have  nothing 
planned 
Unless  it  were  to  be  a  moment  merry, 
A  novel  word  in  my  vocabulary.  40 


To  the  kind  reader  of  our  sober  clime, 
This  way  of  writing  will  appear  exotic; 

Pulci  was  sire  of  the  half-serious  rhyme, 
Who    sang    when    chivalry    was    more 
Quixotic, 

And  revelled  in  the  fancies  of  the  time,    45 
True  knights,  chaste  dames,  huge  giants, 
kings  despotic; 

But  all  these,  save  the  last,  being  obsolete, 

I  chose  a  modern  subject  as  more  meet. 

How  I  have  treated  it,  I  do  not  know; 
Perhaps    no    better    than    they    have 
treated  me  50 

Who  have  imputed  such  designs  as  show 
Not   what   they   saw,   but   what   they 
wished  to  see: 
But  if  it  gives  them  pleasure,  be  it  so; 
This  is  a  liberal  age,  and  thoughts  are 
free: 
Meantime  Apollo  plucks  me  by  the  ear,  55 
And  tells  me  to  resume  my  story  here. 

Young  Juan  and  his  lady-love  were  left 
To  their  own  hearts' most  sweet  society; 

Even  Time  the  pitiless  in  sorrow  cleft 
With  his  rude  scythe  such  gentle  bosoms ; 
he  60 

Sighed  to  behold  them  of  their  hours  bereft, 
Though  foe  to  love;  and  yet  they  could 
not  be 

Meant  to  grow  old,  but  die  in  happy  spring, 

Before  one  charm  or  hope  had  taken  wing. 

Their  faces  were  not  made  for  wrinkles, 
their  65 

Pure    blood    to    stagnate,    their    great 
hearts  to  fail ; 
The  blank  gray  was  not  made  to  blast 
their  hair, 
But  like  the  climes  that  know  nor  snow 
nor  hail 
They  were  all  summer:  lightning  might 
assail 
And  shiver  them  to  ashes,  but  to  trail  70 
A  long  and  snake-like  life  of  dull  decay 
Was  not  for  them — they  had  too  little  clay. 

They  were  alone  once  more ;  for  them  to  be- 
Thus    was    another    Eden;    they    were 
never 
Weary,  unless  when  separate:  the  tree     75 
Cut  from  its  forest  root  of  years — the 
river 


BYRON 


465 


Dammed    from    its    fountain — the    child 

from  the  knee 
And  breast  maternal  weaned  at  once  for 

ever, — 
Would  wither  less  than  these  two  torn 

apart; 
Alas !  there  is  no  instinct  like  the  heart —  80 

The  heart — which  may  be  broken :  happy 

they! 
Thrice  fortunate!  who  of  that  fragile 
mould, 
The  precious  porcelain  of  human  clay, 
Break  with  the  first  fall:  they  can  ne'er 
behold 
The  long  year  linked  with  heavy  day  on 
day,  85 

And  all  which  must  be  borne,  and  never 
told; 
While  life's  strange  principle  will  often 

lie 
Deepest  in  those  who  long  the  most  to  die. 

"Whom  the  gods   love  die  young,"  was 

said  of  yore, 
And  many  deaths  do  they  escape  by 

this:  90 

The   death   of   friends,   and    that    which 

slays  even  more — 
The  death  of  friendship,  love,  youth, 

all  that  is, 
Except  mere  breath;  and  since  the  silent 

shore 
Awaits  at  last  even  those  who  longest 

miss 
The  old  archer's  shafts,  perhaps  the  early 

grave  95 

Which  men  weep  over  may  be  meant 

to  save. 


They  gazed  upon  the  sunset;  'tis  an  hour 
Dear  unto  all,  but  dearest  to  their  eyes, 
For  it  had  made  them  what  they  were :  the 
power  155 

Of  love  had  first  o'erwhelmed  them  from 
such  skies, 
When  happiness  had  been  their  only  dower, 
And  twilight  saw  them  linked  in  pas- 
sion's ties; 
Charmed    with    each    other,    all     things 

charmed  that  brought 
The   past   still   welcome   as   the   present 
thought.  160 


Mixed  in  each  other's  arms,  and  heart  in 
heart, 
Why  did  they  not  then  die? — they  had 
lived  too  long  210 

Should  an  hour  come  to  bid  them  breathe 
apart; 
Years  could  but  bring  them  cruel  things 
or  wrong; 
The  world  was  not  for  them,  nor  the  world's 
art 
For  beings  passionate  as  Sappho's  song; 
Love  was  born  with  them,  in  them,  so 
intense  215 

It  was  their  very  spirit,  not  a  sense. 

They  should  have  lived  together  deep  in 
woods, 
Unseen  as  sings  the  nightingale;  they 
were 
Unfit  to  mix  in  these  thick  solitudes 
Called  social,  haunts  of  hate,  and  vice, 
and  care:  220 

How    lovely    every    free-born    creature 
broods ! 
The  sweetest  songbirds  nestle  in  a  pair; 
The  eagle  soars  alone;  the  gull  and  crow 
Flock  o'er  their  carrion,  just  like  men 
below. 

Now  pillowed  cheek  to  cheek,  in  loving 

sleep,  225 

Haidee  and  Juan  their  siesta  took, 
A  gentle  slumber,  but  it  was  not  deep, 

For  ever  and  anon  a  something  shook 
Juan,  and  shuddering  o'er  his  frame  would 

creep; 
And  Haidee 's  sweet  lips  murmured  like  a 

brook  230 

A  wordless  music,  and  her  face  so  fair 
Stirred  with  her  dream,  as  rose-leaves  with 

the  air; 

Or  as  the  stirring  of  a  deep  clear  stream 

Within  an  Alpine  hollow,  when  the  wind 

Walks  o'er  it,   was   she   shaken   by   the 

dream,  235 

The  mystical   usurper  of   the  mind — 

O'erpowering  us  to  be  whate'er  may  seem 

Good  to  the  soul  which  we  no  more  can 

bind; 

Strange  state  of  being !  (for  'tis  still  to  be) 

Senseless  to  feel,  and  with  sealed  eyes  to 

see.  240 


466 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


She  dreamed  of  being  alone  on  the  sea- 
shore, 
Chained  to  a  rock;  she  knew  not  how, 

but  stir 
She   could  not  from   the   spot,   and   the 

loud  roar 
Grew,    and    each    wave    rose    roughly, 

threatening  her; 
And  o'er  her  upper  lip  they  seemed  to 

pour,  24s 

Until  she  sobbed  for  breath,  and  soon 

they  were 
Foaming  o'er  her  lone  head,  so  fierce  and 

high- 
Each  broke  to  drown  her,  yet  she  could  not 

die. 

Anon — she   was   released;   and   then   she 
strayed 
O'er  the  sharp  shingles  with  her  bleed- 
ing feet,  250 
And  stumbled  almost  every  step  she  made ; 
And  something  rolled  before  her  in  a 
sheet, 
Which  she  must  still  pursue  howe'er  afraid; 
'Twas  white  and  indistinct,  nor  stopped 
to  meet 
Her  glance  nor  grasp,  for  still  she  gazed, 
and  grasped,                                      255 
And  ran,  but  it  escaped  her  as  she  clasped. 

The  dream  changed: — in  a  cave  she  stood, 
its  walls 
Were  hung  with  marble  icicles,  the  work 
Of  ages  on  its  water-fretted  halls, 

Where   waves   might   wash,   and   seals 

might  breed  and  lurk;  260 

Her    hair   was    dripping,    and    the   very 

balls 

Of  her  black   eyes   seemed   turned   to 

tears,  and  mirk 

The  sharp  rocks  looked  below  each  drop 

they  caught, 
Which   froze   to   marble   as   it   fell — she 
thought. 

And  wet,  and  cold,  and  lifeless,  at  her 
feet,  265 

Pale  as  the  foam  that  frothed  on  his 
dead  brow, 
Which  she  essayed  in  vain  to  clear  (how 
sweet 
Were  once  her  cares,  how  idle  seemed 
they  now!) 


Lay  Juan,   nor   could   aught   renew   the 
beat 
Of  his  quenched  heart;  and  the  sea- 
dirges  low  270 

Rang  in  her  sad  ears  like  a  mermaid's 
song, 

And  that  brief  dream  appeared  a  life  too 
long. 

And  gazing  on  the  dead,  she  thought  his 
face 
Faded,  or  altered  into  something  new — 
Like   to   her  father's   features,    till   each 
trace  275 

More  like  and  like  to  Lambro's  aspect 
grew — 
With  all  his  keen  worn  look  and  Grecian 
grace; 
And  starting,  she  awoke,  and  what  to 
view? 

0  Powers  of  Heaven !  what  dark  eye  meets 

she  there? 
'Tis — 'tis    her   father's — fixed    upon    the 
pair!  280 

Then  shrieking,  she  arose,  and  shrieking 
fell, 
With  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear,  to 
see 
Him  whom  she  deemed  a  habitant  where 
dwell 
The  ocean-buried,  risen  from  death,  to 
be 
Perchance  the  death  of  one  she  loved  too 
well:  285 

Dear  as  her  father  had  been  to  Haidee, 
It  was  a  moment  of  that  awful  kind — 

1  have  seen  such — but  must  not  call  to 

mind. 

Up  Juan  sprang  to  Haidee's  bitter  shriek, 
And  caught  her  falling,  and  from  off 
the  wall  290 

Snatched  down  his  sabre,  in  hot  haste  to 
wreak 
Vengeance  on  him  who  was  the  cause  of 
all. 
Then  Lambro,  who  till  now  forbore  to 
speak, 
Smiled   scornfully,   and   said,   "Within 
my  call, 
A  thousand  scimitars  await  the  word;  295 
Put  up,  young  man,  put  up  your  silly 
sword." 


BYRON 


467 


And  Haidee  clung  around  him;   "Juan, 
'tis— 
'Tis    Lambro — 'tis    my  father!    Kneel 
with  me — 
He   will   forgive   us — yes — it   must   be — 
yes. 
Oh  dearest  father,  in  this  agony         300 
Of  pleasure  and  of  pain — even  while  I  kiss 
Thy  garment's  hem  with  transport,  can 
it  be 
That  doubt  should  mingle  with  my  filial 

joy? 
Deal  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  but  spare  this 
boy." 

High  and  inscrutable  the  old  man  stood,  305 
Calm  in  his  voice,  and  calm  within  his 
eye- 
Not  always   signs   with   him  of  calmest 
mood: 
He  looked  upon  her,  but  gave  no  reply; 
Then  turned  to  Juan,  in  whose  cheek  the 
blood 
Oft  came  and  went,  as  there  resolved  to 
die  310 

In  arms,  at  least,  he  stood  in  act  to  spring 
On  the  first  foe  whom  Lambro 's  call  might 
bring. 

"Young  man,  your  sword!"    So  Lambro 
once  more  said; 
Juan  replied,  "Not  while   this  arm  is 
free!" 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  pale,  but  not 
with  dread,  315 

And  drawing  from  his  belt  a  pistol,  he 
Replied,  "  Your  blood  be  then  on  your  own 
head;" 
Then  looked  close  at  the  flint,  as  if  to 
see 
'Twas  fresh — for   he  had  lately  used  the 

lock — 
And  next  proceeded  quietly  to  cock.     320 

It  has  a  strange,  quick  jar  upon  the  ear, 
That  cocking  of  a  pistol,  when  you  know 

A  moment  more  will  bring  the  sight  to 
bear 
Upon  your  person,  twelve  yards  off,  or 
so; 

A  gentlemanly  distance,  not  too  near,  325 
If  you  have  got  a  former  friend  for  foe; 

But  after  being  fired  at  once  or  twice, 

The  ear  becomes  more  Irish,  and  less  nice. 


Lambro  presented,  and  one  instant  more 
Had  stopped  this  canto,  and  Don  Juan's 
breath,  330 

When  Haidee  threw  herself  her  boy  be- 
fore; 
Stern  as  her  sire,  "On  me,"  she  cried, 
"let  death 
Descend — the   fault   is   mine;    this   fatal 
shore 
He   found — but    sought   not.     I   have 
pledged  my  faith; 
I  love  him — I  will  die  with  him:  I  knew  335 
Your  nature's  firmness — know  your  daugh- 
ter's too." 

A  minute  past,   and   she   had  been  all 
tears, 
And  tenderness,  and  infancy;  but  now 

She  stood  as  one  who  championed  human 
fears — 

Pale,  statue-like,  and  stern,  she  wooed  the 
blow;  340 

And  tall  beyond  her  sex,  and  their  com- 
peers, 
She  drew  up  to  her  height,  as  if  to  show 

A  fairer  mark ;  and  with  a  fixed  eye  scanned 

Her  father's  face — but  never  stopped  his 
hand. 

He  gazed  on  her,  and  she  on  him;   'twas 
strange  345 

How  like  they  looked!  the  expression 
was  the  same, 
Serenely  savage,  with  a  little  change 
In  the  large  dark  eye's  mutual-darted 
flame; 
For  she,  too,  was  as  one  who  could  avenge, 
If  cause  should  be — a  lioness,  though 
tame.  350 

Her  father's  blood  before  her  father's  face 
Boiled  up,  and  proved  her  truly  of  his  race. 

I  said  they  were  alike,  their  features  and 
Their  stature  differing  but  in  sex  and 
years; 
Even  to  the  delicacy  of  their  hand         355 
There  was  resemblance,   such  as  true 
blood  wears; 
And  now  to  see  them,  thus  divided,  stand 

In  fixed  ferocity,  when  joyous  tears 
And  sweet  sensations  should  have  wel- 
comed both, 
Show  what  the  passions  are  in  their  full 
growth.  360 


468 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


The  father  paused  a  moment,  then  with- 
drew 
His  weapon,  and  replaced  it;  but  stood 
still, 
And  looking  on  her,  as  to  look  her  through, 
"Not  /,"  he  said,   "have  sought  this 
stranger's  ill; 
Not  /  have  made  this  desolation ;  few    365 
Would  bear  such  outrage,  and  forbear  to 
kill; 
But  I  must  do  my  duty — how  thou  hast 
Done  thine,  the  present  vouches  for  the 
past. 

"Let  him  disarm;  or,  by  my  father's  head, 
His  own  shall   roll  before  you  like  a 
ball!"  370 

He   raised   his  whistle,   as    the  word  he 
said, 
And  blew;  another  answered  to  the  call, 
And,  rushing  in  disorderly,   though  led, 
And  armed  from  boot  to  turban,  one 
and  all, 
Some  twenty  of  his  train  came,  rank  on 
rank;  375 

He  gave  the  word — "Arrest  or  slay  the 
Frank!" 

Then,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he  with- 
drew 
His  daughter;  while  compressed  within 
his  clasp, 
'Twixt  her  and  Juan  interposed  the  crew; 
In  vain  she  struggled  in  her  father's 
grasp—  380 

His  arms  were  like  a  serpent's  coil:  then 
flew 
Upon  their  prey,  as  darts  an  angry  asp, 
The  file  of  pirates;  save  the  foremost,  who 
Had  fallen,  with  his  right  shoulder  half 
cut  through. 

The  second  had  his  cheek  laid  open ;  but  385 

The  third,  a  wary,  cool  old  sworder,  took 

The  blows  upon  his  cutlass,  and  then  put 

His  own  well  in;  so  well,  ere  you  could 

look, 

His  man  was  floored,  and  helpless  at  his 

foot, 

With  the  blood   running   like  a  little 

brook,  390 

From  two  smart  sabre  gashes,  deep  and 

red — 
One  on  the  arm,  the  other  on  the  head. 


And  then  they  bound  him  where  he  fell, 
and  bore 
Juan  from  the  apartment:  with  a  sign, 
Old  Lambro  bade  them  take  him  to  the 
shore,  395 

Where  lay  some  ships  which  were  to  sail 
at  nine. 
They  laid  him  in  a  boat,  and  plied  the  oar 
Until  they  reached  some  galliots,  placed 
in  line; 
On   board   of   one   of   these,   and   under 

hatches, 
They  stowed  him,  with  strict  orders  to  the 
watches.  400 

The  world  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes, 
And  here  was  one  exceedingly  unpleas- 
ant: 
A  gentleman  so  rich  in  the  world's  goods, 
Handsome  and  young,  enjoying  all  the 
present, 
Just  at  the  very  time  when  he  least  broods 
On  such  a  thing,  is  suddenly  to  sea 
sent,  406 

Wounded  and  chained,  so  that  he  cannot 

move, 
And  all  because  a  lady  fell  in  love. 

Here  I  must  leave  him,  for  I  grow  pathetic, 
Moved  by  the  Chinese  nymph  of  tears, 
green  tea!  410 

Than  whom  Cassandra  was  not  more  pro- 
phetic; 
For  if  my  pure  libations  exceed  three, 
I  feel  my  heart  become  so  sympathetic, 
That  I  must  have  recourse  to  black  Bo- 
hea: 
'Tis  pity  wine  should  be  so  deleterious,  415 
For  tea  and  coffee  leave  us  much  more 
serious. 


I  leave  Don  Juan  for  the  present,  safe — 425 
Not  sound,  poor  fellow,  but  severely 
wounded; 
Yet  could  his  corporal  pangs  amount  to  half 
Of  those  with  which  his  Haidee's  bosom 
bounded? 
She  was  not  one  to  weep,  and  rave,  and 
chafe, 
And  then  give  way,  subdued,  because 
surrounded;  430 

Her  mother  was  a  Moorish  maid,  from  Fez, 
Where  all  is  Eden,  or  a  wilderness. 


BYROX 


469 


There  the  large  olive  rains  its  amber  store 
In  marble  fonts;  there  grain,  and  flower, 
and  fruit, 
Gush  from  the  earth,  until  the  land  runs 
o'er;  435 

But  there,  too,  many  a  poison  tree  has 
root, 
And  midnight  listens  to  the  lion's  roar, 
And  long,  long  deserts  scorch  the  camel's 
foot, 
Or  heaving,  whelm  the  helpless  caravan; 
And  as  the  soil  is,  so  the  heart  of  man.     440 

Afric  is  all  the  sun's,  and  as  her  earth 
Her  human  clay  is  kindled :  full  of  power 

For  good  or  evil,  burning  from  its  birth, 
The  Moorish  blood  partakes  the  planet's 
hour, 

And  like  the  soil  beneath,  it  will  bring 
forth:  445 

Beauty  and  love  were  Haidee's  mother's 
dower; 

But  her  large  dark  eye  showed  deep  pas- 
sion's force, 

Though  sleeping  like  a  lion  near  a  source. 

Her  daughter,  tempered  with  a  milder  ray, 

— Like     summer's     clouds     all     silvery, 
smooth,  and  fair,  450 

Till  slowly  charged  with  thunder,  they  dis- 
play 
Terror  to  earth,  and  tempest  to  the  air — 

Had  held  till  now  her  soft  and  milky  way, 
But,  overwrought  with  passion  and  de- 
spair, 

The  fire  burst  forth  from  her  Numidian 
veins,  455 

Even  as  the  Simoom  sweeps  the  blasted 
plains. 

The  last  sight  which  she  saw  was  Juan's 
gore, 
And  he  himself  o'ermastered  and  cut 
down; 
His  blood  was  running  on  the  very  floor, 
Where  late  he  trod,  her  beautiful,  her 
own;  460 

Thus  much  she  viewed  an  instant,  and  no 
more — 
Her  struggles  ceased  with  one  convul- 
sive groan; 
On  her  sire's  arm,  which,  until  now,  scarce 

held 
Her  writhing,  fell  she  like  a  cedar  felled. 


A  vein  had  burst,  and  her  sweet  lips'  pure 
dyes  _  465 

Were  dabbled  with  the  deep  blood  which 
ran  o'er; 
And  her  head  drooped,  as  when  the  lily  lies 
O'ercharged  with  rain:  her  summoned 
handmaids  bore 
Their  lady  to  her  couch,  with  gushing  eyes; 
Of  herbs  and  cordials  they  produced 
their  store,  470 

But  she  defied  all  means  they  could  em- 
ploy, 
Like  one  life  could  not  hold,  nor  death  de- 
stroy. 

Days  lay  she  in  that  state,  unchanged, 
though  chill — 
With  nothing  livid,  still  her  lips  were  red; 
She  had  no  pulse,  but  death  seemed  ab- 
sent still;  475 
No  hideous  sign  proclaimed  her  surely 
dead; 
Corruption  came  not  in  each  mind  to  kill 
All  hope;  to  look  upon  her  sweet  face 
bred 
New  thoughts  of  life,  for  it  seemed  full  of 

soul — 
She  had  so  much,  earth  could  not  claim 
the  whole.  480 

The  ruling  passion,  such  as  marble  shows 

When    exquisitely    chiselled,    still    lay 

there, 

But  fixed  as  marble's  unchanged  aspect 

throws 

O'er  the  fair  Venus,  but  forever  fair; 

O'er  the  Laocoon's  all  eternal  throes,    485 

And  ever-dying  Gladiator's  air, 
Their  energy,  like  life,  forms  all  their  fame, 
Yet  looks  not  life,  for  they  are  still  the 
same. 

She  woke  at  length,  but  not  as  sleepers 
wake, 
Rather  the  dead,  for  life  seemed  some- 
thing new,  490 
A  strange  sensation  which  she  must  partake 
Perforce,  since  whatsoever  met  her  view 
Struck  not  on  memory,  though  a  heavy 
ache 
Lay  at  her  heart,  whose  earliest  beat, 
still  true, 
Brought  back  the  sense  of  pain  without  the 
cause,  495 
For,  for  a  while,  the  furies  made  a  pause. 


47° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


She  looked  on  many  a  face  with  vacant  eye, 
On   many   a   token,   without   knowing 

what; 
She  saw  them  watch  her,  without  asking 

why, 
And  recked  not  who  around  her  pillow 

sat;  500 

Not  speechless,  though  she  spoke  not;  not 

a  sigh 
Relieved  her  thoughts;  dull  silence  and 

quick  chat 
Were  tried  in  vain  by  those  who  served; 

she  gave 
No  sign,  save  breath,  of  having  left  the 

grave. 

Her  handmaids  tended,  but  she  heeded 
not;  505 

Her  father  watched,  she  turned  her  eyes 
away; 
She  recognized  no  being,  and  no  spot, 

However  dear,  or  cherished  in  their  day; 

They  changed  from  room  to  room,  but  all 

forgot, 

Gentle, but  without  memory,  she  lay;  510 

At  length  those  eyes,  which  they  would 

fain  be  weaning 
Back  to  old  thoughts,  waxed  full  of  fearful 
meaning. 

And  then  a  slave  bethought  her  of  a  harp; 

The  harper  came  and  tuned  his  instru- 
ment; 
At  the  first  notes,  irregular  and  sharp,  515 

On  him  her  flashing  eyes  a  moment  bent, 
Then  to  the  wall  she  turned,  as  if  to  warp 

Her  thoughts  from  sorrow  through  her 
heart  re-sent; 
And  he  began  a  long  low  island  song     519 
Of  ancient  days,  ere  tyranny  grew  strong. 

Anon  her  thin  wan  fingers  beat  the  wall, 
In  time  to  his  old  tune:  he  changed  the 
theme, 
And  sung  of  love;  the  fierce  name  struck 
through  all 
Her   recollection;    on    her   flashed    the 
dream 
Of  what  she  was,  and  is,  if  ye  could  call  525 

To  be  so  being:  in  a  gushing  stream 
The    tears   rushed   forth   from   her   o'er- 

clouded  brain, 
Like  mountain  mists,  at  length  dissolved 
in  rain. 


Short  solace,  vain  relief! — thought  came 
too  quick, 
And  whirled  her  brain  to  madness;  she 
arose,  530 

As  one  who  ne'er  had  dwelt  among  the 
sick, 
And  flew  at  all  she  met,  as  on  her  foes; 
But  no  one  ever  heard  her  speak  or  shriek, 
Although  her  paroxysm  drew  towards  its 
close : — 
Hers   was  a   frenzy   which   disdained   to 
rave,  535 

Even  when  they  smote  her,  in  the  hope  to 
save. 

Yet  she  betrayed  at  times  a  gleam  of  sense ; 
Nothing    could    make    her    meet    her 
father's  face, 

Though  on  all  other  things  with  looks  in- 
tense 
She  gazed,  but  none  she  ever  could  re- 
trace. 540 

Food  she  refused,  and  raiment;  no  pre- 
tence 
Availed  for  either;  neither  change  of 
place, 

Nor  time,  nor  skill,  nor  remedy,  could  give 
her 

Senses  to  sleep — the  power  seemed  gone 
forever. 

Twelve  days  and  nights  she  withered  thus; 

at  last,  545 

Without  a  groan,  or  sigh,  or  glance,  to 

show 

A  parting  pang,  the  spirit  from  her  past; 

And   they   who   watched   her   nearest, 

could  not  know 

The  very  instant,  till  the  change  that  cast 

Her  sweet  face  into  shadow,  dull  and 

slow,  550 

Glazed  o'er  her  eyes — the  beautiful,  the 

black — 
Oh !  to  possess  such  luster — and  then  lack ! 

Thus  lived — thus  died  she;  never  more  on 
her 
Shall  sorrow  light,  or  shame.    She  was 
not  made 
Through  years  or  moons  the  inner  weight 
to  bear, 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  they  are 
laid 


SHELLEY 


47i 


By  age  in  earth;  her  days  and  pleasures 

were  565 

Brief  but  delightful — such  as  had  not 

stayed 

Long  with  her  destiny;  but  she  sleeps  well 

By  the  sea-shore,  whereon  she  loved  to 

dwell. 

The  isle  is  now  all  desolate  and  bare, 
Its  dwellings  down,  its  tenants  passed 
away;  S7o 

None  but  her  own  and  father's  grave  is 
there, 
And  nothing  outward   tells  of  human 
clay: 
Ye  could  not  know  where  lies  a  thing  so 
fair; 
No  stone  is  there  to  show,  no  tongue  to 
say 
What  was:  no  dirge,  except  the  hollow 
sea's,  575 

Mourns  o'er  the  beauty  of  the  Cyclades. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  (1792-1822) 

HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats   though   unseen   amongst   us, — 

visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant 
wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower 

to  flower; — 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny 
mountain  shower,  5 

It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, — 
Like     clouds     in     starlight     widely 

spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, —        10 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine 

upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form, — where  art 
thou  gone?  15 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our 
state, 


This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and 
desolate? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  forever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain 
river, 
Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once 
is  shown,  20 

Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and 

birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom, — why  man  has  such  a 
scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope? 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath 
ever  25 

To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given — 
Therefore  the  names  of  Daemon,  Ghost, 
and  Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor, 
Frail  spells — whose  uttered  charm  might 
not  avail  to  sever, 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see,      30 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone — like  mist  o'er  mountains 
driven, 
Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent, 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instru- 
ment, 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream,  35 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet 
dream. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds 
depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments 

lent; 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou 
art,  40 

Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state 
within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes — 
Thou — that  to  human  thought  art  nour- 
ishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame !        45 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not — lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and 
sped 
Through    many    a    listening    chamber, 
cave,  and  ruin,  50 


472 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps 
pursuing 
Hopes   of   high  talk   with   the   departed 

dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which 
our  youth  is  fed; 
I  was  not  heard — I  saw  them  not — 
When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot       55 
Of  life,  at  the  sweet  time  when  winds  are 
wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 
Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me; 
I    shrieked,    and    clasped    my    hands    in 
ecstasy!  60 

I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine — have  I  not  kept  the 

vow? 
With    beating    heart    and    streaming 
eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave;  they  have 
in  visioned  bowers  65 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched    with    me    the    envious 
night — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my 
brow 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst 

free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery;     70 
That  thou — 0  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot 
express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When   noon   is   past — there   is   a   har- 
mony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky,         75 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or 

seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not 
been! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the 

truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply     80 
Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,   Spirit  fair,   thy   spells   did 
bind 
To    fear    himself,    and    love    all    human 
kind. 


OZYMANDIAS 

I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said:  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of 
stone 

Stand  in  the  desert.  Near  them,  on  the 
sand, 

Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose 
frown, 

And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  com- 
mand, 5 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions 
read 

Which  yet  survive,  (stamped  on  these 
lifeless  things,) 

The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart 
that  fed: 

And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 

"My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings: 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  de- 
spair!" 11 

Nothing  beside  remains.  Round  the  de- 
cay 

Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and 
bare 

The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 
I 

O    wild    West    Wind,    thou    breath    of 

Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the 

leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 

fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic 

red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O  thou,     5 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine   azure    sister  of    the    spring   shall 

blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and 

fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in 

air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill: 


SHELLEY 


473 


Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  oh  hear! 

II 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep 
sky's  commotion,  15 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves 
are  shed, 

Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven 
and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are 

spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge,  19 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 

verge 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.    Thou 

dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing 

night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre,       25 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst: 
oh  hear! 

Ill 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer 

dreams 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiag's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering    within    the    wave's    intenser 
day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and 
flowers  35 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them! 
Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level 
powers 

Cleave    themselves    into    chasms,    while 

far  below 
The    sea-blooms    and    the    oozy    woods 

which  wear 


Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with 

fear, 
And    tremble    and    despoil    themselves: 

oh  hear! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and 

share  45 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,   only  less 

free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!  If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The    comrade    of    thy    wanderings    over 

heaven, 
As    then,    when    to    outstrip    thy    skyey 

speed  50 

Scarce   seemed   a   vision;    I   would   ne'er 

have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh!  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!    I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 
bowed  55 

One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift, 
and  proud. 

V 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal 
tone,  60 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  spirit 
fierce, 

My  spirit!   Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves   to  quicken  a  new 

birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,     65 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  man- 
kind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!  O  wind,    69 


The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know    40  j  If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 


474 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright: 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee,  5 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 

Hath  led  me — who  knows  how? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream —        10 

The  Champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream; 

The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart; — 

As  I  must  on  thine,  15 

Oh!  beloved  as  thou  art! 

Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass! 

I  die!  I  faint!  I  fail! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale.  20 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast; — 

Oh!  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


THE  CLOUD 

I  bring  fresh  showers  for   the   thirsting 
flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken  5 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's 
breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain,         n 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast; 

And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white,     15 
While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the 
blast. 


Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, — 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits;     20 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills; 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains,      26 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or 
stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains; 
And   I   all    the   while   bask   in   heaven's 
blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains.     30 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag,  35 

Which  an   earthquake   rocks  and 
swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the 
lit  sea  beneath, 

It  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love,        40 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy 
nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon,     46 
Glides    glimmering    o'er    my    fleece-like 
floor, 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 
Which  only  the  angels  hear,         50 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's 
thin  roof, 
The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 

When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built 

tent,  55 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 

Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on 

high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and 

these. 


SHELLEY 


475 


I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

In  the  golden  lightning 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 

pearl ;                                           60 

O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 

and  swim, 

Like 

an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner 

begun.                                      15 

unfurl. 

From   cape   to  cape,   with  a   bridge-like 

The  pale  purple  even 

shape, 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 

Over   a   torrent   sea, 

Like  a  star  of  heaven 

Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof,           65 

In  the  broad  day-light 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill 

The    triumphal    arch    through    which    I 

delight,                                     20 

march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to 

Of  that  silver  sphere, 

my  chair, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

Is  the  million-colored  bow;            70 

In  the  white  dawn  clear,            24 

The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

Until 

we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing 

below. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud, 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

As,  when  night  is  bare, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky; 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 

shores;                                          75 

is  overflowed.                         30 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 

For  after   the   rain  when  with    never   a 

What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

stain 

What  is  most  like  thee? 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 

From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 

convex  gleams 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air,     80 

melody.                                    35 

I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost 

In  the  light  of  thought, 

from  the  tomb, 

Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 

To   sympathy   with   hopes   and   fears   it 

heeded  not:                             40 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

t    .      1        „          / 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

Hailfto  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

In  a  palace  tower, 

Bird  thou  never  wert„ 

Soothing  her  love-laden 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 

With 

music  sweet  as  love,  which  over- 

In profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art.  5 

flows  her  bower:                     45 

Higher  still  and  higher 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

Scattering  unbeholden 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingesf;,  t 

Its  aerial  hue 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen 

eversingest.                             10 

it  from  the  view:                    50 

476 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these 
heavy- winged  thieves.  55 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music 
doth  surpass.  60 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so 
divine:  65 

Chorus  Hymenaeal, 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hid- 
den want.  70 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,   or  moun- 
tains? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ig- 
norance of  pain?  75 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad 
satiety.  80 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a 
crystal  stream?  85 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of 
saddest  thought.  90 


Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should 
come  near.  95 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 
ground !  1 00 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  lis- 
tening now.  105 


TO 


Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 
Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead,  5 

Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION    NEAR 
NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 
The    waves    are    dancing    fast    and 
bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might; 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light,  5 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 

The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 
With    green    and    purple    seaweeds 
strown; 


SHELLEY 


477 


I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers, 

thrown : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone; 
The  lightning  of  the  noon- tide  ocean     15 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in 
my  emotion. 

Alas!  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around,  20 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And     walked    with     inward     glory 
crowned— 
Nor   fame,   nor   power,   nor   love,   nor 
leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 25 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleas- 
ure;— 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another 
measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child,        30 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must 
bear, 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 

And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe    o'er    my   dying    brain    its    last 
monotony.  36 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 
As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 

Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 
Insults  with  this  untimely  moan;  40 
They  might  lament— for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in 
memory  yet.  45 


THE  WORLD'S  WANDERERS 

Tell  me,  thou  Star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now? 


Tell  me,  Moon,  thou  pale  and  gray        5 
Pilgrim  of  Heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 

Seekest  thou  repose  now? 

Weary  Wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest,        10 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow? 

TIME 

Unfathomable  Sea!  whose  waves  are  years, 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep 
woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears ! 
Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb 
and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality,  5 

And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for 
more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable 

shore ; 
Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea?  10 

TO  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear,         5 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star  in- wrought! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day:      10 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out; 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long  sought! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn,  15 

I  sighed  for  thee; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was 

gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest,  20 

I  sighed  for  thee. 


478 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 
Wouldst  thou  me? 

Thy  sweet   child   Sleep,   the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmured  like  a  noon- tide  bee,  25 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side? 

Wouldst  thou  me? — And  I  replied, 
No,  not  thee! 


Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon! 


TO 


3° 


35 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 


15 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 

From  Act  II,  Scenes  IV  and  V 

Spirit  of  the  Hour:  My  coursers  are  fed 
with  the  lightning, 
They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 
And  when  the  red  morning  is  bright'ning 
They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam; 
They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness 
I  deem,  5 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I   desire:   and   their   speed   makes   night 
kindle; 
I  fear:  they  outstrip  the  Typhoon; 


Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon:  10 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labors  at  noon: 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 

My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire; 
But  the  earth  has  just  whispered  a  warn- 
ing is 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than 

fire: 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  de- 
sire! 

From  Act  II,  Scene  V 

Voice  in  the  Air,  singing:  Life  of  Life!  thy 
lips  enkindle 
With   their   love   the   breath   between 
them; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire;  then  screen  them 
In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes  5 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light!  thy  limbs  are  burning 
Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide 
them; 
As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through   the    clouds    ere   they   divide 
them;  10 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 
Shrouds  thee  whereso'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee  15 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever! 

Lamp  of  Earth !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest  21 

Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing! 

From  Act  IV 

SONG 

Here,  oh,  here 

We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancelled  year! 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be,  5 

We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 


SHELLEY 


479 


Strew,  oh,  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers  10 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours ! 

Haste,  oh,  haste! 

As  shades  are  chased 
Trembling,  by  day,  from  heaven's  blue 
waste.  15 

We  melt  away 

Like  dissolving  spray 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die  20 

On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony! 

From  Act  IV 

Detnogorgon:    This    is    the    day,    which 

down  the  void  abysm 
At    the    Earth-born's    spell    yawns    for 

Heaven's  despotism, 
And     Conquest     is     dragged     captive 

through  the  deep: 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient 

power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy 

hour  5 

Of  dead  endurance,  from  the  slippery, 

steep, 
And    narrow    verge    of    crag-like    agony, 

springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endur- 
ance, 
These  are  the  seals  of   that  most   firm 
assurance  10 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's 
strength ; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 
The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with 
his  length; 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  re-assume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom.  16 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or 
night; 
To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipo- 
tent; 


To  love,   and   bear;    to   hope   till    Hope 
creates  20 

From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contem- 
plates; 
Neither    to    change,    nor    falter,    nor 
repent; 

This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 

Good,  great,  and  joyous,  beautiful,  and 
free; 

This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Vic- 
tory. 25 


ADONAIS 

I  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 
Oh,  weep  for  Adonais!  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear 

a  head! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all 

years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure 
compeers,  5 

And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow !  Say : 

"With  me 
Died  Adonais ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall 
be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity!" 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when 
he  lay,  10 

When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft 
which  flies 
In  darkness?  where  was  lorn  Urania 

When  Adonais  died?  With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamored 
breath,  15 

Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the 
corse  beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk 
of  death. 

Oh,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and 
weep!  20 

Yet    wherefore?      Quench    within    their 

burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart 
keep 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining 
sleep; 


4So 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


For  he  is  gone  where  all  things  wise  and 

fair 
Descend; — oh,    dream    not    that    the 

amorous  Deep  25 

Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs 

at  our  despair. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again! 
Lament  anew,  Urania! — He  died, — 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  coun- 
try's pride,  31 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and   mocked  with   many   a 

loathed  rite 

Of  lust  and  blood;  he  went,  unterrified, 

Into  the  gulf  of   death;   but  his  clear 

Sprite  35 

Yet  reigns  o'er  earth;  the  third  among 

the  sons  of  light. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to 

climb; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who 

knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through   that 

night  of  time  40 

In    which    suns    perished;    others    more 

sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or 

God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent 

prime ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny 

road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,   to 

Fame's  serene  abode.  45 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has 
perished, 

The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who 
grew, 

Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden 
cherished, 

And  fed  with  true  love  tears,  instead 
of  dew; 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 

Thy  extreme1  hope,  the  loveliest  and 
the  last,  51 

The  bloom,  whose  petals,  nipped  be- 
fore they  blew, 

1  last. 


Died  on   the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is 
waste; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 

To    that    high    Capital,    where    kingly 

Death  55 

Keeps  his  pale   court   in  beauty   and 

decay, 
He  came;  and  bought,   with  price  of 

purest  breath, 
A    grave    among    the    eternal. — Come 

away! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian 

day 
Is   yet   his  fitting   charnel-roof !    while 

still  60 

He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay; 
Awake  him  not!  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never 
more ! — 

Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads 
apace,  65 

The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the 
door 

Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 

His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling- 
place  ; 

The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 

Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to 
deface  70 

So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal 
curtain  draw. 

Oh,    weep    for    Adonais! — The    quick 

Dreams, 
The      passion-winged      Ministers      of 

thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the 

living  streams  75 

Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom 

he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander 

not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain 

to  brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung; 

and  mourn  their  lot 
Round    the    cold    heart,    where,    after 

their  sweet  pain,  80 

They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find 

a  home  again. 


SHELLEY 


481 


And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps 

his  cold  head, 
And    fans    him    with    her    moonlight 

wings,  and  cries: 
"Our  love,   our   hope,   our   sorrow,   is 

not  dead; 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint 

eyes,  85 

Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there 

lies 
A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from 

his  brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own;  as  with 

no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  outwept 

its  rain.  90 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming 

them; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and 

threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem,1 
Which   frozen   tears  instead   of   pearls 

begem;  95 

Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,   as  if  to 

stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more 

weak; 
And    dull    the    barbed    fire    against    his 

frozen  cheek. 

Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit,  100 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to 

draw  the  breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the 

guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With   lightning   and   with   music:    the 

damp  death  104 

Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of   moonlight   vapor,    which   the   cold 

night  clips, 
It   flushed   through  his  pale   limbs,  and 

passed  to  its  eclipse. 

And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and  Ad- 
orations, 

Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Desti- 
nies, no 

1  chaplet. 


Splendours,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmer- 
ing Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phan- 
tasies; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by 

the  gleam 

Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 

Came    in    slow    pomp; — the    moving 

pomp  might  seem  116 

Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal 

stream. 

All  he   had  loved,   and   moulded  into 

thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and 

sweet  sound, 
Lamented   Adonais.      Morning   sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair 

unbound,  121 

Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn 

the  ground, 

Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day ; 

Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned; 

Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay;     125 

And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in 

their  dismay. 

Lost    Echo    sits    amid    the    voiceless 

mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered 

lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or 

fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young 

green  spray,  130 

Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing 

day; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more 

dear 
Than    those    for    whose    disdain    she 

pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds: — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the 

woodmen  hear.  135 

Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and 

she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn 

were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves;  since  her  delight 

is  flown, 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the 

sullen  year? 


482 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both  141 
Thou,   Adonais:   wan   they   stand   and 

sere 
Amid   the   faint   companions    of   their 

youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears;  odor,   to 

sighing  ruth. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 

Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodi- 
ous pain;  146 

Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could 
scale 

Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's 
domain 

Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth 
complain 

Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty 
nest,  150 

As  Albion  wails  for  thee:  the  curse  of 
Cain 

Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  in- 
nocent breast, 
\nd  scared   the  angel  soul  that  was   its 
earthly  guest! 

Ah,  woe  is  me!  Winter  is  come  and  gone, 

But   grief   returns   with   the   revolving 
year;  ^i$s 

The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joy- 
ous tone; 

The  ants,   the  bees,   the  swallows  re- 
appear; 

Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead 
Seasons'  bier; 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every 
brake, 

And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field 
and  brere;1  160 

And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden 
snake, 
Like   unimprisoned  flames,   out   of   their 
trance  awake. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and 

hill  and  ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart 

has  burst 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and 

motion  165 

From  the  great  morning  of  the  world 

when  first 

1  briar. 


God  dawned  on  Chaos;  in  its  stream 

immersed 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer 

light; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred 

thirst; 
Diffuse  themselves;  and  spend  in  love's 

delight  170 

The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed 

might. 

The    leprous    corpse    touched    by   this 

spirit  tender 
Exhales    itself    in    flowers    of    gentle 

breath; 
Like   incarnations   of   the   stars,   when 

splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine 

death  175 

And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes 

beneath; 
Naught    we    know,    dies.      Shall    that 

alone  which  knows 
Be  as   a   sword   consumed   before   the 

sheath 
By    sightless2    lightning? — th'    intense 

atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most 

cold  repose.  180 

Alas !  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal!  Woe  is  me! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we?  of 

what  scene 
The   actors   or   spectators?   Great   and 

mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what 

life  must  borrow.  186 

As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are 

green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge 

the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year 

wake  year  to  sorrow. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more! 
"Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "childless 

Mother,  rise  191 

Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's 

core, 
A    wound   more   fierce    than   his   with 

tears  and  sighs." 

-  invisible. 


SHELLEY 


483 


And    all    the    Dreams    that    watched 

Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's 

song  19s 

Had     held     in     holy     silence,     cried: 

"Arise!" 
Swift    as    a    Thought    by    the    snake 

Memory  stung, 
From    her    ambrosial    rest    the    fading 

Splendor  sprung. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that 

springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and 

drear  200 

The    golden    Day,    which,    on    eternal 

wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow 

and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmos- 
phere 205 
Of  stormy  mist;  so  swept  her  on  her 

way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais 

lay. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with 

stone,  and  steel, 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery 

tread  210 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they 

fell: 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more 

sharp  than  they, 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could 

repel, 
Whose    sacred   blood,    like    the   young 

tears  of  May,  215 

Paved   with   eternal    flowers    that    unde- 
serving way. 

In  the  death  chamber  for  a   moment 

Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living 

Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited    those    lips,    and    life's    pale 

light  220 

Flashed   through   those   limbs,   so   late 

her  dear  delight. 


"Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and 
comfortless, 

As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless 
night! 

Leave  me  not!"  cried  Urania:  her  dis- 
tress 
Roused  Death:  Death  rose  and  smiled, 
and  met  her  vain  caress.  225 

"Stay  yet  awhile!  speak  to  me  once 
again; 

Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live; 

And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burn- 
ing brain 

That  word,  that  kiss,  shall  all  thoughts 
else  survive, 

With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept 
alive,  230 

Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  thee,  my  Adonais!  I  would  give 

All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art! 
But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot 
thence  depart! 

"Oh   gentle    child,    beautiful    as    thou 

wert,  235 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths 

of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though 

mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den? 
Defenceless    as    thou    wert,    oh    where 

was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn 

the  spear?  240 

Or  hadst  thou  waited   the   full   cycle, 

when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent 

sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from 

thee  like  deer. 

"The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pur- 
sue; 

The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the 
dead;  245 

The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner 
true, 

Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has 
fed, 

And  whose  wings  rain  contagion;— how 
they  fled, 

When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 

The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 


484 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  smiled! — The  spoilers  tempt  no 
second  blow;  251 

They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn 
them  lying  low. 

"The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  rep- 
tiles spawn; 

He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect 
then 

Is  gathered  into  death  without  a 
dawn,  _    255 

And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again; 

So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men: 

A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  de- 
light 

Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven, 
and  when 

It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or 
shared  its  light  260 

Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's 
awful  night." 

Thus   ceased   she:   and    the   mountain 

shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands   sere,  their  magic  man- 
tles rent; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living    head   like   Heaven  is 
bent,  265 

An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his 

song 
In  sorrow;  from  her  wilds  Ierne  sent 
The    sweetest    lyrist    of    her    saddest 
wrong, 
&nd  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music 
from  his  tongue.  270 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one 
frail  Form, 

A  phantom  among  men,  companion- 
less 

As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 

Whose  thunder  is  its  knell;  he,  as  I 
guess, 

Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveli- 
ness, 275 

Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 

With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's 
wilderness, 

And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rug- 
ged way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father 
and  their  prey. 


A  pardlike1  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A     Love    in    desolation     masked; — a 

Power  281 

Girt    round    with    weakness; — it    can 

scarce  uplift 
The    weight    of    the    superincumbent 

hour; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A    breaking    billow; — even    whilst    we 

speak  285 

Is   it   not   broken?    On    the    withering 

flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly;  on  a 

cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the 

heart  may  break. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over- 
blown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and 

blue;  290 

And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress 

cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses 

grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday 

dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it; 

of  that  crew  295 

He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart; 

A   herd-abandoned   deer,   struck   by   the 

hunter's  dart. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears;  well  knew 

that  gentle  band  299 

Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own ; 
As,  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land, 
He  sung  new  sorrow;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured: 

"Who  art  thou?" 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden 

hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined 

brow,  305 

Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's — Oh! 

that  it  should  be  so! 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the 

dead? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle 

thrown? 

1  leopardlike. 


SHELLEY 


4§S 


What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white 

death-bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone,      310 
The   heavy   heart    heaving   without   a 

moan? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,    soothed,    loved,   honored    the 

departed  one, 
Let    me    not    vex    with    inharmonious 
sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacri- 
fice. 315 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could 

crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of 

woe? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself 

disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and 

wrong,  321 

But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast 

alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver 

lyre  unstrung. 

Live  thou,   whose  infamy  is   not   thy 

fame!  325 

Live!  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from 

me, 
Thou  noteless   blot  on  a  remembered 

name! 
But  be  thyself,  and   know  thyself  to 

be! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'er- 

flow :  330 

Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling 

to  thee; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret 

brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou 

shalt — as  now. 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream 

below;  335 

He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring 

dead ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting 

now. — 


Dust  to  the  dust!  but  the  pure  spirit 

shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence 

it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must 

glow  340 

Through  time  and  change,  unquench- 
ably  the  same, 
Whilst  thy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid 
hearth  of  shame. 

Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth 

not  sleep — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of 

life— 
'Tis  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions, 

keep  34s 

With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And   in   mad   trance   strike   with   our 

spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings. — We  decay 
Like   corpses   in   a   charnel;   fear   and 

grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by 

day,  350 

And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within 

our  living  clay 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our 

night; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  de- 
light, 
Can   touch  him   not  and  torture  not 

again;  355 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow 

s,tain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey 

in  vain; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased 

to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented 

urn.  360 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead, 

not  he; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young 

Dawn, 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from 

thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone; 
Ye   caverns   and   ye   forests,   cease   to 

moan!  365 


486 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Cease,  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains, 

and  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf 

hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave 

it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on 

its  despair! 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature:  there  is 
heard  370 

His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the 
moan 

Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet 
bird; 

He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 

In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and 
stone, 

Spreading    itself   where'er   that  Power 
may  move  375 

Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its 
own; 

Which   wields    the   world   with   never- 
wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it 
above. 

He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely:  he 

doth  bear  380 

His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic 

stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world, 

compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they 

wear; 
Torturing    th'     unwilling    dross     that 

checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may 

bear;  385 

And   bursting   in   its   beauty   and   its 

might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the 

Heaven's  light. 

The  splendors  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished 

not; 
Like   stars   to  their  appointed   height 

they  climb,  390 

And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot 

blot 
The    brightness    it    may    veil.      When 

lofty  thought 


Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal 

lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live 

there  395 

And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and 

stormy  air. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond 

mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.    Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not  400 
Yet   faded   from   him;    Sidney,    as   he 

fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved, 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose;   and   Lucan,   by  his  death  ap- 
proved: 
Oblivion,  as  they  rose,  shrank  like  a  thing 
reproved.  405 

And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth 

are  dark, 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot 

die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they 

cry,  410 

"  It  was  for  thee  yon  king]  ess  sphere  has 

long 
Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper 

of  our  throng!" 


Who   mourns   for  Adonais?   Oh   come 
forth,  415 

Fond   wretch!   and   know   thyself   and 
him  aright. 

Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pen- 
dulous Earth; 

As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 

Beyond  all  worlds,   until  its  spacious 
might 

Satiate   the   void   circumference:   then 
shrink  420 

Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and 
night; 

And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make 
thee  sink, 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured 
thee  to  the  brink. 


SHELLEY 


487 


Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
Oh!  not  of    him,  but  of  our  joy:   'tis 

naught  •  425 

That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie   buried   in    the   ravage   they   have 

wrought; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow 

not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world 

their  prey; 
And   he   is   gathered    to    the   kings  of 

thought  43° 

Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's 

decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass 

away. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Par- 
adise, 

The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilder- 
ness; 

And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered 
mountains  rise,  435 

And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses 
dress 

The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 

Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall 
lead 

Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 

Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the 
dead  440 

A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass 
is  spread. 

And  grey  walls  moulder  round,  on  which 
dull  Time 

Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary 
brand; 

And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sub- 
lime, 

Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who 
planned  445 

This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 

Like  flame  transformed  to  marble;  and 
beneath, 

A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 

Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their 
camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  ex- 
tinguished breath.  450 

Here  pause:  these  graves  are  all  too 

young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow   which 

consigned 


Its  charge  to  each;  and  if  the  seal  is 

set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning 

mind, 
Break  it  not  thou!  too  surely  shalt  thou 

find  455 

Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest 

home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's 

bitter  wind 
Seek    shelter    in    the    shadow    of    the 

tomb. 
What   Adonais   is,  why   fear   we   to   be- 
come? 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and 

pass;  460 

Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's 

shadows  fly; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — 

Die, 
If   thou  wouldst   be   with   that  which 

thou  dost  seek!  465 

Follow  where  all  is  fled! — Rome's  azure 

sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words, 

are  weak 
The    glory    they    transfuse    with    fitting 

truth  to  speak. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink, 

my  Heart? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before:  from  all 

things  here  470 

They  have  departed;  thou  shouldst  now 

depart! 
A    light    is    past    from    the    revolving 

year, 
And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is 

dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee 

wither. 
The    soft    sky    smiles, — the    low    wind 

whispers  near;  475 

'Tis  Adonais  calls!  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can 

join  together. 

That   Light   whose   smile   kindles   the 

Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work 

and  move, 


488 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing 
Curse  480 

Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining 
Love 

Which,  through  the  web  of  being 
blindly  wove 

By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and 
sea, 

Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors 
of 

The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams 
on  me,  485 

Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mor- 
tality. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked 

in  song 
Descends  on  me;  my  spirit's  bark  is 

driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trem- 
bling throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest 

given;  490 

The    massy    earth    and    sphered    skies 

are  riven! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar; 
Whilst,    burning    through    the    inmost 

veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star,         494 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal 

are. 


FINAL  CHORUS  FROM  HELLAS 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn: 
Heaven   smiles,   and   faiths  and  empires 
gleam,  _         ^  5 

Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far;    . 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star.  10 

Where  fairer  Tern  pes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again,  15 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 


A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

Oh,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 

If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be!  20 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free: 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise,  25 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendor  of  its  prime; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give.     30 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued: 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers,  35 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

Oh,  cease!  must  hate  and  death  return? 

Cease!  must  men  kill  and  die? 
Cease!  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy.  40 

The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
Oh,  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last! 


WHEN  THE  LAMP  IS  SHATTERED 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead; 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken,  5 

Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute,  10 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute: — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges  15 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possessed.  20 


SHELLEY 


0  Love!  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your   cradle,  your   home,  and  your 
bier? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee  25 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high: 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home  30 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


WITH  A  GUITAR,  TO  JANE 

Ariel  to  Miranda: — Take 
This  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 
Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee, 
And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 
In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou,         5 
Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 
Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 
And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain; 
For  by  permission  and  command 
Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand,  10 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 
Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken ; 
Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who, 
From  life  to  life,  must  still  pursue 
Your  happiness ; — for  thus  alone  15 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 
From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 
As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 
To  the  throne  of  Naples,  he 
Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea,  20 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 
Like  a  living  meteor. 
When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 
In  her  interlunar  swoon, 
Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell  25 

Than  deserted  Ariel. 
When  you  live  again  on  earth, 
Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 
Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 
Of  life  from  your  nativity.  30 

Many  changes  have  been  run, 
Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 
Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 
Has  tracked  your  steps,  and  served  your 
will; 


4S9 


35 


40 


Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 
This  is  all  remembered  not; 
And  now,  alas!  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned,  for  some  fault  of  his, 
In  a  body  like  a  grave; — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 


The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought, 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep  45 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast,     50 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love;  and  so  this  tree, — 

Oh,  that  such  our  death  may  be! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain,  $$ 

To  live  in  happier  form  again : 

From    which,    beneath    Heaven's    fairest 

star, 
The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar, 
And  taught  it  justly  to  reply, 
To  all  who  question  skilfully,  60 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own; 
Whispering  in  enamored  tone 
Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells; 
For  it  had  learned  all  harmonies  65 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many- voiced  fountains; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills,  70 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 
And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound,     75 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way — 
All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well          80 
The  spirit  that  inhabits  it; 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions ;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray  85 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day: 


49° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  Jane  alone.  90 


JOHN   KEATS    (1796-1821) 

From  SLEEP  AND  POETRY 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that 

the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old?  prepare  her  steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange 

deeds  5 

Upon  the  clouds?  Has  she  not  shown  us 

all? 
From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 
Breath    of    new    buds    unfolding?    From 

the  meaning 
Of  Jove's  large  eyebrow,   to  the  tender 

greening  9 

Of  April  meadows?  Here  her  altar  shone, 
E'en  in  this  isle;  and  who  could  paragon 
The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 
Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 
Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 
Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 
Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void?  16 

Ay,  in  those  days  the  muses  were  nigh 

cloyed 
With  honors;  nor  had  any  other  care 
Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy 

hair. 
Could   all    this   be   forgotten?   Yes,   a 

schism  20 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 
Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not 

understand 
His  glories;  with  a  puling  infant's  force 
They  swayed  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 
And    thought   it    Pegasus.     Ah,    dismal- 

souled!  26 

The   winds   of   heaven   blew,    the   ocean 

rolled 
Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.    The 

blue 
Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 
Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make  30 
The  morning  precious:  beauty  was  awake! 


Why  were  ye  not  awake?     But  ye  were 

dead 
To  things  ye  knew  not  of, — were  closely 

wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched 

rule 
And  compass  vile:  so  that  ye  taught  a 

school  35 

Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit, 
Their  verses  tallied.    Easy  was  the  task: 
A    thousand    handicraftsmen    wore    the 

mask 
Of  Poesy.    Ill-fated,  impious  race!  40 

That   blasphemed    the   bright   Lyrist   to 

his  face, 
And   did   not   know   it, — no,    they   went 

about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepit  standard  out, 
Marked  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,  and  in 

large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau !  45 


From  ENDYMION,  BOOK  I 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever: 
Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet 

breathing.  5 

Therefore,    on    every    morrow,    are    we 

wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth, 
Spite   of   despondence,    of   the   inhuman 

dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days, 
Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darkened 

ways  10 

Made  for  our  searching:  yes,  in  spite  of 

all, 
Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 
From  our  dark  spirits.    Such  the  sun,  the 

moon, 
Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady 

boon 
For  simple  sheep:  and  such  are  daffodils  15 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in;  and 

clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst   the   hot   season;    the   mid-forest 

brake, 


KEATS 


491 


Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose 

blooms: 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead;  21 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or 

read: 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 
Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences     25 
For  one  short  hour;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast,  31 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom 

o'ercast, 
They  alway  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion.  35 

The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys:  so  I  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din ;  40 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.    And,  as  the 

year  45 

Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly 

steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With   streams   that   deepen   freshly   into 

bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimmed  and 

white,  50 

Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet 

peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 
See  it  half  finished :  but  let  Autumn  bold,  5 5 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness: 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly 

dress  60 

My   uncertain  path   with  green,   that   I 

may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

0  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms,         5 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

1  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew;      10 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 
Fast  withereth  too. 

"I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light,      15 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

"I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone;1 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan.  20 

"  I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

"She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet,       25 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna-dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 
'I  love  thee  true.' 

"She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore,3o 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes, 

With  kisses  four. 

"And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 
And  there  I  dreamed — ah!  woe  betide! — 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed  35 

On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

"I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all, 

Who  cried — 'La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall!' 

1  girdle. 


492 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


"I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide; 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

"And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here,  45 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing." 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness 
pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had 
drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had 
sunk: 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,     5 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happi- 
ness,— 
That  thou,  light- winged  Dryad  of  the 
trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  number- 
less, 
Singest   of   summer  in   full-throated 
ease.  10 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage!  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved 
earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun- 
burnt mirth! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,     15 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippo- 
crene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the 
brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 
unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the 
forest  dim :  20 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  has  never 
known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 
groan ; 


Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  grey 
hairs,  25 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre- 
thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of 
sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous 
eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to- 
morrow. 30 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards,1 
But  on  the  viewless2  wings  of  Poesy, 
Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and 
retards: 
Already  with  thee!  tender  is  the  night,    35 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her 
throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry 
Fays; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what   from   heaven   is   with   the 
breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  wind- 
ing mossy  ways.  40 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 
boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed   darkness,  guess   each 
sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  en- 
dows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree 
wild;  45 

White    hawthorn,    and    the    pastoral 
eglantine; 
Fast   fading   violets   covered   up   in 
leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The   coming   musk-rose,   full   of  dewy 
wine, 
The   murmurous   haunt    of   flies   on 
summer  eves.  50 

Darkling  I  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful 
Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused 
rhyme, 
To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 

1  leopards.  2  invisible. 


KEA  TS 


49.: 


Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die,  55 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no 
pain. 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul 
abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears 
in   vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.    60 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal 
Bird! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was 
heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a 
path  65 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when, 
sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on 
the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  for- 
lorn. 70 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  75 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 
stream, 
Up  the  hill-side;  and  now  'tis  buried 
deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
Fled  is  that  music: — Do  I  wake  or 
sleep?  80 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow 
time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our 
rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy 
shape  5 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 


What    men    or    gods    are    these?      What 

maidens  loth? 

What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to 

escape? 

What    pipes    and    timbrels?      What 

wild  ecstasy?  10 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  un- 
heard 
Are  sweeter;   therefore,  ye  soft  pipes, 
play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst 
not  leave  15 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be 
bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou 
kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do 
not  grieve ; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 
thy  bliss, 
Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be 
fair!  2c 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring 
adieu : 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new; 
More   happy   love!   more   happy,   happy 
love!  25 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and 
cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching 
tongue.  30 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 
dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore,  35 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  this  folk,   this  pious 
morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  re- 
turn. 40 


494 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


O  Attic  shape !    Fair  attitude !  with  brede1 
Of    marble    men    and    maidens    over- 
wrought, 
With   forest    branches   and    the    trodden 
weed; 
Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of 
thought 
As  doth  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral!  45 

When    old    age    shall    this    generation 
waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other 
woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 
say'st, 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that 
is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know.  50 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 

No,  no!  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poison- 
ous wine; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kissed 
By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proser- 
pine; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries,       5 
Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth 
be 
Your    mournful     Psyche,     nor     the 
downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 
For    shade    to    shade    will    come    too 
drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the 
soul.  10 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 
Sudden    from   heaven    like   a   weeping 
cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 
And  hides  the  green  hills  in  an  April 
shroud ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose,  15 
Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt-sand  wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her 
rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peer- 
less eyes.  20 

1  embroidery. 


She    dwells    with    Beauty — Beauty    that 
must  die; 
And  Joy,   whose  hand  is  ever  at  his 
lips 
Bidding     adieu;     and     aching     Pleasure 
nigh, 
Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth 
sips: 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight  25 

Veiled    Melancholy    has    her    sovran 
shrine, 
Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose 
strenuous  tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate 
fine: 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her 
might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies 
hung.  30 


TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With   fruit   the  vines   that   round   the 
thatch-eaves  run; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage- 
trees,  5 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the 
core; 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the 
hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still   more,   later  flowers  for   the 

bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never 
cease,  10 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their 
clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy 
store? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may 
find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing 
wind;  15 

Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while 
thy  hook 
Spares   the   next   swath  and   all   its 
twined  flowers: 


KEA  TS 


495 


And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook;  20 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours 
by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where 
are  they? 
Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music 
too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying 
day,  25 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy 
hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats 
mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or 
dies; 
And   full-grown   lambs    loud    bleat   from 
hilly  bourn;  30 

Hedge-crickets    sing;    and    now    with 

treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden- 
croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine  5 

Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison?    0  generous  food! 
Dressed  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood  10 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till  15 

An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine,  20 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 


Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern,  25 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 


ROBIN  HOOD 

No !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down- trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years :  5 

Many  times  have  winter's  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases.     10 

No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh,  15 

Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon,  20 

Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you, 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan,  25 

Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent;  30 

For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 


Gone,  the  merry  morris  din; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamely n; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "grene  shawe"; 
All  are  gone  away  and  past! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  turfed  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze: 


35 


40 


496 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fallen  beneath  the  dockyard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas;  45 

She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange!  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money! 

So  it  is:  yet  let  us  sing, 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string!  50 

Honor  to  the  bugle-horn! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn! 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green! 
Honor  to  the  archer  keen! 
Honor  to  tight  Little  John,  55 

And  the  horse  he  rode  upon! 
Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood! 
Honor  to  Maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood-clan!  60 

Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden1  try. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold; 
The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the 

frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold: 
Numb   were    the    Beadsman's    fingers, 
while  he  told  5 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven,  with- 
out a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his 
prayer  he  saith. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy 

man;  10 

Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from 

his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot, 

wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees: 
The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem 

to  freeze, 
Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails: 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  or- 

at'ries,  16 

He  passeth  by;  and  his  weak  spirit  fails 

To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 

and  mails. 

1  chorus. 


Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little 

door, 
And    scarce    three    steps,    ere    Music's 

golden  tongue  20 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and 

poor; 
But    no — already    had    his    deathbell 

rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and 

sung: 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes' 

Eve: 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among  25 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  re- 
prieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake 

to  grieve. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  pre- 
lude soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was 

wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.    Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets   'gan  to 

chide:  31 

The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their 

pride, 
Were    glowing    to    receive    a    thousand 

guests : 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,    where    upon    their    heads    the 

cornice  rests,  35 

With  hair  blown  back,   and  wings  put 

crosswise  on  their  breasts. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  f airily 
The  brain,  new  stuffed,  in  youth,  with 
triumphs  gay  40 

Of  old   romance.     These   let   us   wish 

away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady 

there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  win- 
try day, 
On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes'  saintly 
care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many 
times  declare.  45 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of 
delight, 


KEA  TS 


4Q7 


And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  re- 
ceive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright:  50 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily 

white; 
Nor   look    behind,    nor   sideways,    but 
require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Made- 
line: 55 

The    music,   yearning    like    a    God    in 
pain, 

She   scarcely   heard:   her   maiden   eyes 
divine, 

Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping 
train 

Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all:  in  vain 

Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 

And  back  retired;  not  cooled  by  high 
disdain,  61 

But  she  saw  not:  her  heart  was  other- 
where : 
She  sighed  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless 

eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick 

and  short:  65 

The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand: 

she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged 

resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and 

scorn, 
Hoodwinked     with     faery     fancy;     all 

amort,1  70 

Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  un- 
shorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 

morn. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  lingered  still.    Meantime,  across  the 

moors, 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart 

on  fire  75 

For  Madeline.    Beside  the  portal  doors, 

1  deadened. 


Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he, 

and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  un- 
seen; 80 
Perchance  speak,   kneel,   touch,  kiss — in 
sooth  such  things  have  been. 

He  ventures  in:  let  no  buzzed  whisper 

tell: 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will   storm  his  heart,   Love's  fev'rous 

citadel : 
For    him,    those    chambers    held    bar- 
barian hordes,  85 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against    his    lineage:    not    one    breast 

affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and 
in  soul.  90 

Ah,  happy  chance!  the  aged  creature 

came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand, 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's 

flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The   sound   of   merriment   and   chorus 

bland:  95 

He  startled  her;  but  soon  she  knew  his 

face, 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied 

hand, 
Saying,    "Mercy,    Porphyro!    hie    thee 

from  this  place; 
They   are   all   here    to-night,    the   whole 

bloodthirsty  race! 

"Get  hence!  get  hence!  there's  dwarfish 
Hildebrand;  100 

He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 

He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house 
and  land: 

Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not 
a  whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me ! 
flit! 

Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "Ah,  Gossip 
dear,  105 

We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  arm- 
chair sit, 


498 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  tell  me  how" — "Good  Saints!  not 
here,  not  here; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will 
be  thy  bier." 

He   followed    through   a   lowly  arched 

way, 
Brushing   the   cobwebs  with  his  lofty 

plume;  no 

And  as  she  muttered  "  Well-a-day!" 
He   found   him   in   a   little   moonlight 

room, 
Pale,    latticed,    chill,    and    silent   as   a 

tomb. 
"Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said 

he, 
"O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom  115 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may 

see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving 

piously." 

"St.  Agnes!  Ah!  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
Thou   must   hold   water   in   a   witch's 
sieve,  120 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and 

Fays, 
To  venture  so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro! — St.  Agnes'  Eve! 
God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer 

plays 
This  very  night:  good  angels  her  de- 
ceive! 125 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  mickle  time 
to  grieve." 

Feebly    she    laugheth    in    the    languid 
moon, 

While   Porphyro   upon   her   face   doth 
look, 

Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 

Who  keepeth  closed  a  wond'rous  riddle- 
book,  130 

As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when 
she  told 

His  lady's  purpose;  and  he  scarce  could 
brook1 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchant- 
ments cold, 
A.nd   Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of   legends 
old.  135 

1  check. 


Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown 

rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained 

heart 
Made  purple  riot:  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame 

start: 
"A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art:  140 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and 

dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.    Go,  go! — 

I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that 

thou  didst  seem." 

"I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I 

swear,"  145 

Quoth  Porphyro:  "O  may  I  ne'er  find 

grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its 

last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face: 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space,  151 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's 

ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more 

fanged  than  wolves  and  bears." 

"Ah!  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble 
soul? 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church- 
yard thing,—  155 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  mid- 
night toll; 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn 
and  evening, 

Were  never  missed." — Thus  plaining, 
doth  she  bring 

A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Por- 
phyro; 

So  woeful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will 
do  161 

Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal 
or  woe. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there 

hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy  165 

That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 


KEATS 


499 


And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless 
bride, 

While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  cover- 
let, 

And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy- 
eyed. 

Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers 
met,  1 70 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  mon- 
strous debt. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the 

dame: 
"All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored 

there 
Quickly    on    this    feast-night:    by    the 

tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see:  no  time  to 

spare,  175 

For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce 

dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait   here,   my   child,    with   patience; 

kneel  in  prayer 
The  while.     Ah!  thou  must  needs  the 

lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among 

the  dead."  180 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy 

fear. 
The    lover's    endless    minutes    slowly 

passed; 
The  dame  returned,  and  whispered  in 

his  ear 
To  follow  her;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From   fright   of    dim   espial.     Safe   at 

last,  1 85 

Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,   they 

gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hushed, 

and  chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased 

amain. 
!  His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in 

her  brain. 

I  Her  fait 'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair,  191 
When   Madeline,    St.   Agnes'   charmed 

maid, 
Rose,  like  a  missioned  spirit,  unaware: 
With    silver    taper's    light,   and    pious 

care, 


She  turned,  and  down  the  aged  gossip 

led  195 

To  a  safe  level  matting.    Now  prepare, 

Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed: 

She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 

frayed1  and  fled. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine, 

died:  200 

She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side; 
As    though    a    tongueless    nightingale 

should  swell  206 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled, 

in  her  dell. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arched  there 

was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of 

knot-grass,  210 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint 

device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damasked 

wings; 
And    in    the    midst,    'mong    thousand 

heraldries, 
And    twilight    saints,    and    dim    em- 

blazonings,  215 

A  shielded  scutcheon  blushed  with  blood 

of  queens  and  kings. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry 

moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules2  on  Madeline's 

fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and 

boon; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together 

pressed,  220 

And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She    seemed    a   splendid    angel,    newly 

dressed, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven: — Porphyro  grew 

faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from 

mortal  taint.  225 

1  frightened.  2  red. 


5°° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Anon   his    heart    revives:    her   vespers 
done; 

Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she 
frees ; 

Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one ; 

Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice;  by  degrees 

Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her 
knees:  230 

Half -hidden,    like   a   mermaid   in   sea- 
weed, 

Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and 
sees, 

In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But   dares   not  look  behind,   or  all   the 
charm  is  fled. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly 
nest,  235 

In   sort   of   wakeful   swoon,   perplexed 
she  lay, 

Until    the    poppied    warmth    of    sleep 
oppressed 

Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued 
away; 

Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  mor- 
row-day ; 

Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and 
pain ;  240 

Clasped    like    a    missal    where    swart1 
Paynims  pray; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from 
rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a 
bud   again. 

Stol'n    to    this    paradise,    and    so    en- 
tranced, 

Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 

And   listened   to   her   breathing,   if   it 
chanced  246 

To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness; 

Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did 
he  bless, 

And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the 
closet  crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness,  250 

And   over   the   hushed    carpet,    silent, 
stepped, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where, 
lo! — how  fast  she  slept. 

Then  by  the  bedside,  where  the  faded 

moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 

1  black. 


A  table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw 
thereon  255 

A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and 
jet: — 

O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clar- 
ion, 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clar- 
ionet, 

Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying 
tone: —  260 

The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise 
is  gone. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lav- 
endered, 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought 
a  heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 
gourd; _  265 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy 
curd, 

And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 

From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every 
one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Leb- 
anon. 270 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing 

hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of    wreathed    silver:    sumptuous    they 

stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume 

light.—  275 

"And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair, 

awake ! 
Thou    art    my    heaven,    and    I    thine 

eremite : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes' 

sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 

doth  ache." 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved 
arm  280 

Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her 
dream 

By  the  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  mid- 
night  charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream: 


KEA  TS 


;oi 


The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight 
gleam; 

Broad  golden   fringe  upon   the  carpet 
lies:  285 

It  seemed  he  never,   never  could   re- 
deem 

From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's 
eyes; 
So    mused    awhile,    entoiled    in    woofed 
phantasies. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  ten- 

derest  be,  290 

He  played  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since 

mute, 
In  Provence  called,  "La  belle  dame  sans 

merci," 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody;— 
Wherewith  disturbed  she  uttered  a  soft 

moan  : 
He    ceased — she    panted    quick — and 

suddenly  295 

Her    blue     affrayed     eyes    wide    open 

shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  be- 
held, 
Now   wide   awake,    the   vision   of   her 

sleep: 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh 

expelled  300 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and 

deep, 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And    moan   forth   witless   words    with 

many  a  sigh; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would 

keep; 
Who    knelt,    with    joined    hands    and 

piteous    eye,  305 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  looked  so 

dreamingly. 

"Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even 

now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine 

ear, 
Made    tunable    with    every    sweetest 

vow; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and 

clear:  310 


How    changed    thou   art!    how    pallid, 
chill,  and  drear! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro; 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complain- 
ings dear! 

Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not 
where  to  go."  315 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a  throbbing 

star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep 

repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose  320 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution    sweet:    meantime    the    frost- 
wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp 
sleet 
Against    the    window-panes;    St.    Agnes' 
moon  hath  set. 

'Tis   dark:   quick   pattereth   the   flaw- 
blown  sleet:  325 

"This    is    no    dream,    my    bride,    my 
Madeline!" 

'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and 
beat: 

"No  dream,  alas!  alas!  and  woe  is  mine! 

Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 
pine. — 

Cruel!  what  traitor  could  thee  hither 
bring?  330 

I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 

Though     thou     forsakest    a    deceived 
thing;  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with   sick   un- 
pruned  wing." 

"My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!  lovely 

bride ! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and 

vermeil  dyed?  336 

Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famished  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy 

nest  340 

Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think'st 

well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 


5°2 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


"Hark!  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery- 
land, 

Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed : 

Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand; — 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never 
heed :—  346 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy 
speed; 

There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to 
see, — 

Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy 
mead : 

Awake!  arise!  my  love,  and  fearless  be, 

For  o'er  the    southern    moors  I   have  a 

home  for  thee."  351 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with 

fears, 
For    there    were    sleeping    dragons    all 

around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready 

spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way 

they  found. —  355 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human 

sound. 
A  chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by 

each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk, 

and  hound, 
Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind's  up- 
roar; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 

floor.  360 

They   glide,    like   phantoms,   into    the 

wide  hall; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch  they 

glide; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side: 
The    wakeful    bloodhound    rose,    and 

shook  his  hide,  365 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns: 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy 

slide : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn 

stones; — 
The  key  turns,  and    the    door  upon  its 

hinges  groans. 

And    they    are    gone:    ay,    ages    long 

ago  370 

These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 


That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many 

a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade 

and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin- 
worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the 

old  375 

Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face 

deform; 
The    Beadsman,    after    thousand    aves 

told, 
For  aye   unsought   for  slept   among  his 

ashes  cold. 


HYPERION 

A   FRAGMENT 

BOOK  I 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 
Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of 

morn, 
Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one 

star, 
Sat  gray-haired  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 
Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair;  5 
Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 
Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was 

there, 
Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feathered 

grass, 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it 

rest.  10 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened 

more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a  shade:  the  Naiad  'mid  her 

reeds 
Pressed  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 
Along  the  margin-sand  large  footmarks 

went,  15 

No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had 

strayed, 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden 

ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless, 

dead, 
Unsceptered;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were 

closed ; 
While  his  bowed  head  seemed  listening  to 

the  Earth,  20 

His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 


KEATS 


5°3 


It  seemed  no  force  could  wake  him  from 

his  place; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred 

hand 
Touched  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending 

low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it 

not.  25 

She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  infant  world; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height:  she  would 

have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck; 
Or  with  a  finger  stayed  Ixion's  wheel.     30 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian 

sphinx, 
Pedestaled  haply  in  a  palace  court, 
When  sages  looked  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh!  how  unlike  marble  was  that  face; 
How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made  35 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard, 
As  if  calamity  had  but  begun; 
As  if  the  van  ward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen 

rear  40 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  pressed  upon  that  aching 

spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just 

there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain; 
The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck  45 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she 

spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ  tone: 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble 

tongue 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents;  oh  how 

frail  50 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods ! 
"Saturn,    look    up! — though    wherefore, 

poor  old  King? 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no,  not  one: 
I  cannot  say, '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou? ' 
For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the 

earth  55 

Knows    thee    not,    thus    afflicted,    for    a 

God; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise, 
Has  from  thy  scepter  passed;  and  all  the 

air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 


Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  com- 
mand, 60 

Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house; 

And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised 
hands 

Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  do- 
main. 

O  aching  time!  O  moments  big  as  years! 

All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous 
truth,  65 

And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 

That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 

Saturn,  sleep  on: — O  thoughtless,  why 
did  I 

Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude? 

Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes?  70 

Saturn,  sleep  on!  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 
As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer  night, 

Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty 
woods,   • 

Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest 
stars, 

Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a 
stir,  75 

Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 

Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies 
off, 

As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave: 

So  came  these  words  and  went;  the  while 
in  tears 

She  touched  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the 
ground,  80 

Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  out- 
spread 

A  soft  and  silken  mat  for  Saturn's  feet. 

One  moon,  with  alteration  slow,  had  shed 

Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 

And  still  these  two  were  postured  motion- 
less, 85 

Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern; 

The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the 
earth, 

And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet: 

Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 

His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom 
gone,  90 

And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 

And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess;  and  then 
spake, 

As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his 
beard 

Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady: 

"O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion,        95 

Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face; 


5°4 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  the 

voice 
Of  Saturn;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 
Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem,    101 
Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.    Who  had 

power 
To  make  me  desolate?  whence  came  the 

strength? 
How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting 

forth, 
While    Fate    seemed    strangled    in    my 


nervous  grasp: 


i°5 


But  it  is  so;  and  I  am  smothered  up, 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale, 
Of  admonitions  to  the  winds,  and  seas, 
Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvest- 
ing, _  no 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in. — I  am  gone 
Away  from  my  own  bosom:  I  have  left 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 
Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where 
I  sit  115 
Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.    Search,  Thea, 

search ! 
Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them 

round 
Upon  all  space:  space  starred,  and  lorn  of 

light; 
Space  regioned  with  life-air;  and  barren 

void; 
Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell.  120 
Search,  Thea,  search!  and  tell  me,  if  thou 

seest 
A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile:  it  must — it 

must 
Be    of    ripe    progress — Saturn    must    be 
King.  125 

Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory; 
There  must  be  Gods  thrown  down,  and 

trumpets  blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir  130 
Of   strings   in   hollow   shells;    and    there 

shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of    the    sky-children;    I    will    give    com- 
mand: 


Thea!  Thea!  Thea!  where  is  Saturn?" 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet,  135 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air, 
His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with 

sweat, 
His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 
He  stood,  and  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing 

deep;  139 

A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatched 
Utterance  thus: — "But  cannot  I  create? 
Cannot  I  form?    Cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe, 
To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  nought? 
Where  is  another  chaos?    Where?  " — That 

word  145 

Found   way    unto   Olympus,    and    made 

quake 
The  rebel  three. — Thea  was  startled  up, 
And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 
As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of 

awe: 
"This  cheers  our  fallen  house:  come  to 

our  friends,  150 

0  Saturn!   come  away,   and  give   them 

heart ; 

1  know  the  covert,   for   thence  came  I 

hither." 
Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she 

went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade 

a  space : 
He  followed,  and  she  turned  to  lead  the 

way  155 

Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the 

mist 
Which    eagles    cleave    upmounting    from 

their  nest. 
Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big   tears 

were  shed, 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe, 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of 

scribe;  160 

The    Titans    fierce,    self-hid,    or    prison- 
bound, 
Groaned  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
And  listened  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's 

voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  mammoth-brood  still 

kept 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty;  165 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  snuffed  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From   man   to   the   sun's   God;   yet   un- 

secure: 


KEATS 


505 


For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright   and   perplex,    so   also   shuddered 
he, —  170 

Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated 

screech, 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell, 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp; 
But  horrors,  portioned  to  a  giant  nerve,  175 
Oft   made   Hyperion    ache.     His   palace 

bright, 
Bastioned  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold, 
And  touched  with  shade  of  bronzed  obe- 
lisks, 
Glared  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thou- 
sand courts, 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries;  180 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 
Flushed  angerly:  while  sometimes  eagle's 

wings, 
Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darkened  the  place;  and  neighing  steeds 

were  heard, 
Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering 
men.  185 

Also,    when    he    would    taste    the    spicy 

wreaths 
Of  incense,   breathed   aloft   from   sacred 

hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick: 
And   so,    when    harbored   in    the   sleepy 
west,  190 

After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day, — 
For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch 
And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody, 
He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall; 
While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  re- 
cess, 196 
His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood, 
Amazed  and  full  of  fear;  like  anxious  men 
Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting 

troops, 
When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements 
and  towers.  200 

Even  now,  while  Saturn,  roused  from  icy 

trance, 
Went  step  for  step  with  Thea  through  the 

woods, 
Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear, 
Came  slope  upon  the  threshold  of  the  west ; 
Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew 
ope  205 


In  smoothest  silence,  save  what  solemn 

tubes, 
Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of 

sweet 
And    wandering    sounds,    slow-breathed 

melodies ; 
And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape, 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye, 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence  211 

Stood  full  blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 
He  entered,  but  he  entered  full  of  wrath ; 
His  flaming  robes  streamed  out  beyond  his 

heels, 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire,     215 
That    scared    away    the    meek    ethereal 

Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.    On 

he  flared, 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to 

vault, 
Through    bowers    of    fragrant    and    en- 
wreathed  light, 
And    diamond-paved    lustrous    long    ar- 
cades, 220 
Until  he  reached  the  great  main  cupola; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stamped 

his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high 

towers 
Jarred  his  own  golden  region;  and  before 
The    quavering    thunder   thereupon    had 

ceased,  225 

His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb, 
To  this  result:   "O  dreams  of  day  and 

night! 
O  monstrous  forms !    0  effigies  of  pain ! 
O  specters  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom! 

0  lank-eared  Phantoms  of  black-weeded 

pools !  230 

Why  do  I  know  ye?  why  have  I  seen  ye? 

why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 
To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new? 
Saturn  is  fallen ;  am  I  too  to  fall? 
Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest,     235 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light, 
These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes, 
Of  all  my  lucent  empire?    It  is  left 
Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine.  240 
The    blaze,  the  splendor,  and    the  sym- 
metry, 

1  cannot  see — but  darkness,   death  and 

darkness. 


5°6 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Even  here,  into  my  center  of  repose, 
The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 
Insult,    and    blind,    and    stifle    up    my 

pomp. —  245 

Fall !— No,  by  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes ! 
Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 
I  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm, 
Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel 

Jove, 
And    bid    old    Saturn    take    his    throne 

again." —  250 

He  spake  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier 

threat 
Held  struggle  with  his  throat,  but  came 

not  forth; 
For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 
Hubbub    increases    more    they    call    out 

"Hush!" 
So  at  Hyperion's   words   the   Phantoms 

pale  255 

Bestirred  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and 

cold; 
And  from  the  mirrored  level  where  he  stood 
A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 
At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 
Crept  gradual,   from   the  feet   unto   the 

crown,  260 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 
Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  con- 
vulsed 
From  over-strained  might.     Released,  he 

fled 
To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy 

hours 
Before   the  dawn  in  season  due  should 

blush,  265 

He    breathed    fierce    breath    against    the 

sleepy  portals, 
Cleared  them  of  heavy  vapors,  burst  them 

wide 
Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens 

through,  270 

Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds; 
Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and 

hid, 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 
Glowed  through,  and  wrought  upon  the 

muffling  dark  275 

Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir 

deep 
Up  to  the  Zenith, — hieroglyphics  old, 


Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then  living  on  the  earth,  with  laboring 

thought 
Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries:  280    I 
Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants 

huge 
Of  stone,  or  marble  swart;  their  import 

gone, 
Their  wisdom  long  since  fled. — Two  wings 

this  orb 
Possessed  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings, 
Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach:     285 
And   now,    from   forth   the   gloom   their 

plumes  immense 
Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were; 
While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintained 

eclipse, 
Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 
Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took 

throne  290 

And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might  not: — No,  though  a  primeval 

God: 
The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturbed. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stayed  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis 

told.  295 

Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly, 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb;  the  porches  wide 
Opened  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night; 
And  the  bright  Titan,  frenzied  with  new 

woes, 
Unused    to    bend,    by    hard    compulsion 

bent  300 

His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds, 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night, 
He  stretched  himself  in  grief  and  radiance 

faint. 
There   as   he   lay,   the   Heaven   with   its 

stars  305 

Looked  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the 

voice 
Of  Ccelus,  from  the  universal  space, 
Thus  whispered  low  and  solemn  in  his 

ear: 
"O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth- 
born 
And  sky-engendered,  Son  of  Mysteries  310 
All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
Which  met  at  thy  creating;  at  whose  joys 
And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 
I,  Ccelus,  wonder,  how  they  came  and 

whence; 


KEATS 


5°7 


And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they 

be,  315 

Distinct,  and  visible;  symbols  divine, 
Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
Diffused  unseen  throughout  eternal  space; 
Of  these  new-formed  art  thou,  0  brightest 

child! 
Of    these,    thy   brethren    and    the    God- 
desses! 320 
There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
Of  son  against  his  sire.    I  saw  him  fall, 
I  saw  my  first-born   tumbled   from   his 

throne ! 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his 

voice 
Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round 

his  head!  325 

Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 
Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom?  vague  fear 

there  is: 
For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 
In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturbed,  330 
Unruffled  like  high  Gods,  ye  lived  and 

ruled: 
Now  I  behold  in  you  fear,  hope,  and  wrath; 
Actions  of  rage  and  passion ;  even  as 
I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 
In  men  who  die. — This  is  the  grief,  0 

Son!  335 

Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall! 
Yet  do  thou  strive;  as  thou  art  capable, 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident 

God; 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence: — I  am  but  a  voice;  340 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides ; 
No   more   than   winds   and   tides   can   I 

avail : — 
But  thou  canst. — Be  thou  therefore  in  the 

van 
Of  circumstance;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's 

barb 
Before  the  tense  string  murmur. — To  the 

earth!  345 

For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his 

woes. 
Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright 

sun, 
And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse." — 
Ere   half   this   region-whisper   had   come 

down, 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  the  stars  350 

Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 


Until  it  ceased;   and  still   he  kept  them 

wide: 
And    still    they    were    the    same    bright, 

patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad 

breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas,  355 

Forward  he  stooped  over  the  airy  shore, 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep 

night. 

SONNETS 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO 
CHAPMAN'S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of 
gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms 

seen; 
Round  many  western   islands  have  I 
been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  5 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his 

demesne; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and 

bold: 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When   a   new   planet   swims   into   his 

ken;  10 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


WHEN  I  HAVE  FEARS  THAT  I  MAY 
CEASE  TO  BE 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  gleaned  my  teeming 
brain, 
Before  high  piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripened 
grain ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starred 
face,  5 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of 
chance; 


5oS 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour ! 

That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee 
more,  10 

Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 

Of  unreflecting  love ! — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  love  and  fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 


BRIGHT    STAR!    WOULD    I    WERE 
STEADFAST  AS  THOU  ART 

Bright  star!  would  I   were  steadfast  as 
thou  art — 
Not   in  lone  splendor  hung  aloft  the 
night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The   moving   waters   at    their   priestlike 
task  5 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human 
snores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the 
moors — 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening 
breast,  10 

To  feel  forever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  forever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL  (1777-1844) 
YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND 

A   NAVAL   ODE 

Ye  mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas, 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe, 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  i 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave: 


Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell     15 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  20 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak         25 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow.  30 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And   the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean- warriors !  35 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow.        40 


THOMAS    MOORE    (1779-1852) 

THE  TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN  WOOING 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 
In   watching   and   pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing.  5 

Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorned  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me.     10 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him  the  Sprite, 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted.         15 
Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me, 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me; 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turned  away, 
Oh,  winds  could  not  outrun  me.         20 


MOORE 


5°9 


And  are  those  follies  going? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing?  25 

No,   vain,   alas!  th'   endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever; 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever.  30 


OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT 

Oft,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me; 

The  smiles,  the  tears,  5 

Of   boyhood's   years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken!     10 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


15 


-5 


When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather; 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed! 
Thus,  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  Slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA'S  HALLS 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 


So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days,  5 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more! 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells;  10 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks,     15 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


OH,  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME! 

ROBERT  EMMET 

Oh,  breathe  not  his  name!  let  it  sleep  in  the 

shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are 

laid; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we 

shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass 

o'er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in 
silence  it  weeps,  5 

Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave 
where  he  sleeps; 

And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret 
it  rolls, 

Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green 
in  our  souls. 


CHARLES  WOLFE  (1791-1823) 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT  CORUNNA 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hur- 
ried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night,  5 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning; 

By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


5i° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 
Not  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound 
him,  10 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that 

was  dead,  15 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow 
bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread 
o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow!  20 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's 
gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep 
on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid 
him. 

But  half  of  our  weary  task  was  done  25 
When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  re- 
tiring; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 
From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and 
gory;  _  30 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a 
stone- 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


THOMAS  HOOD  (1789-1845) 
THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

One  more  Unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashioned  so  slenderly. 
Young,  and  so  fair! 


Look  at  her  garments 

Clinging  like  cerements;  10 

Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully;  15 

Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly, 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly.  20 


Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 

Rash  and  undutiful: 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 


Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other? 


25 


Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 

One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 

Oozing  so  clammily.  30 

Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb, 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home? 


35 


40 


Alas!  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun!  45 

Oh,  it  was  pitiful! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 

Fatherly,  motherly  50 

Feelings  had  changed: 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged.  55 


HOOD 


5" 


Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  to  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement,  60 

She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch,  65 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled— 
Anywhere,  anywhere  70 

Out  of  the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran— 
Over  the  brink  of  it,  75 

Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly,  80 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 

Stiffen  too  rigidly,  85 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring  90 

Through  muddy  impurity, 

As  when  with  the  daring 

Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily,  95 

Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. — 
Cross  her  hands  humbly,  100 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 


Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Savior! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch!  5 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the  "Song  of  the  Shirt." 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof !  1  o 

And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  Oh!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save,    15 

If  this  is  Christian  work! 

"  Work — work — work, 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim; 
Work — work — work, 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim !          20 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 

"Oh,  Men,  with  Sisters  dear!  25 

Oh,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out 

But  human  creatures'  lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt,  30 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  its  terrible  shape,  35 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 
Oh,  God!  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap!  4c 


51-' 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


"  Work — work— work ! 

My  labor  never  flags; 
And  what  are  its  wages?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
That  shattered  roof — this  naked  floor —  45 

A  table — a  broken  chair — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there! 

' '  Work — work— work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime,  50 

Work — work — work, 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be- 
numbed, 55 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"Work — work — work, 

In  the  dull  December  light, 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright — 
While  underneath  the  eaves  61 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"Oh!  but  to  breathe  the  breath  65 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel,  70 

Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal. 

"Oh!  but  for  one  short  hour! 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope,       75 

But  only  time  for  Grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread!"  80 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch!  85 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 
Would    that    its   tone   could    reach    the 
Rich!— 

She  sang  this  "Song  of  the  Shirt!" 


CHARLES   LAMB    (1775-1834) 

CHRIST'S    HOSPITAL   FIVE   AND 
THIRTY  YEARS  AGO 

In  Mr.  Lamb's  "Works,"  published  a 
year  or  two  since,  I  find  a  magnificent 
eulogy  on  my  old  school,1  such  as  it 
was,  or  now  appears  to  him  to  have  been, 
between  the  years  1782  and  1789.  It 
happens,  very  oddly,  that  my  own  stand- 
ing at  Christ's  was  nearly  corresponding 
with  his;  and,  with  all  gratitude  to  him 
for  his  enthusiasm  for  the  cloisters,  I 
think  he  has  contrived  to  bring  to-  [10 
gether  whatever  can  be  said  in  praise  of 
them,  dropping  all  the  other  side  of  the 
argument  most  ingeniously. 

I  remember  L.  at  school;  and  can  well 
recollect  that  he  had  some  peculiar  ad- 
vantages, which  I  and  others  of  his  school- 
fellows had  not.  His  friends  lived  in 
town,  and  were  near  at  hand;  and  he  had 
the  privilege  of  going  to  see  them,  almost 
as  often  as  he  wished,  through  some  [20 
invidious  distinction,  which  was  denied 
to  us.  The  present  worthy  sub-treasurer 
to  the  Inner  Temple  can  explain  howT  that 
happened.  He  had  his  tea  and  hot  rolls 
in  a  morning,  while  we  were  battening 
upon  our  quarter  of  a  penny  loaf — our 
crug — moistened  with  attenuated  small 
beer,  in  wooden  piggins,  smacking  of  the 
pitched  leathern  jack  it  was  poured  from. 
Our  Monday's  milk  porritch,  blue  [30 
and  tasteless,  and  the  pease  soup  of  Satur- 
day, coarse  and  choking,  were  enriched 
for  him  with  a  slice  of  "extraordinary 
bread  and  butter,"  from  the  hot-loaf  of 
the  Temple.  The  Wednesday's  mess  of 
millet,  somewhat  less  repugnant — (we 
had  three  banyan  to  four  meat  days  in  the 
week) — was  endeared  to  his  palate  with 
a  lump  of  double-refined,  and  a  smack 
of  ginger  (to  make  it  go  down  the  [40 
more  glibly)  or  the  fragrant  cinnamon. 
In  lieu  of  our  half-pickled  Sundays,  or 
quite  fresh  boiled  beef  on  Thursdays 
(strong  as  caro  equina),  with  detestable 
marigolds  floating  in  the  pail  to  poison 
the  broth — our  scanty  mutton  crags  on 
Fridays — and    rather    more    savory,    but 

1  Recollections  of  Christ's  Hospital. 


LAMB 


5i3 


grudging,  portions  of  the  same  flesh, 
rotten-roasted  or  rare,  on  the  Tuesdays 
(the  only  dish  which  excited  our  appe-  [50 
tites,  and  disappointed  our  stomachs,  in 
almost  equal  proportion) — he  had  his  hot 
plate  of  roast  veal,  or  the  more  tempting 
griskin  (exotics  unknown  to  our  palates), 
cooked  in  the  paternal  kitchen  (a  great 
thing),  and  brought  him  daily  by  his 
maid  or  aunt!  I  remember  the  good  old 
relative  (in  whom  love  forbade  pride) 
squatting  down  upon  some  odd  stone  in  a 
by-nook  of  the  cloisters,  disclosing  the  [60 
viands  (of  higher  regale  than  those  cates 
which  the  ravens  ministered  to  the  Tish- 
bite);  and  the  contending  passions  of  L. 
at  the  unfolding.  There  was  love  for  the 
bringer;  shame  for  the  thing  brought, 
and  the  manner  of  its  bringing;  sympathy 
for  those  who  were  too  many  to  share  in 
it;  and,  at  top  of  all,  hunger  (eldest, 
strongest  of  the  passions!)  predominant, 
breaking  down  the  stony  fences  of  [70 
shame,  and  awkwardness,  and  a  troubling 
over-consciousness. 

I  was  a  poor  friendless  boy.  My  par- 
ents, and  those  who  should  care  for  me, 
were  far  away.  Those  few  acquaintances 
of  theirs,  which  they  could  reckon  upon 
being  kind  to  me  in  the  great  city,  after 
a  little  forced  notice,  which  they  had  the 
grace  to  take  of  me  on  my  first  arrival 
in  town,  soon  grew  tired  of  my  holiday  [80 
visits.  They  seemed  to  them  to  recur  too 
often,  though  I  thought  them  few  enough; 
and,  one  after  another,  they  all  failed  me, 
and  I  felt  myself  alone  among  six  hundred 
playmates. 

O  the  cruelty  of  separating  a  poor  lad 
from  his  early  homestead !  The  yearnings 
which  I  used  to  have  towards  it  in  those 
unfledged  years!  How,  in  my  dreams, 
would  my  native  town  (far  in  the  west)  [90 
come  back,  with  its  church,  and  trees, 
and  faces!  How  I  would  wake  weeping, 
and  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart  exclaim 
upon  sweet  Calne  in  Wiltshire! 

To  this  late  hour  of  my  life,  I  trace  im- 
pressions left  by  the  recollection  of  those 
friendless  holidays.  The  long  warm  days 
of  summer  never  return  but  they  bring 
with  them  a  gloom  from  the  haunting 
memory  of  those  whole-day-leaves ,  [100 
when,  by  some  strange  arrangement,  we 


were  turned  out,  for  the  live-long  day, 
upon  our  own  hands,  whether  we  had 
friends  to  go  to,  or  none.  I  remember 
those  bathing  excursions  to  the  New 
River,  which  L.  recalls  with  such  relish, 
better,  I  think,  than  he  can — for  he  was 
a  home-seeking  lad,  and  did  not  much 
care  for  such  water-pastimes: — How  mer- 
rily we  would  sally  forth  into  the  [no 
fields;  and  strip  under  the  first  warmth  of 
the  sun;  and  wanton  like  young  dace  in 
the  streams;  getting  us  appetites  for  noon, 
which  those  of  us  that  were  penniless 
(our  scanty  morning  crust  long  since  ex- 
hausted) had  not  the  means  of  allaying — 
while  the  cattle,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
fishes,  were  at  feed  about  us,  and  we  had 
nothing  to  satisfy  our  cravings — the  very 
beauty  of  the  day,  and  the  exercise  [120 
of  the  pastime,  and  the  sense  of  liberty, 
setting  a  keener  edge  upon  them! — How 
faint  and  languid,  finally,  we  would  re- 
turn, towards  nightfall,  to  our  desired 
morsel,  half-rejoicing,  half-reluctant,  that 
the  hours  of  our  uneasy  liberty  had 
expired! 

It  was  worse  in  the  days  of  winter,  to 
go  prowling  about  the  streets  objectless — 
shivering  at  cold  windows  of  print-  [130 
shops,  to  extract  a  little  amusement;  or 
haply,  as  a  last  resort,  in  the  hope  of  a 
little  novelty,  to  pay  a  fifty-times  repeated 
visit  (where  our  individual  faces  should 
be  as  well  known  to  the  warden  as  those 
of  his  own  charges)  to  the  Lions  in  the 
Tower — to  whose  levee,  by  courtesy 
immemorial,  we  had  a  prescriptive  title 
to  admission. 

L.'s  governor  (so  we  called  the  pa-  [140 
tron  who  presented  us  to  the  foundation) 
lived  in  a  manner  under  his  paternal  roof. 
Any  complaint  which  he  had  to  make 
was  sure  of  being  attended  to.  This  was 
understood  at  Christ's,  and  was  an 
effectual  screen  to  him  against  the  severity 
of  masters,  or  worse  tyranny  of  the  moni- 
tors. The  oppressions  of  these  young 
brutes  are  heart-sickening  to  call  to  recol- 
lection. I  have  been  called  out  of  [150 
my  bed,  and  waked  for  the  purpose,  in 
the  coldest  winter  nights — and  this  not 
once,  but  night  after  night — in  my  shirt, 
to  receive  the  discipline  of  a  leathern 
thong,  with  eleven  other  sufferers,  because 


5H 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


it  pleased  my  callow  overseer,  when  there 
has  been  any  talking  heard  after  we  were 
gone  to  bed,  to  make  the  six  last  beds  in 
the  dormitory,  where  the  youngest  chil- 
dren of  us  slept,  answerable  for  an  [160 
offence  they  neither  dared  to  commit, 
nor  had  the  power  to  hinder. — The  same 
execrable  tyranny  drove  the  younger  part 
of  us  from  the  fires,  when  our  feet  were 
perishing'  with  snow;  and  under  the 
cruellest  penalties,  forbade  the  indulgence 
of  a  drink  of  water,  when  we  lay  in  sleep- 
less summer  nights,  fevered  with  the 
season,  and  the  day's  sports. 

There    was    one    H ,    who,    I  [170 

learned,  in  after  days,  was  seen  expiating 
some  maturer  offence  in  the  hulks.  (Do  I 
flatter  myself  in  fancying  that  this  might 
be  the  planter  of  that  name,  who  suf- 
fered— at  Nevis,  I  think,  or  St.  Kitts, 
— some  few  years  since?  My  friend 
Tobin  was  the  benevolent  instrument  of 
bringing  him  to  the  gallows.)  This  petty 
Nero  actually  branded  a  boy  who  had 
offended  him,  with  a  red-hot  iron;  and  [180 
nearly  starved  forty  of  us,  with  exacting 
contributions,  to  the  one  half  of  our  bread, 
to  pamper  a  young  ass,  which,  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  with  the  connivance  of 
the  nurse's  daughter  (a  young  flame  of 
his)  he  had  contrived  to  smuggle  in,  and 
keep  upon  the  leads  of  the  ward,  as  they 
called  our  dormitories.  This  game  went 
on  for  better  than  a  week,  till  the  foolish 
beast,  not  able  to  fare  well  but  he  [190 
must  cry  roast  meat — happier  than  Calig- 
ula's minion,  could  he  have  kept  his  own 
counsel — but,  foolisher,  alas!  than  any  of 
his  species  in  the  fables — waxing  fat,  and 
kicking,  in  the  fulness  of  bread,  one  un- 
lucky minute  would  needs  proclaim  his 
good  fortune  to  the  world  below;  and, 
laying  out  his  simple  throat,  blew  such  a 
ram's  horn  blast,  as  (toppling  down  the 
walls  of  his  own  Jericho)  set  con-  [200 
cealment  any  longer  at  defiance.  The 
client  was  dismissed,  with  certain  atten- 
tions, to  Smithfield;  but  I  never  under- 
stood that  the  patron  underwent  any 
censure  on  the  occasion.  This  was  in  the 
stewardship  of  L.'s  admired  Perry. 

Under  the  same  facile  administration, 
can  L.  have  forgotten  the  cool  impunity 
with  which  the  nurses  used  to  carry  away 


openly,  in  open  platters,  for  their  own  [210 
tables,  one  out  of  two  of  every  hot  joint, 
which  the  careful  matron  had  been  seeing 
scrupulously  weighed  out  for  our  dinners? 
These  things  were  daily  practised  in  that 
magnificent  apartment,  which  L.  (grown 
connoisseur  since,  we  presume)  praises 
so  highly  for  the  grand  paintings  "by 
Verrio,  and  others,"  with  which  it  is 
"hung  round  and  adorned."  But  the 
sight  of  sleek,  well-fed  blue-coat  boys  [220 
in  pictures  was,  at  that  time,  I  believe, 
little  consolatory  to  him,  or  us,  the  living 
ones,  who  saw  the  better  part  of  our  pro- 
visions carried  away  before  our  faces  by 
harpies;  and  ourselves  reduced  (with  the 
Trojan  in  the  hall  of  Dido) 

"To  feed  our  mind  with  idle  portraiture." 

L.  has  recorded  the  repugnance  of  the 
school  to  gags,  or  the  fat  of  fresh  beef 
boiled;  and  sets  it  down  to  some  super-  [230 
stition.  But  these  unctuous  morsels  are 
never  grateful  to  young  palates  (chil- 
dren are  universally  fat-haters)  and  in 
strong,  coarse,  boiled  meats,  unsalted,  are 
detestable.  A  gag-eater  in  our  time  was 
equivalent  to  a  goul,  and  held  in  equal 
detestation.  suffered  under  the  im- 
putation. 

" 'Twas  said, 

He  ate  strange  flesh."  240 

He  was  observed,  after  dinner,  carefully 
to  gather  up  the  remnants  left  at  his 
table  (not  many,  nor  very  choice  frag- 
ments, you  may  credit  me) — and,  in  an 
especial  manner,  these  disreputable  mor- 
sels, which  he  would  convey  away,  and 
secretly  stow  in  the  settle  that  stood  at 
his  bed-side.  None  saw  when  he  ate 
them.  It  was  rumored  that  he  privately 
devoured  them  in  the  night.  He  was  [250 
watched,  but  no  traces  of  such  midnight 
practices  were  discoverable.  Some  re- 
ported, that,  on  leave-days,  he  had  been 
seen  to  carry  out  of  the  bounds  a  large 
blue  check  handkerchief,  full  of  some- 
thing. This  then  must  be  the  accursed 
thing.  Conjecture  next  was  at  work  to 
imagine  how  he  could  dispose  of  it. 
Some  said  he  sold  it  to  the  beggars.  This 
belief  generally  prevailed.  He  went  [260 
about  moping.    None  spake  to  him.    No 


LAMB 


one  would  play  with  him.  He  was  ex- 
communicated; put  out  of  the  pale  of 
the  school.  He  was  too  powerful  a  boy 
to  be  beaten,  but  he  underwent  every 
mode  of  that  negative  punishment,  which 
is  more  grievous  than  many  stripes.  Still 
he  persevered.  At  length  he  was  ob- 
served by  two  of  his  school-fellows,  who 
were  determined  to  get  at  the  secret,  [270 
and  had  traced  him  one  leave-day  for 
that  purpose,  to  enter  a  large  worn-out 
building,  such  as  there  exist  specimens 
of  in  Chancery  Lane,  which  are  let  out  to 
various  scales  of  pauperism,  with  open 
door,  and  a  common  staircase.  After 
him  they  silently  slunk  in,  and  followed 
by  stealth  up  four  flights,  and  saw  him 
tap  at  a  poor  wicket,  which  was  opened 
by  an  aged  woman,  meanly  clad.  [280 
Suspicion  was  now  ripened  into  certainty. 
The  informers  had  secured  their  victim. 
They  had  him  in  their  toils.  Accusation 
was  formally  preferred,  and  retribution 
most  signal  was  looked  for.  Mr.  Hatha- 
way, the  then  steward  (for  this  happened 
a  little  after  my  time),  with  that  patient 
sagacity  which  tempered  all  his  conduct, 
determined  to  investigate  the  matter, 
before  he  proceeded  to  sentence.  [290 
The  result  was,  that  the  supposed  mendi- 
cants, the  receivers  or  purchasers  of  the 
mysterious  scraps,  turned  out  to  be  the 
parents  of  — — ,  an  honest  couple  come 
to  decay, — whom  this  seasonable  supply 
had,  in  all  probability,  saved  from  men- 
dicancy; and  that  this  young  stork,  at 
the  expense  of  his  own  good  name,  had 
all  this  while  been  only  feeding  the  old 
birds! — The  governors  on  this  occa-  [300 
si  on,  much  to  their  honor,  voted  a  present 

relief  to  the  family  of ,  and  presented 

him  with  a  silver  medal.  The  lesson 
which  the  steward  read  upon  rash  judg- 
ment, on  the  occasion  of  publicly  deliver- 
ing the  medal  to  ,  I  believe,  would 

not  be  lost  upon  his  auditory. — I  had  left 

school  then,  but  I  well  remember  . 

He  was  a  tall,  shambling  youth,  with  a 
cast  in  his  eye,  not  at  all  calculated  [310 
to  conciliate  hostile  prejudices.  I  have 
since  seen  him  carrying  a  baker's  basket. 
I  think  I  heard  he  did  not  do  quite  so 
well  by  himself,  as  he  had  done  by  the 
old  folks. 


I  was  a  hypochondriac  lad;  and  the 
sight  of  a  boy  in  fetters,  upon  the  day  of 
my  first  putting  on  the  blue  clothes,  was 
not  exactly  fitted  to  assuage  the  natural 
terrors  of  initiation.  I  was  of  tender  [320 
years,  barely  turned  of  seven;  and  had 
only  read  of  such  things  in  books,  or  seen 
them  but  in  dreams.  I  was  told  he  had 
run  away.  This  was  the  punishment  for 
the  first  offence. — As  a  novice  I  was  soon 
after  taken  to  see  the  dungeons.  These 
were  little,  square,  Bedlam  cells,  where 
a  boy  could  just  lie  at  his  length  upon 
straw  and  a  blanket— a  mattress,  I  think, 
was  afterwards  substituted — with  a  [330 
peep  of  light,  let  in  askance,  from  a  prison- 
orifice  at  top,  barely  enough  to  read  by. 
Here  the  poor  boy  was  locked  in  by  him- 
self all  day,  without  sight  of  any  but  the 
porter  who  brought  him  his  bread  and 
water — who  might  not  speak  to  him; — or 
of  the  beadle,  who  came  twice  a  week  to 
call  him  out  to  receive  his  periodical 
chastisement,  which  was  almost  welcome, 
because  it  separated  him  for  a  brief  [340 
interval  from  solitude: — and  here  he  was 
shut  up  by  himself  of  nights,  out  of  the 
reach  of  any  sound,  to  suffer  whatever 
horrors  the  weak  nerves,  and  supersti- 
tion incident  to  his  time  of  life,  might 
subject  him  to.1  This  was  the  penalty 
for  the  second  offence. — Wouldst  thou 
like,  reader,  to  see  what  became  of  him  in 
the  next  degree? 

The  culprit,  who  had  been  a  third  [350 
time  an  offender,  and  whose  expulsion  was 
at  this  time  deemed  irreversible,  was 
brought  forth,  as  at  some  solemn  auto  da 
fe,  arrayed  in  uncouth  and  most  appalling 
attire — all  trace  of  his  late  "watchet 
weeds"  carefully  effaced,  he  was  exposed 
in  a  jacket,  resembling  those  which  Lon- 
don lamplighters  formerly  delighted  in, 
with  a  cap  of  the  same.  The  effect  of 
this  divestiture  was  such  as  the  in-  [360 
genious  devisers  of  it  could  have  antici- 
pated. With  his  pale  and  frighted  fea- 
tures, it  was  as  if  some  of  those  disfigure- 
ments  in   Dante  had   seized   upon   him. 

1  One  or  two  instances  of  lunacy,  or  attempted  suicide, 
accordingly,  at  length  convinced  the  governors  of  the  im- 
policy of  this  part  of  the  sentence,  and  the  midnight  torture 
to  the  spirits  was  dispensed  with. — This  fancy  of  dungeons 
for  children  was  a  sprout  of  Howard's  brain;  for  which  (sav- 
ing the  reverence  due  to  Holy  Paul),  methinks,  I  could  wil- 
ingly  spit  upon  his  statue.  [Howard's  statue  was  in  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral.] 


5i6 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


In  this  disguisement  he  was  brought  into 
the  hall  (L.'s  favorite  state-room),  where 
awaited  him  the  whole  number  of  his 
schoolfellows,  whose  joint  lessons  and 
sports  he  was  thenceforth  to  share  no 
more;  the  awful  presence  of  the  stew-  [370 
ard,  to  be  seen  for  the  last  time;  of  the 
executioner  beadle,  clad  in  his  state  robe 
for  the  occasion ;  and  of  two  faces  more,  of 
direr  import,  because  never  but  in  these 
extremities  visible.  These  were  governors ; 
two  of  whom,  by  choice,  or  charter,  were 
always  accustomed  to  officiate  at  these 
Ultima  Supplicia;  not  to  mitigate  (so  at 
least  we  understood  it),  but  to  enforce 
the  uttermost  stripe.  Old  B  amber  [380 
Gascoigne,  and  Peter  Aubert,  I  remember, 
were  colleagues  on  one  occasion,  when  the 
beadle  turning  rather  pale,  a  glass  of 
brandy  was  ordered  to  prepare  him  for 
the  mysteries.  The  scourging  was,  after 
the  old  Roman  fashion,  long  and  stately. 
The  lictor  accompanied  the  criminal 
quite  round  the  hall.  We  were  generally 
too  faint  with  attending  to  the  previous 
disgusting  circumstances,  to  make  ac-  [390 
curate  report  with  our  eyes  of  the  degree 
of  corporal  suffering  inflicted.  Report, 
of  course,  gave  out  the  back  knotty  and 
livid.  After  scourging,  he  was  made  over, 
in  his  San  Benito,  to  his  friends,  if  he  had 
any  (but  commonly  such  poor  runagates 
were  friendless),  or  to  his  parish  officer, 
who,  to  enhance  the  effect  of  the  scene, 
had  his  station  allotted  to  him  on  the 
outside  of  the  hall  gate.  [400 

These  solemn  pageantries  were  not 
played  off  so  often  as  to  spoil  the  general 
mirth  of  the  community.  We  had  plenty 
of  exercise  and  recreation  after  school 
hours;  and,  for  myself,  I  must  confess, 
that  I  was  never  happier,  than  in  them. 
The  Upper  and  Lower  Grammar  Schools 
were  held  in  the  same  room;  and  an 
imaginary  line  only  divided  their  bounds. 
Their  character  was  as  different  as  [410 
that  of  the  inhabitants  on  the  two  sides 
of  the  Pyrenees.  The  Rev.  James  Boyer 
was  the  Upper  Master;  but  the  Rev. 
Matthew  Field  presided  over  that  portion 
of  the  apartment,  of  which  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  a  member.  We  lived 
a  life  as  careless  as  birds.  We  talked  and 
did  just  what  we  pleased,  and  nobody 


molested  us.  We  carried  an  accidence, 
or  a  grammar,  for  form;  but,  for  any  [420 
trouble  it  gave  us,  we  might  take  two  years 
in  getting  through  the  verbs  deponent,  and 
another  two  in  forgetting  all  that  we  had 
learned  about  them.  There  was  now  and 
then  the  formality  of  saying  a  lesson,  but 
if  you  had  not  learned  it,  a  brush  across 
the  shoulders  (just  enough  to  disturb  a 
fly)  was  the  sole  remonstrance.  Field 
never  used  the  rod;  and  in  truth  he  wielded 
the  cane  with  no  great  good  will —  [430 
holding  it  "like  a  dancer."  It  looked  in 
his  hands  rather  like  an  emblem  than  an 
instrument  of  authority;  and  an  emblem, 
too,  he  was  ashamed  of.  He  was  a  good 
easy  man,  that  did  not  care  to  ruffle  his 
own  peace,  nor  perhaps  set  any  great 
consideration  upon  the  value  of  juvenile 
time.  He  came  among  us,  now  and  then, 
but  often  stayed  away  whole  days  from 
us;  and  when  he  came,  it  made  no  dif-  [440 
ference  to  us — he  had  his  private  room  to 
retire  to,  the  short  time  he  stayed,  to  be 
out  of  the  sound  of  our  noise.  Our  mirth 
and  uproar  went  on.  We  had  classics  of 
our  own,  without  being  beholden  to 
"insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome," 
that  passed  current  among  us — Peter 
Wilkins — the  Adventures  of  the  Hon. 
Capt.  Robert  Boyle — the  Fortunate  Blue 
Coat  Boy — and  the  like.  Or  we  culti-  [450 
vated  a  turn  for  mechanic  or  scientific 
operation;  making  little  sun-dials  of  paper; 
or  weaving  those  ingenious  parentheses, 
called  cat-cradles;  or  making  dry  peas  to 
dance  upon  the  end  of  a  tin  pipe;  or  study- 
ing the  art  military  over  that  laudable 
game  "French  and  English,"  and  a  hun- 
dred other  such  devices  to  pass  away  the 
time — mixing  the  useful  with  the  agree- 
able— as  would  have  made  the  souls  [460 
of  Rousseau  and  John  Locke  chuckle  to 
have  seen  us. 

Matthew  Field  belonged  to  that  class 
of  modest  divines  who  affect  to  mix  in 
equal  proportion  the  gentleman,  the  scholar, 
and  the  Christian;  but,  I  know  not  how, 
the  first  ingredient  is  generally  found  to 
be  the  predominating  dose  in  the  compo- 
sition. He  was  engaged  in  gay  parties, 
or  with  his  courtly  bow  at  some  epis-  [470 
copal  levee,  when  he  should  have  been 
attending  upon  us.     He  had  for  many 


LAMB 


517 


years  the  classical  charge  of  a  hundred 
children,  during  the  four  or  five  first  years 
of  their  education;  and  his  very  highest 
form  seldom  proceeded  further  than  two 
or  three  of  the  introductory  fables  of 
Phaedrus.  How  things  were  suffered  to 
go  on  thus,  I  cannot  guess.  Boyer,  who 
was  the  proper  person  to  have  reme-  [480 
died  these  abuses,  always  affected,  per- 
haps felt,  a  delicacy  in  interfering  in  a 
province  not  strictly  his  own.  I  have 
not  been  without  my  suspicions,  that  he 
was  not  altogether  displeased  at  the  con- 
trast we  presented  to  his  end  of  the  school. 
We  were  a  sort  of  Helots  to  his  young 
Spartans.  He  would  sometimes,  with 
ironic  deference,  send  to  borrow  a  rod 
of  the  Under  Master,  and  then,  with  [490 
sardonic  grin,  observe  to  one  of  his  upper 
boys,  "how  neat  and  fresh  the  twigs 
looked."  While  his  pale  students  were 
battering  their  brains  over  Xenophon 
and  Plato,  with  a  silence  as  deep  as  that 
enjoined  by  the  Samite,  we  were  enjoying 
ourselves  at  our  ease  in  our  little  Goshen. 
We  saw  a  little  into  the  secrets  of  his  dis- 
cipline, and  the  prospect  did  but  the  more 
reconcile  us  to  our  lot.  His  thunders  [500 
rolled  innocuous  for  us;  his  storms  came 
near,  but  never  touched  us;  contrary  to 
Gideon's  miracle,  while  all  around  were 
drenched,  our  fleece  was  dry.  His  boys 
turned  out  the  better  scholars;  we,  I  sus- 
pect, have  the  advantage  in  temper.  His 
pupils  cannot  speak  of  him  without  some- 
thing of  terror  allaying  their  gratitude;  the 
remembrance  of  Field  comes  back  with  all 
the  soothing  images  of  indolence,  and  [510 
summer  slumbers,  and  work  like  play,  and 
innocent  idleness,  and  Elysian  exemptions, 
and  life  itself  a  "playing  holiday." 

Though  sufficiently  removed  from  the 
jurisdiction  of  Boyer,  we  were  near 
enough  (as  I  have  said)  to  understand 
a  little  of  his  system.  We  occasionally 
heard  sounds  of  the  Ululantes,  and  caught 
glances  of  Tartarus.  B.  was  a  rabid 
pedant.  His  English  style  was  [520 
cramped  to  barbarism.  His  Easter  an- 
thems (for  his  duty  obliged  him  to  those 
periodical  flights)  were  grating  as  scrannel 
pipes.1 — He  would  laugh,  ay,  and  heartily, 

1  In  this  and  every  thing  B.  was  the  antipodes  of  his  co- 
adjutor. While  the  former  was  digging  his  brains  for  crude 
anthems,  worth  a  pig-nut,  F.  would  be  recreating  his  gentle- 


but  then  it  must  be  at  Flaccus's  quibble 
about  Rex — or  at  the  tristis  severitas  in 
vultu,  or  inspicere  in  patinas,  of  Terence — 
thin  jests,  which  at  their  first  broach- 
ing could  hardly  have  had  vis  enough  to 
move  a  Roman  muscle. — He  had  two  [530 
wigs,  both  pedantic,  but  of  different 
omen.  The  one  serene,  smiling,  fresh 
powdered,  betokening  a  mild  day.  The 
other,  an  old,  discolored,  unkempt,  angry 
caxon,  denoting  frequent  and  bloody 
execution.  Woe  to  the  school,  when  he 
made  his  morning  appearance  in  his 
passy,  or  passionate  wig.  No  comet  ex- 
pounded surer. — J.  B.  had  a  heavy  hand. 
I  have  known  him  double  his  knotty  [540 
fist  at  a  poor  trembling  child  (the  ma- 
ternal milk  hardly  dry  upon  its  lips)  with 
a  "Sirrah,  do  you  presume  to  set  your 
wits  at  me?" — Nothing  was  more  com- 
mon than  to  see  him  make  a  headlong 
entry  into  the  schoolroom,  from  his  inner 
recess,  or  library,  and,  with  turbulent 
eye,  singling  out  a  lad,  roar  out,  "Od's  my 
life,  Sirrah"  (his  favorite  adjuration), 
"I  have  a  great  mind  to  whip  you," —  [550 
then,  with  as  sudden  a  retracting  impulse, 
fling  back  into  his  lair — and,  after  a  cool- 
ing lapse  of  some  minutes  (during  which 
all  but  the  culprit  had  totally  forgotten 
the  context)  drive  headlong  out  again, 
piecing  out  his  imperfect  sense,  as  if  it 
had  been  some  Devil's  Litany,  with  the 
expletory  yell — " and  I  will  too." — In  his 
gentler  moods,  when  the  rabidus  furor 
was  assuaged,  he  had  resort  to  an  in-  [560 
genious  method,  peculiar,  for  what  I  have 
heard,  to  himself,  of  whipping  the  boy, 
and  reading  the  Debates,  at  the  same 
time;  a  paragraph,  and  a  lash  between; 
which  in  those  times,  when  parliamentary 
oratory  was  most  at  a  height  and  flourish- 
ing in  these  realms,  was  not  calculated 
to  impress  the  patient  with  a  veneration 
for  the  diffuser  graces  of  rhetoric. 

Once,  and  but  once,  the  uplifted  [570 
rod  was  known  to  fall  ineffectual  from  his 
hand — when  droll  squinting  W hav- 
ing been  caught  putting  the  inside  of  the 

manly  fancy  in  the  more  flowery  walks  of  the  Muses.  A 
little  dramatic  effusion  of  his,  under  the  name  of  Vertumnus 
and  Pomona,  is  not  yet  forgotten  by  the  chroniclers  of  that 
sort  of  literature.  It  was  accepted  by  Garrick,  but  the  town 
did  not  give  it  their  sanction. — B.  used  to  say  of  it,  in  a  way 
of  half-compliment,  half-irony,  that  it  was  too  classical  for 
representation.     (Lamb.) 


5i8 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


master's  desk  to  a  use  for  which  the 
architect  had  clearly  not  designed  it,  to 
justify  himself,  with  great  simplicity 
averred,  that  he  did  not  know  that  the  thing 
had  been  forewarned.  This  exquisite  Prec- 
ognition of  any  law  antecedent  to  the 
oral  or  declaratory  struck  so  irre-  [580 
sistibly  upon  the  fancy  of  all  who  heard 
it  (the  pedagogue  himself  not  excepted) 
that  remission  was  unavoidable. 

L.  has  given  credit  to  B.'s  great  merits 
as  an  instructor.  Coleridge,  in  his  literary 
life,  has  pronounced  a  more  intelligible 
and  ample  encomium  on  them.  The 
author  of  the  Country  Spectator  doubts 
not  to  compare  him  with  the  ablest 
teachers  of  antiquity.  Perhaps  we  [590 
cannot  dismiss  him  better  than  with  the 
pious  ejaculation  of  C. — when  he  heard 
that  his  old  master  was  on  his  death- 
bed— "Poor  J.  B.! — may  all  his  faults 
be  forgiven;  and  may  he  be  wafted  to  bliss 
by  little  cherub  boys,  all  head  and  wings, 
with  no  bottoms  to  reproach  his  sublunary 
infirmities." 

Under  him  were  many  good  and  sound 
scholars  bred. — First  Grecian  of  my  [600 
time  was  Lancelot  Pepys  Stevens,  kindest 
of  boys  and  men,  since  Co-grammar- 
master  (and  inseparable  companion)  with 

Dr.  T e.    What  an  edifying  spectacle 

did  this  brace  of  friends  present  to  those 
who  remembered  the  anti-socialities  of 
their  predecessors! — You  never  met  the 
one  by  chance  in  the  street  without  a 
wonder,  which  was  quickly  dissipated  by 
the  almost  immediate  sub-appearance  [610 
of  the  other.  Generally  arm  in  arm,  these 
kindly  coadjutors  lightened  for  each  other 
the  toilsome  duties  of  their  profession, 
and  when,  in  advanced  age,  one  found  it 
convenient  to  retire,  the  other  was  not 
long  in  discovering  that  it  suited  him  to 
lay  down  the  fasces  also.  Oh,  it  is  pleas- 
ant, as  it  is  rare,  to  find  the  same  arm 
linked  in  yours  at  forty,  which  at  thirteen 
helped  it  to  turn  over  the  Cicero  De  [620 
Amicitia,  or  some  tale  of  Antique  Friend- 
ship, which  the  young  heart  even  then 
was  burning  to  anticipate! — Co-Grecian 
with  S.  was  Th ,  who  has  since  exe- 
cuted   with    ability    various    diplomatic 

functions  at  the  Northern  courts.    Th 

was  a  tall,  dark,  saturnine  youth,  sparing 


of  speech,  with  raven  locks. — Thomas 
Fanshaw  Middleton  followed  him  (now 
Bishop  of  Calcutta)  a  scholar  and  a  [630 
gentleman  in  his  teens.  He  has  the  repu- 
tation of  an  excellent  critic;  and  is  author 
(besides  the  Country  Spectator)  of  a 
Treatise  on  the  Greek  Article,  against 
Sharpe — M.  is  said  to  bear  his  mitre  high 
in  India,  where  the  regni  novitas  (I  dare 
say)  sufficiently  justifies  the  bearing.  A 
humility  quite  as  primitive  as  that  of 
Jewel  or  Hooker  might  not  be  exactly 
fitted  to  impress  the  minds  of  those  [640 
Anglo-Asiatic  diocesans  with  a  reverence 
for  home  institutions,  and  the  church 
which  those  fathers  watered.  The  man- 
ners of  M.  at  school,  though  firm,  were 
mild  and  unassuming. — Next  to  M.  (if 
not  senior  to  him)  was  Richards,  author 
of  the  Aboriginal  Britons,  the  most 
spirited  of  the  Oxford  Prize  Poems;  a 
pale,    studious    Grecian. — Then    followed 

poor  S ,  ill-fated  M !  of  these  [650 

the  Muse  is  silent. 

"  Finding  some  of  Edward's  race 
Unhappy,  pass  their  annals  by." 

Come  back  into  memory,  like  as  thou 
wert  in  the  dayspring  of  thy  fancies,  with 
hope  like  a  fiery  column  before  thee — 
the  dark  pillar  not  yet  turned — Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge — Logician,  Metaphy- 
sician, Bard! — How  have  I  seen  the  casual 
passer  through  the  Cloisters  stand  [660 
still,  entranced  with  admiration  (while 
he  weighed  the  disproportion  between 
the  speech  and  the  garb  of  the  young 
Mirandula),  to  hear  thee  unfold,  in  thy 
deep  and  sweet  intonations,  the  mys- 
teries of  Jamblichus,  or  Plotinus  (for 
even  in  those  years  thou  waxedst  not  pale 
at  such  philosophic  draughts),  or  reciting 
Homer  in  his  Greek,  or  Pindar — while 
the  walls  of  the  old  Grey  Friars  re-  [670 
echoed  to  the  accents  of  the  inspired 
charity-boy!  Many  were  the  "wit-com- 
bats" (to  dally  awhile  with  the  words 
of  old  Fuller)  between  him  and  C.  V.  Le 
G— — ,  "which  two  I  behold  like  a 
Spanish  great  gallion,  and  an  English 
man-of-war;  Master  Coleridge,  like  the 
former,  was  built  far  higher  in  learning, 
solid,  but  slow  in  his  performances.     C. 


LAMB 


5i9 


V.  L.,  with  the  English  man-of-war,  [680 
lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could 
turn  with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take 
advantage  of  all  winds,  by  the  quickness 
of  his  wit  and  invention." 

Nor  shalt  thou,  their  compeer,  be 
quickly  forgotten,  Allen,  with  the  cordial 
smile,  and  still  more  cordial  laugh,  with 
which  thou  wert  wont  to  make  the  old 
Cloisters  shake,  in  thy  cognition  of  some 
poignant  jest  of  theirs;  or  the  antici-  [690 
pation  of  some  more  material,  and,  perad- 
venture,  practical  one,  of  thine  own. 
Extinct  are  those  smiles,  with  that  beau- 
tiful countenance,  with  which  (for  thou 
wert  the  Nirens  formosus  of  the  school), 
in  the  days  of  thy  maturer  waggery,  thou 
didst  disarm  the  wrath  of  infuriated 
town-damsel,  who,  incensed  by  provok- 
ing pinch,  turning  tigress-like  round,  sud- 
denly converted  by  thy  angel-look,  ex-  [700 

changed  the  half-formed  terrible  "bl ," 

for  a  gentler  greeting —  "bless  thy  hand- 
some face!" 

Next  follow  two,  who  ought  to  be  now 
alive,  and  the  friends  of  Elia — the  junior 

Le  G and  F ;  who,  impelled,  the 

former  by  a  roving  temper,  the  latter  by 
too  quick  a  sense  of  neglect — ill  capable  of 
enduring  the  slights  poor  Sizars  are  some- 
times subject  to  in  our  seats  of  learn-  [710 
ing — exchanged  their  Alma  Mater  for  the 
camp;  perishing,  one  by  climate,  and  one 

on  the  plains  of  Salamanca: — Le  G 

sanguine,  volatile,  sweet-natured;  F 

dogged,  faithful,  anticipative  of  insult, 
warm-hearted,  with  something  of  the  old 
Roman  height  about  him. 

Fine,  frank-hearted  Fr ,  the  present 

master    of    Hertford,    with    Marmaduke 

T ,  mildest  of  Missionaries — and    [720 

both  my  good  friends  still — close  the  cata- 
logue of  Grecians  in  my  time. 


DREAM-CHILDREN;  A  REVERIE 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about 
their  elders,  when  they  were  children;  to 
stretch  their  imagination  to  the  concep- 
tion of  a  traditionary  great-uncle  or 
grandame,  whom  they  never  saw.  It  was 
in  this  spirit  that  my  'little  ones  crept 


about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about 
their  great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived 
in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred 
times  bigger  than  that  in  which  they  [10 
and  papa  lived)  which  had  been  the 
scene — so  at  least  it  was  generally  be- 
lieved in  that  part  of  the  country — of  the 
tragic  incidents  which  they  had  lately 
become  familiar  with  from  the  ballad  of 
the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  whole  story  of  the  children 
and  their  cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen 
fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon  the 
chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall,  [20 
the  whole  story  down  to  the  Robin 
Redbreasts,  till  a  foolish  rich  person 
pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble 
one  of  modern  invention  in  its  stead, 
with  no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice 
put  out  one  of  her  dear  mother's 
looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  up- 
braiding. Then  I  went  on  to  say, 
how  religious  and  how  good  their 
great-grandmother  Field  was,  how  [30 
beloved  and  respected  by  every  body, 
though  she  was  not  indeed  the  mistress 
of  this  great  house,  but  had  only  the 
charge  of  it  (and  yet  in  some  respects 
she  might  be  said  to  be  the  mistress  of  it 
too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who 
preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more 
fashionable  mansion  which  he  had  pur- 
chased somewhere  in  the  adjoining  county; 
but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  [40 
as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and  kept  up  the 
dignity  of  the  great  house  in  a  sort  while 
she  lived,  which  afterwards  came  to  decay, 
and  was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old 
ornaments  stripped  and  carried  away  to 
the  owner's  other  house,  where  they  were 
set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some 
one  were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs 
they  had  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey,  and 
stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt  [50 
drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "that  would  be  foolish 
indeed."  And  then  I  told  how,  when  she 
came  to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by 
a  concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of 
the  gentry  too,  of  the  neighborhood  for 
many  miles  round,  to  show  their  respect 
for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been 
such  a  good  and  religious  woman ;  so  good 
indeed  that  she  knew  all  the  Psaltery  [60 


5  20 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Testa- 
ment besides.  Here  little  Alice  spread 
her  hands.  Then  I  told  what  a  tall,  up- 
right, graceful  person  their  great-grand- 
mother Field  once  was;  and  how  in  her 
youth  she  was  esteemed  the  best  dancer — 
here  Alice's  little  right  foot  played  an 
involuntary  movement,  till  upon  my 
looking  grave,  it  desisted — the  best  dancer, 
I  was  saying,  in  the  county,  till  a  [70 
cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer,  came,  and 
bowed  her  down  with  pain;  but  it  could 
never  bend  her  good  spirits,  or  make  them 
stoop,  but  they  were  still  upright,  because 
she  was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I 
told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep  by  herself 
in  a  lone  chamber  of  the  great  lone  house ; 
and  how  she  believed  that  an  apparition 
of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight 
gliding  up  and  down  the  great  stair-  [80 
case  near  where  she  slept,  but  she  said 
"those  innocents  would  do  her  no  harm;" 
and  how  frightened  I  used  to  be,  though 
in  those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep  with 
me,  because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or 
religious  as  she — and  yet  I  never  saw  the 
infants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his  eye- 
brows and  tried  to  look  courageous. 
Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her 
grand-children,  having  us  to  the  great  [90 
house  in  the  holidays,  where  I  in  particular 
used  to  spend  many  hours  by  myself,  in 
gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of  the  Twelve 
Caesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  of 
Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would 
seem  to  live  again,  or  I  to  be  turned  into 
marble  with  them;  how  I  never  could  be 
tired  with  roaming  about  that  huge  man- 
sion, with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with 
their  worn-out  hangings,  fluttering  [100 
tapestry,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with 
the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out — sometimes 
in  the  spacious  old-fashioned  gardens, 
which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when 
now  and  then  a  solitary  gardening  man 
would  cross  me — and  how  the  nectarines 
and  peaches  hung  upon  the  walls,  without 
my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because 
they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now 
and  then, — and  because  I  had  more  [no 
pleasure  in  strolling  about  among  the 
old  melancholy-looking  yew  trees,  or  the 
firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and 
the  fir  apples,  which  were  good  for  noth- 


ing but  to  look  at — or  in  lying  about 
upon  the  fresh  grass,  with  all  the  fine 
garden  smells  around  me — or  basking  in 
the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost  fancy 
myself  ripening  too  along  with  the  oranges 
and  the  limes  in  that  grateful  warmth  [120 
— or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted  to 
and  fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a  great 
sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the 
water  in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at 
their  impertinent  friskings, — I  had  more 
pleasure  in  these  busy-idle  diversions  than 
in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  nec- 
tarines, oranges,  and  such  like  common 
baits  of  children.  Here  John  slily  [130 
deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of 
grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice, 
he  had  meditated  dividing  with  her,  and 
both  seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them 
for  the  present  as  irrelevant.  Then  in 
somewhat  a  more  heightened  tone,  I  told 
how,  though  their  great-grandmother  Field 
loved  all  her  grand-children,  yet  in  an 
especial  manner  she  might  be  said  to  love 

their  uncle,  John  L ,  because  he  [140 

was  so  handsome  and  spirited  a  youth, 
and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us;  and,  instead 
of  moping  about  in  solitary  corners,  like 
some  of  us,  he  would  mount  the  most 
mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when  but 
an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and 
make  it  carry  him  half  over  the  county 
in  a  morning,  and  join  the  hunters  when 
there  were  any  out — and  yet  he  loved  the 
old  great  house  and  gardens  too,  but  [150 
had  too  much  spirit  to  be  always  pent  up 
within  their  boundaries — and  how  their 
uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as 
he  was  handsome,  to  the  admiration  of 
everybody,  but  of  their  great-grandmother 
Field  most  especially;  and  how  he  used 
to  carry  me  upon  his  back  when  I  was  a 
lame-footed  boy — for  he  was  a  good  bit 
older  than  me — many  a  mile  when  I  could 
not  walk  for  pain; — and  how  in  after  [160 
life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  and  I  did 
not  always  (I  fear)  make  allowances 
enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient, 
and  in  pain,  nor  remember  sufficiently 
how  considerate  he  had  been  to  me  when 
I  was  lame-footed;  and  how  when  he 
died,  though  he  had  not  been  dead  an 
hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great 


LAMB 


521 


while  ago,  such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt 
life  and  death;  and  how  I  bore  his  [170 
death  as  I  thought  pretty  well  at  first, 
but  afterwards  it  haunted  and  haunted 
me;  and  though  I  did  not  cry  or  take  it 
to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as  I  think  he 
would  have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed 
him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then 
how  much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed  his 
kindness,  and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and 
wished  him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be  quar- 
relling with  him  (for  we  quarrelled  [180 
sometimes),  rather  than  not  have  him 
again,  and  was  as  uneasy  without  him,  as 
he  their  poor  uncle  must  have  been  when 
the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here  the 
children  fell  a-crying,  and  asked  if  their 
little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was 
not  for  uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up, 
and  prayed  me  not  to  go  on  about  their 
uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories  about 
their  pretty  dead  mother.  Then  I  [190 
told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope 
sometimes,  sometimes  in  despair,  yet 
persisting  ever,  I  courted  the  fair  Alice 

W n;  and,  as  much  as  children  could 

understand,  I  explained  to  them  what 
coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial  meant 
in  maidens — when  suddenly,  turning  to 
Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked 
out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of 
re-presentment,  that  I  became  in  [200 
doubt  which  of  them  stood  there  before 
me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair  was;  and 
while  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children 
gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  reced- 
ing, and  still  receding  till  nothing  at  last 
but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in 
the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without 
speech,  strangely  impressed  upon  me  the 
effects  of  speech;  "We  are  not  of  Alice, 
nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all.  [210 
The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father. 
We  are  nothing;  less  than  nothing,  and 
dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have 
been,  and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious 
shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before 
we  have  existence,  and  a  name" — and 
immediately  awaking,  I  found  myself 
quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor  armchair, 
where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful 
Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side — but  [220 
John  L.  (or  James  Elia)  was  gone  for 
ever. 


THE  PRAISE  OF   CHIMNEY- 
SWEEPERS 

I  like  to  meet  a  sweep — understand 
me — not  a  grown  sweeper — old  chimney- 
sweepers are  by  no  means  attractive — 
but  one  of  those  tender  novices,  blooming 
through  their  first  nigritude,  the  maternal 
washings  not  quite  effaced  from  the 
cheek — such  as  come  forth  with  the 
dawn,  or  somewhat  earlier,  with  their 
little  professional  notes  sounding  like  the 
peep  peep  of  a  young  sparrow;  or  [10 
liker  to  the  matin  lark  should  I  pronounce 
them,  in  their  aerial  ascents  not  seldom 
anticipating  the  sun-rise? 

I  have  a  kindly  yearning  toward  these 
dim  specks — poor  blots — innocent  black- 
nesses— 

I  reverence  these  young  Africans  of  our 
own  growth — these  almost  clergy  imps, 
who  sport  their  cloth  without  assumption ; 
and  from  their  little  pulpits  (the  tops  [20 
of  chimneys),  in  the  nipping  air  of  a  De- 
cember morning,  preach  a  lesson  of  pa- 
tience to  mankind. 

When  a  child,  what  a  mysterious  pleas- 
ure it  was  to  witness  their  operation !  to  see 
a  chit  no  bigger  than  one's  self  enter,  one 
knew  not  by  what  process,  into  what 
seemed  the  fauces  Avemi — to  pursue  him 
in  imagination,  as  he  went  sounding  on 
through  so  many  dark  stifling  caverns,  [30 
horrid  shades! — to  shudder  with  the  idea 
that  "now,  surely,  he  must  be  lost  for 
ever!" — to  revive  at  hearing  his  feeble 
shout  of  discovered  day-light — and  then 
(0  fulness  of  delight)  running  out  of  doors, 
to  come  just  in  time  to  see  the  sable 
phenomenon  emerge  in  safety,  the  bran- 
dished weapon  of  his  art  victorious  like 
some  flag  waved  over  a  conquered  citadel ! 
I  seem  to  remember  having  been  told,  [40 
that  a  bad  sweep  was  once  left  in  a  stack 
with  his  brush,  to  indicate  which  way  the 
wind  blew.  It  was  an  awful  spectacle 
certainly;  not  much  unlike  the  old  stage 
direction  in  Macbeth,  where  the  "Appari- 
tion of  a  child  crowned  with  a  tree  in  his 
hand  rises." 

Reader,  if  thou  meetest  one  of  these 
small  gentry  in  thy  early  rambles,  it  is 
good  to  give  him  a  penny.    It  is  better  [50 


522 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


to  give  him  two-pence.  If  it  be  starving 
weather,  and  to  the  proper  troubles  of 
his  hard  occupation,  a  pair  of  kibed  heels 
(no  unusual  accompaniment)  be  super- 
added, the  demand  on  thy  humanity  will 
surely  rise  to  a  tester. 

There  is  a  composition,  the  ground- 
work of  which  I  have  understood  to  be 
the  sweet  wood  'yclept  sassafras.  This 
wood  boiled  down  to  a  kind  of  tea,  and  [60 
tempered  with  an  infusion  of  milk  and 
sugar,  hath  to  some  tastes  a  delicacy 
beyond  the  China  luxury.  I  know  not 
how  thy  palate  may  relish  it;  for  myself, 
with  every  deference  to  the  judicious 
Mr.  Read,  who  hath  time  out  of  mind 
kept  open  a  shop  (the  only  one  he  avers 
in  London)  for  the  vending  of  this  "whole- 
some and  pleasant  beverage,"  on  the  south 
side  of  Fleet  Street,  as  thou  approach-  [70 
est  Bridge  Street — the  only  Salopian  house, 
— I  have  never  yet  ventured  to  dip  my 
own  particular  lip  in  a  basin  of  his  com- 
mended ingredients — a  cautious  premoni- 
tion to  the  olfactories  constantly  whis- 
pering to  me,  that  my  stomach  must 
infallibly,  with  all  due  courtesy,  decline 
it.  Yet  I  have  seen  palates,  otherwise 
not  uninstructed  in  dietetical  elegances, 
sup  it  up  with  avidity.  [80 

I  know  not  by  what  particular  confor- 
mation of  the  organ  it  happens,  but  I 
have  always  found  that  this  composition 
is  surprisingly  gratifying  to  the  palate 
of  a  young  chimney-sweeper — whether 
the  oily  particles  (sassafras  is  slightly 
oleaginous)  do  attenuate  and  soften  the 
fuliginous  concretions,  which  are  some- 
times found  (in  dissections)  to  adhere 
to  the  roof  of  the  mouth  in  these  un-  [90 
fledged  practitioners;  or  whether  Nature, 
sensible  that  she  had  mingled  too  much  of 
bitter  wood  in  the  lot  of  these  raw  victims, 
caused  to  grow  out  of  the  earth  her  sassa- 
fras for  a  sweet  lenitive — but  so  it  is,  that 
no  possible  taste  or  odor  to  the  senses  of  a 
young  chimney-sweeper  can  convey  a 
delicate  excitement  comparable  to  this 
mixture.  Being  penniless,  they  will  yet 
hang  their  black  heads  over  the  as-  [100 
cending  steam,  to  gratify  one  sense  if  pos- 
sible, seemingly  no  less  pleased  than  those 
domestic  animals — cats — when  they  purr 
over  a  new-found  sprig  of  valerian.    There 


is  something  more  in  these  sympathies 
than  philosophy  can  inculcate. 

Now  albeit  Mr.  Read  boasteth,  not 
without  reason,  that  his  is  the  only 
Salopian  house;  yet  be  it  known  to  thee, 
reader — if  thou  art  one  who  keepest  [no 
what  are  called  good  hours,  thou  art 
haply  ignorant  of  the  fact — he  hath  a 
race  of  industrious  imitators,  who  from 
stalls,  and  under  open  sky,  dispense  the 
same  savory  mess  to  humbler  customers, 
at  that  dead  time  of  the  dawn,  when 
(as  extremes  meet)  the  rake,  reeling  home 
from  his  midnight  cups,  and  the  hard- 
handed  artisan  leaving  his  bed  to  resume 
the  premature  labors  of  the  day,  [120 
jostle,  not  unfrequently  to  the  manifest 
disconcerting  of  the  former,  for  the  honors 
of  the  pavement.  It  is  the  time  when,  in 
summer,  between  the  expired  and  the  not 
yet  relumined  kitchen-fires,  the  kennels 
of  our  fair  metropolis  give  forth  their 
least  satisfactory  odors.  The  rake,  who 
wisheth  to  dissipate  his  o'er-night  vapors 
in  more  grateful  coffee,  curses  the  ungenial 
fume,  as  he  passeth;  but  the  artisan  [130 
stops  to  taste,  and  blesses  the  fragrant 
breakfast. 

This  is  Saloop — the  precocious  herb- 
woman's  darling — the  delight  of  the  early 
gardener,  who  transports  his  smoking 
cabbages  by  break  of  day  from  Hammer- 
smith to  Covent  Garden's  famed  piazzas — 
the  delight,  and,  oh  I  fear,  too  often  the 
envy,  of  the  unpennied  sweep.  Him 
shouldest  thou  haply  encounter,  with  [140 
his  dim  visage  pendent  over  the  grateful 
steam,  regale  him  with  a  sumptuous  basin 
(it  will  cost  thee  but  three  half-pennies) 
and  a  slice  of  delicate  bread  and  butter 
(an  added  halfpenny) — so  may  thy  culin- 
ary fires,  eased  of  the  o'er-charged  secre- 
tions from  thy  worse-placed  hospitalities, 
curl  up  a  lighter  volume  to  the  welkin — 
so  may  the  descending  soot  never  taint 
thy  costly  well-ingredienced  soups —  [150 
nor  the  odious  cry,  quick-reaching  from 
street  to  street,  of  the  fired  chimney,  in- 
vite the  rattling  engines  from  ten  adjacent 
parishes,  to  disturb  for  a  casual  scintilla- 
tion thy  peace  and  pocket ! 

I  am  by  nature  extremely  susceptible 
of  street  affronts;  the  jeers  and  taunts  of 
the  populace;  the  low-bred  triumph  they 


LAMB 


523 


display  over  the  casual  trip,  or  splashed 
stocking,  of  a  gentleman.  Yet  can  I  [160 
endure  the  jocularity  of  a  young  sweep 
with  something  more  than  forgiveness. — 
In  the  last  winter  but  one,  pacing  along 
Cheapside  with  my  accustomed  precipi- 
tation when  I  walk  westward,  a  treacher- 
ous slide  brought  me  upon  my  back  in  an 
instant.  I  scrambled  up  with  pain  and 
shame  enough — yet  outwardly  trying  to 
face  it  down,  as  if  nothing  had  happened — 
when  the  roguish  grin  of  one  of  these  [170 
young  wits  encountered  me.  There  he 
stood,  pointing  me  out  with  his  dusky 
finger  to  the  mob,  and  to  a  poor  woman 
(I  suppose  his  mother)  in  particular,  till 
the  tears  for  the  exquisiteness  of  the  fun 
(so  he  thought  it)  worked  themselves  out 
at  the  corners  of  his  poor  red  eyes,  red 
from  many  a  previous  weeping,  and  soot- 
inflamed,  yet  twinkling  through  all  with 
such  a  joy,  snatched  out  of  desolation,  [180 
that  Hogarth — but  Hogarth  has  got  him 
already  (how  could  he  miss  him?)  in  the 
March  to  Finchley,  grinning  at  the  pie- 
man— there  he  stood,  as  he  stands  in  the 
picture,  irremovable,  as  if  the  jest  was  to 
last  for  ever — with  such  a  maximum  of 
glee,  and  minimum  of  mischief,  in  his  mirth 
— for  the  grin  of  a  genuine  sweep  hath  ab- 
solutely no  malice  in  it — that  I  could  have 
been  content,  if  the  honor  of  a  gentle-  [190 
man  might  endure  it,  to  have  remained 
his  butt  and  his  mockery  till  midnight. 

I  am  by  theory  obdurate  to  the  seduc- 
tiveness of  what  are  called  a  fine  set  of 
teeth.  Every  pair  of  rosy  lips  (the  ladies 
must  pardon  me)  is  a  casket,  presumably 
holding  such  jewels;  but,  methinks,  they 
should  take  leave  to  "air"  them  as  fru- 
gally as  possible.  The  fine  lady,  or  fine 
gentleman,  who  show  me  their  teeth,  [200 
show  me  bones.  Yet  must  I  confess, 
that  from  the  mouth  of  a  true  sweep  a 
display  (even  to  ostentation)  of  those 
white  and  shining  ossifications,  strikes  me 
as  an  agreeable  anomaly  in  manners,  and 
an  allowable  piece  of  foppery.  It  is,  as 
when 

"  A  sable  cloud 
Turns  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night." 

It  is  like  some  remnant  of  gentry  not  [210 
quite  extinct;  a  badge  of  better  days;  a 


hint  of  nobility: — and,  doubtless,  under 
the  obscuring  darkness  and  double  night 
of  their  forlorn  disguisement,  oftentimes 
lurketh  good  blood,  and  gentle  conditions, 
derived  from  lost  ancestry,  and  a  lapsed 
pedigree.  The  premature  apprentice- 
ments  of  these  tender  victims  give  but 
too  much  encouragement,  I  fear,  to 
clandestine,  and  almost  infantile  ab-  [220 
ductions;  the  seeds  of  civility  and  true 
courtesy,  so  often  discernible  in  these 
young  grafts  (not  otherwise  to  be  ac- 
counted for)  plainly  hint  at  some  forced 
adoptions;  many  noble  Rachels  mourn- 
ing for  their  children,  even  in  our  days, 
countenance  the  fact;  the  tales  of  fairy- 
spiriting  may  shadow  a  lamentable  verity, 
and  the  recovery  of  the  young  Montagu 
be  but  a  solitary  instance  of  good  for-  [230 
tune,  out  of  many  irreparable  and  hope- 
less defiliations . 

In  one  of  the  state-beds  at  Arundel 
Castle,  a  few  years  since — under  a  ducal 
canopy — (that  seat  of  the  Howards  is  an 
object  of  curiosity  to  visitors,  chiefly  for 
its  beds,  in  which  the  late  duke  was  es- 
pecially a  connoisseur) — encircled  with 
curtains  of  delicatest  crimson,  with  starry 
coronets  inwoven — folded  between  a  [240 
pair  of  sheets  whiter  and  softer  than  the 
lap  where  Venus  lulled  Ascanius — was 
discovered  by  chance,  after  all  methods 
of  search  had  failed,  at  noon-day,  fast 
asleep,  a  lost  chimney  sweeper.  The 
little  creature,  having  somehow  con- 
founded his  passage  among  the  intricacies 
of  those  lordly  chimneys,  by  some  un- 
known aperture  had  alighted  upon  this 
magnificent  chamber;  and,  tired  with  [250 
his  tedious  explorations,  was  unable  to 
resist  the  delicious  invitement  to  repose, 
which  he  there  saw  exhibited;  so,  creeping 
between  the  sheets  very  quietly,  laid  his 
black  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  slept 
like  a  young  Howard. 

Such  is  the  account  given  to  the  visitors 
at  the  Castle. — But  I  cannot  help  seeming 
to  perceive  a  confirmation  of  what  I  have 
just  hinted  at  in  this  story.  A  high  [260 
instinct  was  at  work  in  the  case,  or  I  am 
mistaken.  Is  it  probable  that  a  poor  child 
of  that  description,  with  whatever  weari- 
ness he  might  be  visited,  would  have 
ventured,   under  such  a   penalty,   as  he 


524 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


would  be  taught  to  expect,  to  uncover  the 
sheets  of  a  Duke's  bed,  and  deliberately 
to  lay  himself  down  between  them,  when 
the  rug,  or  the  carpet,  presented  an 
obvious  couch,  still  far  above  his  pre-  [270 
tensions — is  this  probable,  I  would  ask, 
if  the  great  power  of  nature,  which  I 
contend  for,  had  not  been  manifested 
within  him,  prompting  to  the  adventure? 
Doubtless  this  young  nobleman  (for  such 
my  mind  misgives  me  that  he  must  be) 
was  allured  by  some  memory,  not  amount- 
ing to  full  consciousness,  of  his  condition 
in  infancy,  when  he  was  used  to  be  lapt 
by  his  mother,  or  his  nurse,  in  just  [280 
such  sheets  as  he  there  found,  into  which 
he  was  but  now  creeping  back  as  into  his 
proper  incunabula,  and  resting-place. — 
By  no  other  theory,  than  by  this  senti- 
ment of  a  pre-existent  state  (as  I  may  call 
it),  can  I  explain  a  deed  so  venturous,  and, 
indeed,  upon  any  other  system,  so  in- 
decorous, in  this  tender,  but  unseasonable, 
sleeper. 

My  pleasant  friend  Jem  White  was  [290 
so  impressed  with  a  belief  of  metamor- 
phoses like  this  frequently  taking  place, 
that  in  some  sort  to  reverse  the  wrongs 
of  fortune  in  these  poor  changelings,  he 
instituted  an  annual  feast  of  chimney- 
sweepers, at  which  it  was  his  pleasure  to 
officiate  as  host  and  waiter.  It  was  a 
solemn  supper  held  in  Smithfield,  upon 
the  yearly  return  of  the  fair  of  St.  Barthol- 
omew. Cards  were  issued  a  week  be-  [300 
fore  to  the  master-sweeps  in  and  about  the 
metropolis,  confining  the  invitation  to 
their  younger  fry.  Now  and  then  an 
elderly  stripling  would  get  in  among  us, 
and  be  good-naturedly  winked  at;  but 
our  main  body  were  infantry.  One  un- 
fortunate wight,  indeed,  who,  relying  upon 
his  dusky  suit,  had  intruded  himself  into 
our  party,  but  by  tokens  was  providen- 
tially discovered  in  time  to  be  no  [310 
chimney-sweeper  (all  is  not  soot  which 
looks  so),  was  quoited  out  of  the  presence 
with  universal  indignation,  as  not  having 
on  the  wedding  garment;  but  in  general 
the  greatest  harmony  prevailed.  The 
place  chosen  was  a  convenient  spot  among 
the  pens,  at  the  north  side  of  the  fair,  not 
so  far  distant  as  to  be  impervious  to  the 
agreeable    hubbub    of    that    vanity;    but 


remote  enough  not  to  be  obvious  to  [320 
the  interruption  of  every  gaping  spectator 
in  it.  The  guests  assembled  about  seven. 
In  those  little  temporary  parlors  three 
tables  were  spread  with  napery,  not  so 
fine  as  substantial,  and  at  every  board  a 
comely  hostess  presided  with  her  pan 
of  hissing  sausages.  The  nostrils  of  the 
young  rogues  dilated  at  the  savor.  James 
White,  as  head  waiter,  had  charge  of  the 
first  table;  and  myself,  with  our  [330 
trusty  companion  Bigod,  ordinarily  min- 
istered to  the  other  two.  There  was 
clambering  and  jostling,  you  may  be  sure, 
who  should  get  at  the  first  table — for 
Rochester  in  his  maddest  days  could  not 
have  done  the  humors  of  the  scene  with 
more  spirit  than  my  friend.  After  some 
general  expression  of  thanks  for  the  honor 
the  company  had  done  him,  his  inaugural 
ceremony  was  to  clasp  the  greasy  [340 
waist  of  old  dame  Ursula  (the  fattest  of 
the  three),  that  stood  frying  and  fretting, 
half-blessing,  half-cursing  "the  gentle- 
man," and  imprint  upon  her  chaste  lips 
a  tender  salute,  whereat  the  universal 
host  would  set  up  a  shout  that  tore  the 
concave,  while  hundreds  of  grinning  teeth 
startled  the  night  with  their  brightness. 
O  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  the  sable 
younkers  lick  in  the  unctuous  meat,  [350 
with  his  more  unctuous  sayings — how 
he  would  fit  the  tit-bits  to  the  puny 
mouths,  reserving  the  lengthier  links  for 
the  seniors — how  he  would  intercept  a 
morsel  even  in  the  jaws  of  some  young 
desperado,  declaring  it  "must  to  the  pan 
again  to  be  browned,  for  it  was  not  fit 
for  a  gentleman's  eating" — how  he  would 
recommend  this  slice  of  white  bread,  or 
that  piece  of  kissing-crust,  to  a  ten-  [360 
der  juvenile,  advising  them  all  to  have  a 
care  of  cracking  their  teeth,  which  were 
their  best  patrimony, — how  genteelly  he 
would  deal  about  the  small  ale,  as  if  it 
were  wine,  naming  the  brewer,  and  pro- 
testing, if  it  were  not  good  he  should  lose 
their  custom;  with  a  special  recommenda- 
tion to  wipe  the  lip  before  drinking.  Then 
we  had  our  toasts — "The  King," — the 
"Cloth," — which,  whether  they  un-  [370 
derstood  or  not,  was  equally  diverting 
and  flattering; — and  for  a  crowning  senti- 
ment, which  never  failed,  "May  the  Brush 


LAMB 


525 


supersede  the  Laurel."  All  these,  and 
fifty  other  fancies,  which  were  rather  felt 
than  comprehended  by  his  guests,  would 
he  utter,  standing  upon  tables,  and  pref- 
acing every  sentiment  with  a  "Gentle- 
men, give  me  leave  to  propose  so  and 
so,"  which  was  a  prodigious  comfort  [380 
to  those  young  orphans;  every  now  and 
then  stuffing  into  his  mouth  (for  it  did 
not  do  to  be  squeamish  on  these  occasions) 
indiscriminate  pieces  of  those  reeking 
sausages,  which  pleased  them  mightily, 
and  was  the  savoriest  part,  you  may  be- 
lieve, of  the  entertainment. 

"  Golden  lads  and  lasses  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust" — 

James  White  is  extinct,  and  with  [390 
him  these  suppers  have  long  ceased.  He 
carried  away  with  him  half  the  fun 
of  the  world  when  he  died — of  my  world 
at  least.  His  old  clients  look  for  him 
among  the  pens;  and,  missing  him, 
reproach  the  altered  feast  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew, and  the  glory  of  Smithfield 
departed  for  ever. 


A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST 
PIG 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript, 
which  my  friend  M.  was  obliging  enough 
to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first 
seventy  thousand  ages  ate  their  meat 
raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  living 
animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to 
this  day.  This  period  is  not  obscurely 
hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in 
the  second  chapter  of  his  Mundane 
Mutations,  where  he  designates  a  [10 
kind  of  golden  age  by  the  term  Cho-fang, 
literally  the  Cook's  Holiday.  The  manu- 
script goes  on  to  say,  that  the  art  of  roast- 
ing, or  rather  broiling  (which  I  take  to 
be  the  elder  brother)  was  accidentally 
discovered  in  the  manner  following.  The 
swine-herd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into 
the  woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner 
was,  to  collect  mast  for  his  hogs,  left  his 
cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son  [20 
Bo-bo,  a  great  lubberly  boy,  who  being 
fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as  younkers  of 
his  age  commonly  are,  let  some  sparks 


escape  into  a  bundle  of  straw,  which 
kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration 
over  every  part  of  their  poor  mansion, 
till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Together 
with  the  cottage  (a  sorry  antediluvian 
make-shift  of  a  building,  you  may  think 
it),  what  was  of  much  more  impor-  [30 
tance,  a  fine  litter  of  new-farrowed  pigs, 
no  less  than  nine  in  number,  perished. 
China  pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury 
all  over  the  East  from  the  remotest  peri- 
ods that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the 
utmost  consternation,  as  you  may  think, 
not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement, 
which  his  father  and  he  could  easily  build 
up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches,  and 
the  labor  of  an  hour  or  two,  at  any  [40 
time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the  pigs.  While 
he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to 
his  father,  and  wringing  his  hands  over 
the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those 
untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his 
nostrils,  unlike  any  scent  which  he  had 
before  experienced.  What  could  it  pro- 
ceed from? — not  from  the  burnt  cottage — 
he  had  smelt  that  smell  before— indeed 
this  was  by  no  means  the  first  acci-  [50 
dent  of  the  kind  which  had  occurred 
through  the  negligence  of  this  unlucky 
young  fire-brand.  Much  less  did  it  re- 
semble that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or 
flower.  A  premonitory  moistening  at  the 
same  time  overflowed  his  nether  lip.  He 
knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped 
down  to  feel  the  pig,  if  there  were  any 
signs  of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers, 
and  to  cool  them  he  applied  them  in  [60 
his  booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some 
of  the  crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had 
come  away  with  his  fingers,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life 
indeed,  for  before  him  no  man  had  known 
it)  he  tasted — crackling!  Again  he  felt 
and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn 
him  so  much  now,  still  he  licked  his 
fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth 
at  length  broke  into  his  slow  under-  [70 
standing,  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so, 
and  the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious;  and, 
surrendering  himself  up  to  the  newborn 
pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole 
handfuls  of  the  scorched  skin  with  the 
flesh  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down 
his  throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when 


526 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking  rafters, 
armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and  find- 
ing how  affairs  stood,  began  to  rain  [80 
blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulders, 
as  thick  as  hailstones,  which  Bo-bo 
heeded  not  any  more  than  if  they  had 
been  flies.  The  tickling  pleasure,  which 
he  experienced  in  his  lower  regions,  had 
rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  in- 
conveniences he  might  feel  in  those  re- 
mote quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on, 
but  he  could  not  beat  him  from  his  pig, 
till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of  it,  [90 
when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible 
of  his  situation,  something  like  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  ensued. 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you 
got  there  devouring?  Is  it  not  enough 
that  you  have  burnt  me  down  three 
houses  with  your  dog's  tricks,  and  be 
hanged  to  you,  but  you  must  be  eating 
fire,  and  I  know  not  what — what  have 
you  got  there,  I  say?  "  [100 

"0,  father,  the  pig,  the  pig,  do  come 
and  taste  how  nice  the  burnt  pig  eats." 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror. 
He  cursed  his  son,  and  he  cursed  himself 
that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that  should 
eat  burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully 
sharpened  since  morning,  soon  raked  out 
another  pig,  and  fairly  rending  it  asunder, 
thrust  the  lesser  half  by  main  force  [no 
into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out 
"Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father,  only 
taste — O  Lord," — with  such-like  barbar- 
ous ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while 
as  if  he  would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  every  joint  while  he 
grasped  the  abominable  thing,  wavering 
whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to 
death  for  an  unnatural  young  monster, 
when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fin-  [120 
gers,  as  it  had  done  his  son's,  and  apply- 
ing the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in  his 
turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  which, 
make  what  sour  mouths  he  would  for  a 
pretence,  proved  not  altogether  displeas- 
ing to  him.  In  conclusion  (for  the  manu- 
script here  is  a  little  tedious)  both  father 
and  son  fairly  sat  down  to  the  mess,  and 
never  left  off  till  they  had  despatched  all 
that  remained  of  the  litter.  [130 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let 


the  secret  escape,  for  the  neighbors  would 
certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple 
of  abominable  wretches,  who  could  think 
of  improving  upon  the  good  meat  which 
God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange 
stories  got  about.  It  was  observed  that 
Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  now 
more  frequently  than  ever.  Nothing  but 
fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some  [140 
would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in 
the  night-time.  As  often  as  the  sow  far- 
rowed, so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti 
to  be  in  a  blaze;  and  Ho-ti  himself,  which 
was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chas- 
tising his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  in- 
dulgent to  him  than  ever.  At  length 
they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery 
discovered,  and  father  and  son  sum- 
moned to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  [150 
then  an  inconsiderable  assize  town.  Evi- 
dence was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself 
produced  in  court,  and  verdict  about 
to  be  pronounced,  when  the  foreman  of 
the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt 
pig,  of  which  the  culprits  stood  accused, 
might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He  han- 
dled it,  and  they  all  handled  it,  and 
burning  their  fingers,  as  Bo-bo  and  his 
father  had  done  before  them,  and  na-  [160 
ture  prompting  to  each  of  them  the 
same  remedy,  against  the  face  of  all  the 
facts,  and  the  clearest  charge  which 
judge  had  ever  given, — to  the  surprise  of 
the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  strangers, 
reporters,  and  all  present — without  leav- 
ing the  box,  or  any  manner  of  consulta- 
tion whatever,  they  brought  in  a  simul- 
taneous verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fel-  [170 
low,  winked  at  the  manifest  iniquity  of 
the  decision;  and,  when  the  court  was 
dismissed,  went  privily,  and  bought  up 
all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for  love  or 
money.  In  a  few  days  his  Lordship's 
town  house  was  observed  to  be  on  fire. 
The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen  but  fires  in  every  direc- 
tion. Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enormously 
dear  all  over  the  district.  The  insur-  [180 
ance  offices  one  and  all  shut  up  shop. 
People  built  slighter  and  slighter  every 
day,  until  it  was  feared  that  the  very 
science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long 
time  be  lost   to   the   world.     Thus   this 


LAMB 


527 


custom  of  firing  houses  continued,  till 
in  process  of  time,  says  my  manuscript, 
a  sage  arose,  like  our  Locke,  who  made  a 
discovery,  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or 
indeed  of  any  other  animal,  might  be  [190 
cooked  {burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without 
the  necessity  of  consuming  a  whole 
house  to  dress  it.  Then  first  began  the 
rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by 
the  string,  or  spit,  came  in  a  century  or 
two  later,  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By 
such  slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manu- 
script, do  the  most  useful,  and  seemingly 
the  most  obvious  arts,  make  their  way 
among  mankind. —  [200 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in 
the  account  above  given,  it  must  be 
agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so 
dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting  houses 
on  fire  (especially  in  these  days)  could  be 
assigned  in  favor  of  any  culinary  object, 
that  pretext  and  excuse  might  be  found 

in  ROAST  PIG. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus 
edibilis,  I  will  maintain  it  to  be  the  [210 
most  delicate — princeps  obsoniorum. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers — 
things  between  pig  and  pork — those 
hobbydehoys — but  a  young  and  tender 
suckling — under  a  moon  old — guiltless 
as  yet  of  the  sty — with  no  original  speck 
of  the  amor  immunditice,  the  hereditary 
failing  of  the  first  parent,  yet  manifest — 
his  voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  something 
between  a  childish  treble  and  a  grum-  [220 
ble — the  mild  forerunner,  or  praludium, 
of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant 
that  our  ancestors  ate  them  seethed,  or 
boiled — but  what  a  sacrifice  of  the  ex- 
terior tegument! 

There  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I  will 
contend,  to  that  of  the  crisp,  tawny, 
well-watched,  not  over-roasted,  crackling, 
as  it  is  well  called — the  very  teeth  [230 
are  invited  to  their  share  of  the  pleasure 
at  this  banquet  in  overcoming  the  coy, 
brittle  resistance — with  the  adhesive  ole- 
aginous— O  call  it  not  fat — but  an  in- 
definable sweetness  growing  up  to  it — 
the  tender  blossoming  of  fat— fat  cropped 
in  the  bud — taken  in  the  shoot — in  the 
first  innocence — the  cream  and  quin- 
tessence of  the  child-pig's  yet  pure  food — 


the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal  [240 
manna — or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it 
must  be  so)  so  blended  and  running  into 
each  other,  that  both  together  make  but 
one  ambrosian  result,  or  common  sub- 
stance. 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  doing — it 
seemeth  rather  a  refreshing  warmth, 
than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so  passive 
to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the 
string! — Now  he  is  just  done.  To  [250 
see  the  extreme  sensibility  of  that  tender 
age,  he  hath  wept  out  his  pretty  eyes — 
radiant  jellies — shooting  stars — 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle, 
how  meek  he  lieth! — wouldst  thou  have 
had  this  innocent  grow  up  to  the  gross- 
ness  and  indocility  which  too  often  ac- 
company maturer  swinehood?  Ten  to 
one  he  would  have  proved  a  glutton,  a 
sloven,  an  obstinate,  disagreeable  [260 
animal — wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy 
conversation — from  these  sins  he  is  hap- 
pily snatched  away — 

"Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  timely  care" — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown 
curseth,  while  his  stomach  half  rejecteth, 
the  rank  bacon — no  coalheaver  bolteth 
him  in  reeking  sausages — he  hath  a  fair 
sepulchre  in  the  grateful  stomach  of  [270 
the  judicious  epicure — and  for  such  a 
tomb  might  be  content  to  die. 

He  is  the  best  of  Sapors.  Pine-apple 
is  great.  She  is  indeed  almost  too  trans- 
cendent— a  delight,  if  not  sinful,  yet  so 
like  to  sinning,  that  really  a  tender-con- 
scienced  person  would  do  well  to  pause — 
too  ravishing  for  mortal  taste,  she  wound- 
eth  and  excoriateth  the  lips  that  approach 
her — like  lovers'  kisses,  she  biteth —  [280 
she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  on  pain  from  the 
fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish — but 
she  stoppeth  at  the  palate — she  med- 
dleth  not  with  the  appetite — and  the 
coarsest  hunger  might  barter  her  consist- 
ently for  a  mutton  chop. 

Pig — let  me  speak  his  praise — is  no  less 
provocative  of  the  appetite,  than  he  is 
satisfactory  to  the  criticalness  of  the 
censorious  palate.  The  strong  man  [290 
may  batten  on  him,  and  the  weakling 
refuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 


528 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Unlike  to  mankind's  mixed  characters, 
a  bundle  of  virtues  and  vices,  inexplicably 
intertwisted,  and  not  to  be  unravelled 
without  hazard,  he  is — good  throughout. 
No  part  of  him  is  better  or  worse  than 
another.  He  helpeth,  as  far  as  his  little 
means  extend,  all  around.  He  is  the  least 
envious  of  banquets.  He  is  all  [300 
neighbors'  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those,  who  freely  and  un- 
grudgingly impart  a  share  of  the  good 
things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their  lot 
(few  as  mine  are  in  this  kind)  to  a  friend. 
I  protest  I  take  as  great  an  interest  in 
my  friend's  pleasures,  his  relishes,  and 
proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine  own. 
"Presents,"  I  often  say,  "endear  Ab- 
sents." Hares,  pheasants,  part-  [310 
ridges,  snipes,  barn-door  chickens  (those 
"tame  villatic  fowl"),  capons,  plovers, 
brawn,  barrels  of  oysters,  I  dispense  as 
freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste 
them,  as  it  were,  upon  the  tongue  of  my 
friend.  But  a  stop  must  be  put  some- 
where. One  would  not,  like  Lear,  "give 
everything."  I  make  my  stand  upon  pig. 
Methinks  it  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver 
of  all  good  flavors,  to  extra-domicili-  [320 
ate,  or  send  out  of  the  house,  slightingly 
(under  pretext  of  friendship,  or  I  know 
not  what)  a  blessing  so  particularly 
adapted,  predestined,  I  may  say,  to  my 
individual  palate — it  argues  an  insensi- 
bility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in 
this  kind  at  school.  My  good  old  aunt, 
who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end 
of  a  holiday  without  stuffing  a  sweet-  [330 
meat,  or  some  nice  thing,  into  my  pocket, 
had  dismissed  me  one  evening  with  a 
smoking  plum-cake,  fresh  from  the  oven. 
In  my  way  to  school  (it  was  over  London 
Bridge)  a  gray-headed  old  beggar  saluted 
me  (I  have  no  doubt  at  this  time  of  day 
that  he  was  a  counterfeit).  I  had  no 
pence  to  console  him  with,  and  in  the 
vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very  cox- 
combry of  charity,  school-boy-like,  [340 
I  made  him  a  present  of — the  whole  cake! 
I  walked  on  a  little,  buoyed  up,  as  one  is 
on  such  occasions,  with  a  sweet  soothing 
of  self-satisfaction;  but  before  I  had  got 
to  the  end  of  the  bridge,  my  better  feelings 
returned,  and  I  burst  into  tears,  thinking 


how  ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good 
aunt,  to  go  and  give  her  good  gift  away 
to  a  stranger,  that  I  had  never  seen  before, 
and  who  might  be  a  bad  man  for  [350 
aught  I  knew;  and  then  I  thought  of  the 
pleasure  my  aunt  would  be  taking  in 
thinking  that  I — I  myself,  and  not  an- 
other— would  eat  her  nice  cake — and 
what  should  I  say  to  her  the  next  time  I 
saw  her — how  naughty  I  was  to  part  with 
her  pretty  present — and  the  odor  of  that 
spicy  cake  came  back  upon  my  recollec- 
tion, and  the  pleasure  and  the  curiosity 
I  had  taken  in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  [360 
her  joy  when  she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and 
how  disappointed  she  would  feel  that  I 
had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in  my  mouth 
at  last — and  I  blamed  my  impertinent 
spirit  of  alms-giving,  and  out-of-place 
hypocrisy  of  goodness,  and  above  all  I 
wished  never  to  see  the  face  again  of  that 
insidious,  good-for-nothing,  old  gray  im- 
postor. 

Our  ancestors  were  nice  in  their  [370 
method  of  sacrificing  these  tender  vic- 
tims. We  read  of  pigs  whipped  to  death 
with  something  of  a  shock,  as  we  hear  of 
any  other  obsolete  custom.  The  age  of 
discipline  is  gone  by,  or  it  would  be  curious 
to  inquire  (in  a  philosophical  light  merely) 
what  effect  this  process  might  have 
towards  intenerating  and  dulcifying  a 
substance,  naturally  so  mild  and  dulcet 
as  the  flesh  of  young  pigs.  It  looks  [380 
like  refining  a  violet.  Yet  we  should  be 
cautious,  while  we  condemn  the  inhu- 
manity, how  we  censure  the  wisdom  of 
the  practice.    It  might  impart  a  gusto — 

I  remember  an  hypothesis,  argued  upon 
by  the  young  students,  when  I  was  at 
St.  Omer's,  and  maintained  with  much 
learning  and  pleasantry  on  both  sides, 
"Whether,  supposing  that  the  flavor  of 
a  pig  who  obtained  his  death  by  [390 
whipping  {per  flagellationem  extremam) 
superadded  a  pleasure  upon  the  palate 
of  a  man  more  intense  than  any  possible 
suffering  we  can  conceive  in  the  animal, 
is  man  justified  in  using  that  method  of 
putting  the  animal  to  death?"  I  forget 
the  decision. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  De- 
cidedly, a  few  bread  crumbs,  done  up 
with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a  dash  [400 


LAMB 


529 


of  mild  sage.  But,  banish,  dear  Mrs. 
Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the  whole  onion 
tribe.  Barbecue  your  whole  hogs  to 
your  palate,  steep  them  in  shalots,  stuff 
them  out  with  plantations  of  the  rank 
and  guilty  garlic;  you  cannot  poison 
them,  or  make  them  stronger  than  they 
are — but  consider,  he  is  a  weakling — a 
flower. 


THE  SUPERANNUATED   MAN 

Sera  tamen  respexit 
Libertas.  Virgil. 

A  Clerk  I  was  in  London  gay. 

O'Keefe. 

If  peradventure,  Reader,  it  has  been 
thy  lot  to  waste  the  golden  years  of  thy 
life — thy  shining  youth — in  the  irksome 
confinement  of  an  office;  to  have  thy 
prison  days  prolonged  through  middle 
age  down  to  decrepitude  and  silver  hairs, 
without  hope  of  release  or  respite;  to  have 
lived  to  forget  that  there  are  such  things 
as  holidays,  or  to  remember  them  but 
as  the  prerogatives  of  childhood;  [10 
then,  and  then  only,  will  you  be  able  to 
appreciate  my  deliverance. 

It  is  now  six  and  thirty  years  since  I 
took  my  seat  at  the  desk  in  Mincing 
Lane.  Melancholy  was  the  transition  at 
fourteen  from  the  abundant  playtime, 
and  the  frequently  intervening  vacations 
of  school  days,  to  the  eight,  nine,  and 
sometimes  ten  hours'  a-day  attendance 
at  a  counting-house.  But  time  par-  [20 
tially  reconciles  us  to  anything.  I  gradu- 
ally became  content — -doggedly  content, 
as  wild  animals  in  cages. 

It  is  true  I  had  my  Sundays  to  myself; 
but  Sundays,  admirable  as  the  institution 
of  them  is  for  purposes  of  worship,  are 
for  that  very  reason  the  very  worst 
adapted  for  days  of  unbending  and  recrea- 
tion. In  particular,  there  is  a  gloom  for 
me  attendant  upon  a  city  Sunday,  a  [30 
weight  in  the  air.  I  miss  the  cheerful 
cries  of  London,  the  music,  and  the  ballad- 
singers — the  buzz  and  stirring  murmur 
of  the  streets.  Those  eternal  bells  de- 
press me.  The  closed  shops  repel  me. 
Prints,    pictures,    all    the   glittering   and 


endless  succession  of  knacks  and  gew- 
gaws, and  ostentatiously  displayed  wares 
of  tradesmen,  which  make  a  weekday 
saunter  through  the  less  busy  parts  [40 
of  the  metropolis  so  delightful — are  shut 
out.  No  book-stalls  deliciously  to  idle 
over — No  busy  faces  to  recreate  the  idle 
man  who  contemplates  them  ever  passing 
by — the  very  face  of  business  a  charm  by 
contrast  to  his  temporary  relaxation  from 
it.  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  unhappy 
countenances — or  half-happy  at  best — 
of  emancipated  'prentices  and  little  trades- 
folks,  with  here  and  there  a  servant  [50 
maid  that  has  got  leave  to  go  out,  who, 
slaving  all  the  week,  with  the  habit  has 
lost  almost  the  capacity  of  enjoying  a 
free  hour;  and  livelily  expressing  the  hol- 
lowness  of  a  day's  pleasuring.  The  very 
strollers  in  the  fields  on  that  day  looked 
anything  but  comfortable. 

But  besides  Sundays  I  had  a  day  at 
Easter,  and  a  day  at  Christmas,  with  a 
full  week  in  the  summer  to  go  and  air  [60 
myself  in  my  native  fields  of  Hertfordshire. 
This  last  was  a  great  indulgence;  and  the 
prospect  of  its  recurrence,  I  believe, 
alone  kept  me  up  through  the  year,  and 
made  my  durance  tolerable.  But  when 
the  week  came  round,  did  the  glittering 
phantom  of  the  distance  keep  touch  with 
me?  or  rather  was  it  not  a  series  of  seven 
uneasy  days,  spent  in  restless  pursuit  of 
pleasure,  and  a  wearisome  anxiety  to  [70 
find  out  how  to  make  the  most  of  them? 
Where  was  the  quiet,  where  the  promised 
rest?  Before  I  had  a  taste  of  it,  it  was 
vanished.  I  was  at  the  desk  again,  count- 
ing upon  the  fifty-one  tedious  weeks  that 
must  intervene  before  such  another  snatch 
would  come.  Still  the  prospect  of  its 
coming  threw  something  of  an  illumina- 
tion upon  the  darker  side  of  my  captivity. 
Without  it,  as  I  have  said,  I  could  [80 
scarcely  have  sustained  my  thraldom. 

Independently  of  the  rigors  of  attend- 
ance, I  have  ever  been  haunted  with  a 
sense  (perhaps  a  mere  caprice)  of  inca- 
pacity for  business.  This,  during  my 
latter  years,  had  increased  to  such  a  degree, 
that  it  was  visible  in  all  the  lines  of  my 
countenance.  My  health  and  my  good 
spirits  flagged.  I  had  perpetually  a 
dread  of  some  crisis,  to  which  I  should  [90 


53° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


be  found  unequal.  Besides  my  daylight 
servitude,  I  served  over  again  all  night  in 
my  sleep,  and  would  awake  with  terrors 
of  imaginary  false  entries,  errors  in  my 
accounts,  and  the  like.  I  was  fifty  years 
of  age,  and  no  prospect  of  emancipation 
presented  itself.  I  had  grown  to  my  desk, 
as  it  were;  and  the  wood  had  entered  into 
my  soul. 

My  fellows  in  the  office  would  [ioo 
sometimes  rally  me  upon  the  trouble 
legible  in  my  countenance;  but  I  did  not 
know  that  it  had  raised  the  suspicions 
of  any  of  my  employers,  when  on  the  5th 
of  last  month,  a  day  ever  to  be  remem- 
bered by  me,  L ,  the  junior  partner 

in  the  firm,  calling  me  on  one  side,  di- 
rectly taxed  me  with  my  bad  looks,  and 
frankly  inquired  the  cause  of  them.  So 
taxed,  I  honestly  made  confession  of  [no 
my  infirmity,  and  added  that  I  was  afraid 
I  should  eventually  be  obliged  to  resign 
his  service.  He  spoke  some  words  of 
course  to  hearten  me,  and  there  the  mat- 
ter rested.  A  whole  week  I  remained 
laboring  under  the  impression  that  I  had 
acted  imprudently  in  my  disclosure; 
that  I  had  foolishly  given  a  handle  against 
myself,  and  had  been  anticipating  my 
own  dismissal.  A  week  passed  in  [120 
this  manner,  the  most  anxious  one,  I 
verily  believe,  in  my  whole  life,  when  on 
the  evening  of  the  12th  of  April,  just  as 
I  was  about  quitting  my  desk  to  go  home 
(it  might  be  about  eight  o'clock)  I  re- 
ceived an  awful  summons  to  attend  the 
presence  of  the  whole  assembled  firm  in 
the  formidable  back  parlor.  I  thought 
now  my  time  is  surely  come,  I  have  done 
for  myself,  I  am  going  to  be  told  [130 
that   they   have   no   longer   occasion   for 

me.     L ,  I  could  see,  smiled  at  the 

terror  I  was  in,  which  was  a  little  relief 
to  me, — when  to  my  utter  astonishment 

B ,  the  eldest  partner,  began  a  formal 

harangue  to  me  on  the  length  of  my 
services,  my  very  meritorious  conduct 
during  the  whole  of  the  time  (the  deuce, 
thought  I,  how  did  he  find  out  that?  I 
protest  I  never  had  the  confidence  to  [140 
think  as  much).  He  went  on  to  descant 
on  the  expediency  of  retiring  at  a  certain 
time  of  life  (how  my  heart  panted!),  and 
asking    me    a    few    questions    as    to    the 


amount  of  my  own  property,  of  which  I 
have  a  little,  ended  with  a  proposal,  to 
which  his  three  partners  nodded  a  grave 
assent,  that  I  should  accept  from  the 
house,  which  I  had  served  so  well,  a 
pension  for  life  to  the  amount  of  two-  [150 
thirds  of  my  accustomed  salary — a  mag- 
nificent offer!  I  do  not  know  what  I 
answered  between  surprise  and  gratitude, 
but  it  was  understood  that  I  accepted 
their  proposal,  and  I  was  told  that  I  was 
free  from  that  hour  to  leave  their  service. 
I  stammered  out  a  bow,  and  at  just  ten 
minutes  after  eight  I  went  home — for 
ever.  This  noble  benefit — gratitude  for- 
bids me  to  conceal  their  names — I  owe  [160 
to  the  kindness  of  the  most  munificent 
firm  in  the  world — the  house  of  Boldero, 
Merryweather,  Bosanquet,  and  Lacy. 

Esto  perpetual 

For  the  first  day  or  two  I  felt  stunned, 
overwhelmed.  I  could  only  apprehend 
my  felicity;  I  was  too  confused  to  taste 
it  sincerely.  I  wandered  about,  thinking 
I  was  happy,  and  knowing  that  I  was  not. 
I  was  in  the  condition  of  a  prisoner  in  [1 70 
the  Old  Bastile,  suddenly  let  loose  after  a 
forty  years'  confinement.  I  could  scarce 
trust  myself  with  myself.  It  was  like 
passing  out  of  Time  into  Eternity — for  it 
is  a  sort  of  Eternity  for  a  man  to  have 
his  Time  all  to  himself.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  had  more  time  on  my  hands 
than  I  could  ever  manage.  From  a  poor 
man,  poor  in  Time,  I  was  suddenly  lifted 
up  into  a  vast  revenue;  I  could  see  no  [180 
end  of  my  possessions;  I  wanted  some 
steward,  or  judicious  bailiff,  to  manage 
my  estates  in  Time  for  me.  And  here 
let  me  caution  persons  grown  old  in  active 
business,  not  lightly,  nor  without  weigh- 
ing their  own  resources,  to  forego  their 
customary  employment  all  at  once,  for 
there  may  be  danger  in  it.  I  feel  it  by 
myself,  but  I  know  that  my  resources  are 
sufficient;  and  now  that  those  first  [190 
giddy  raptures  have  subsided,  I  have  a 
quiet  home-feeling  of  the  blessedness  of 
my  condition.  I  am  in  no  hurry.  Hav- 
ing all  holidays,  I  am  as  though  I  had 
none.  If  Time  hung  heavy  upon  me,  I 
could  walk  it  away;  but  I  do  not  walk  all 
day  long,  as  I  used  to  do  in  those  old 


LAMB 


53i 


transient  holidays,  thirty  miles  a  day,  to 
make  the  most  of  them.  If  Time  were 
troublesome,  I  could  read  it  away,  [200 
but  I  do  not  read  in  that  violent  measure, 
with  which,  having  no  Time  my  own  but 
candlelight  Time,  I  used  to  weary  out 
my  head  and  eye-sight  in  by-gone  winters. 
I  walk,  read,  or  scribble  (as  now)  just 
when  the  fit  seizes  me.  I  no  longer  hunt 
after  pleasure;  I  let  it  come  to  me.  I  am 
like  the  man 

"  that's  born,  and  has  his  years  come 
to  him, 
In  some  green  desert."  [210 

"Years,"  you  will  say;  "what  is  this  su- 
perannuated simpleton  calculating  upon? 
He  has  already  told  us  he  is  past  fifty." 

I  have  indeed  lived  nominally  fifty 
years,  but  deduct  out  of  them  the  hours 
which  I  have  lived  to  other  people,  and 
not  to  myself,  and  you  will  find  me  still  a 
young  fellow.  For  that  is  the  only  true 
Time,  which  a  man  can  properly  call  his 
own,  that  which  he  has  all  to  himself;  [220 
the  rest,  though  in  some  sense  he  may 
be  said  to  live  it,  is  other  people's  time, 
not  his.  The  remnant  of  my  poor  days, 
long  or  short,  is  at  least  multiplied  for  me 
threefold.  My  ten  next  years,  if  I  stretch 
so  far,  will  be  as  long  as  any  preceding 
thirty.     'Tis  a  fair  rule-of-three  sum. 

Among  the  strange  fantasies  which 
beset  me  at  the  commencement  of  my 
freedom,  and  of  which  all  traces  are  [230 
not  yet  gone,  one  was,  that  a  vast  tract 
of  time  had  intervened  since  I  quitted 
the  Counting  House.  I  could  not  conceive 
of  it  as  an  affair  of  yesterday.  The  part- 
ners, and  the  clerks  with  whom  I  had  for 
so  many  years,  and  for  so  many  hours  in 
each  day  of  the  year  been  so  closely 
associated — being  suddenly  removed  from 
them — they  seemed  as  dead  to  me.  There 
is  a  fine  passage,  which  may  serve  to  [240 
illustrate  this  fancy,  in  a  tragedy  by  Sir 
Robert  Howard,  speaking  of  a  friend's 
death : — 

"  'Twas  but  just  now  he  went  away; 
I  have  not  since  had  time  to  shed  a  tear; 
And  yet  the  distance  does  the  same  appear 
As  if  he  had  been  a  thousand  years  from 

me. 
Time  takes  no  measure  in  Eternity." 


To  dissipate  this  awkward  feeling,  I 
have  been  fain  to  go  among  them  [250 
once  or  twice  since;  to  visit  my  old  desk- 
fellows — my  co-brethren  of  the  quill — 
that  I  had  left  below  in  the  state  militant. 
Not  all  the  kindness  with  which  they 
received  me  could  quite  restore  to  me  that 
pleasant  familiarity,  which  I  had  hereto- 
fore enjoyed  among  them.  We  cracked 
some  of  our  old  jokes,  but  methought  they 
went  off  but  faintly.  My  old  desk;  the 
peg  where  I  hung  my  hat,  were  ap-  [260 
propriated  to  another.     I  knew  it  must 

be,  but  I  could  not  take  it  kindly.    D 1 

take  me  if  I  did  not  feel  some  remorse — 
beast,  if  I  had  not, — at  quitting  my 
old  compeers,  the  faithful  partners  of 
my  toils  for  six  and  thirty  years,  that 
smoothed  for  me  with  their  jokes  and 
conundrums  the  ruggedness  of  my  pro- 
fessional road.  Had  it  been  so  rugged 
then  after  all?  or  was  I  a  coward  [270 
simply?  Well,  it  is  too  late  to  repent;  and 
I  also  know,  that  these  suggestions  are  a 
common  fallacy  of  the  mind  on  such 
occasions.  But  my  heart  smote  me.  I 
had  violently  broken  the  bands  betwixt 
us.  It  was  at  least  not  courteous.  I 
shall  be  some  time  before  I  get  quite 
reconciled  to  the  separation.  Farewell, 
old  cronies,  yet  not  for  long,  for  again 
and  again  I  will  come  among  ye,  if  I  [280 

shall  have  your  leave.    Farewell,  Ch , 

dry,    sarcastic,    and    friendly!    Do , 

mild,   slow   to   move,    and   gentlemanly! 

PI ,  officious  to  do,  and  to  volunteer, 

good  services! — and  thou,  thou  dreary 
pile,  fit  mansion  for  a  Gresham  or  a  Whit- 
tington  of  old  stately  House  of  Mer- 
chants; with  thy  labyrinthine  passages, 
and  light-excluding,  pent-up  offices,  where 
candles  for  one  half  the  year  sup-  [290 
plied  the  place  of  the  sun's  light ;  unhealthy 
contributor  to  my  weal,  stern  fosterer  of 
my  living,  farewell!  In  thee  remain,  and 
not  in  the  obscure  collection  of  some 
wandering  bookseller,  my  "works ! "  There 
let  them  rest,  as  I  do  from  my  labors, 
piled  on  thy  massy  shelves,  more  MSS. 
in  folio  than  ever  Aquinas  left,  and  full  as 
useful !    My  mantle  I  bequeath  among  ye. 

A  fortnight  has  passed  since  the  [300 
date  of  my  first  communication.  At  that 
period  I  was  approaching  to  tranquillity, 


532 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


but  had  not  reached  it.  I  boasted  of  a 
calm  indeed,  but  it  was  comparative  only. 
Something  of  the  first  flutter  was  left; 
an  unsettling  sense  of  novelty;  the  dazzle 
to  weak  eyes  of  unaccustomed  light.  I 
missed  my  old  chains,  forsooth,  as  if  they 
had  been  some  necessary  part  of  my 
apparel.  I  was  a  poor  Carthusian,  [310 
from  strict  cellular  discipline  suddenly 
by  some  revolution  returned  upon  the 
world.  I  am  now  as  if  I  had  never  been 
other  than  my  own  master.  It  is  natural 
to  me  to  go  where  I  please,  to  do  what  I 
please.  I  find  myself  at  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  day  in  Bond  Street,  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  been  sauntering  there  at 
that  very  hour  for  years  past.  I  digress 
into  Soho,  to  explore  a  book-stall.  [320 
Methinks  I  have  been  thirty  years  a  col- 
lector. There  is  nothing  strange  nor 
new  in  it.  I  find  myself  before  a  fine 
picture  in  the  morning.  Was  it  ever 
otherwise?  What  is  become  of  Fish  Street 
Hill?  Where  is  Fenchurch  Street?  Stones 
of  old  Mincing  Lane  which  I  have  worn 
with  my  daily  pilgrimage  for  six  and 
thirty  years,  to  the  footsteps  of  what 
toil-worn  clerk  are  your  everlasting  [330 
flints  now  vocal?  I  indent  the  gayer 
flags  of  Pall  Mall.  It  is  'Change  time, 
and  I  am  strangely  among  the  Elgin 
marbles.  It  was  no  hyperbole  when  I 
ventured  to  compare  the  change  in  my 
condition  to  a  passing  into  another  world. 
Time  stands  still  in  a  manner  to  me.  I 
have  lost  all  distinction  of  season.  I  do 
not  know  the  day  of  the  week,  or  of  the 
month.  Each  day  used  to  be  indi-  [340 
vidually  felt  by  me  in  its  reference  to  the 
foreign  post  days;  in  its  distance  from, 
or  propinquity  to  the  next  Sunday.  I 
had  my  Wednesday  feelings,  my  Satur- 
day nights'  sensations.  The  genius  of 
each  day  was  upon  me  distinctly  during 
the  whole  of  it,  affecting  my  appetite, 
spirits,  &c.  The  phantom  of  the  next 
day,  with  the  dreary  five  to  follow,  sate  as 
a  load  upon  my  poor  Sabbath  recrea-  [350 
tions.  What  charm  has  washed  the 
Ethiop  white?     What  is  gone  of  Black 


Monday?  All  days  are  the  same.  Sun- 
day itself — that  unfortunate  failure  of  a 
holiday  as  it  too  often  proved,  what  with 
my  sense  of  its  fugitiveness,  and  over- 
care  to  get  the  greatest  quantity  of 
pleasure  out  of  it — is  melted  down  into 
a  week  day.  I  can  spare  to  go  to  church 
now,  without  grudging  the  huge  [360 
cantle  which  it  used  to  seem  to  cut  out 
of  the  holiday.  I  have  Time  for  every- 
thing. I  can  visit  a  sick  friend.  I  can 
interrupt  the  man  of  much  occupation 
when  he  is  busiest.  I  can  insult  over  him 
with  an  invitation  to  take  a  day's  pleasure 
with  me  to  Windsor  this  fine  May- 
morning.  It  is  Lucretian  pleasure  to 
behold  the  poor  drudges,  whom  I  have 
left  behind  in  the  world,  carking  and  [370 
caring;  like  horses  in  a  mill,  drudging  on 
in  the  same  eternal  round — and  what  is 
it  all  for?  A  man  can  never  have  too 
much  Time  to  himself,  nor  too  little  to 
do.  Had  I  a  little  son,  I  would  christen 
him  nothing-to-do;  he  should  do  noth- 
ing. Man,  I  verily  believe,  is  out  of  his 
element,  as  long  as  he  is  operative.  I  am 
altogether  for  the  life  contemplative. 
Will  no  kindly  earthquake  come  and  [380 
swallow  up  those  accursed  cotton  mills? 
Take  me  that  lumber  of  a  desk  there, 
and  bowl  it  down 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends. 


I  am  no  longer 


clerk  to  the  firm 


of,  &c.  I  am  Retired  Leisure.  I  am  to 
be  met  with  in  trim  gardens.  I  am  already 
come  to  be  known  by  my  vacant  face  and 
careless  gesture,  perambulating  at  no 
fixed  pace  nor  with  any  settled  pur-  [390 
pose.  I  walk  about;  not  to  and  from. 
They  tell  me,  a  certain  cum  dignitate  air, 
that  has  been  buried  so  long  with  my 
other  good  parts,  has  begun  to  shoot  forth 
in  my  person.  I  grow  into  gentility  per- 
ceptibly. When  I  take  up  a  newspaper 
it  is  to  read  the  state  of  the  opera.  Opus 
operatum  est.  I  have  done  all  that  I  came 
into  this  world  to  do.  I  have  worked 
task-work,  and  have  the  rest  of  the  [400 
day  to  myself. 


HAZLITT 


533 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  (1778-1830) 

THE  FIGHT 

-The  fight,  the  fight's  the  thing 


Wherein  I'll  catch  the  conscience  of  the 
King." 

Where  there's  a  will,  there's  a  way. — I 
said  so  to  myself,  as  I  walked  down 
Chancery-lane,  about  half-past  six  o'clock 
on  Monday  the  ioth  of  December,  to 
inquire  at  Jack  Randall's  where  the  fight 
the  next  day  was  to  be;  and  I  found  "the 
proverb"  nothing  ''musty"  in  the  present 
instance.  I  was  determined  to  see  this 
fight,  come  what  would,  and  see  it  I  did, 
in  great  style.  It  was  my  first  fight,  [10 
yet  it  more  than  answered  my  expecta- 
tions. Ladies!  it  is  to  you  I  dedicate  this 
description;  nor  let  it  seem  out  of  charac- 
ter for  the  fair  to  notice  the  exploits  of  the 
brave.  Courage  and  modesty  are  the 
old  English  virtues;  and  may  they  never 
look  cold  and  askance  on  one  another! 
Think,  ye  fairest  of  the  fair,  loveliest  of 
the  lovely  kind,  ye  practisers  of  soft  en- 
chantment, how  many  more  ye  kill  [20 
with  poisoned  baits  than  ever  fell  in  the 
ring:  and  listen  with  subdued  air  and 
without  shuddering,  to  a  tale  tragic  only 
in  appearance,  and  sacred  to  the  Fancy! 

I  was  going  down  Chancery-lane,  think- 
ing to  ask  at  Jack  Randalls  where  the 
fight  was  to  be,  when  looking  through 
the  glass  door  of  the  Hole  in  The  Wall, 
I  heard  a  gentleman  asking  the  same 
question  at  Mrs.  Randall,  as  the  [30 
author  of  Waverley  would  express  it. 
Now  Mrs.  Randall  stood  answering  the 
gentleman's  question,  with  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  lady  of  the  Champion  of  the 
Light  Weights.  Thinks  I,  I'll  wait  till 
this  person  comes  out,  and  learn  from 
him  how  it  is.  For  to  say  a  truth,  I  was 
not  fond  of  going  into  this  house  of  call 
for  heroes  and  philosophers,  ever  since 
the  owner  of  it  (for  Jack  is  no  gentle-  [40 
man)  threatened  once  upon  a  time  to 
kick  me  out  of  doors  for  wanting  a  mut- 
ton-chop at  his  hospitable  board,  when 
the  conqueror  in  thirteen  battles  was 
more  full  of  blue  ruin  than  of  good  man- 
ners.    I  was  the  more  mortified  at  this 


repulse,  inasmuch  as  I  had  heard  Mr. 
James  Simpkins,  hosier  in  the  Strand, 
one  day  when  the  character  of  the  Hole 
in  the  Wall  was  brought  in  question,  [50 
observe — "  The  house  is  a  very  good  house, 
and  the  company  quite  genteel:  I  have 
been  there  myself!"  Remembering  this 
unkind  treatment  of  mine  host,  to  which 
mine  hostess  was  also  a  party,  and  not 
wishing  to  put  her  in  unquiet  thoughts 
at  a  time  jubilant  like  the  present,  I 
waited  at  the  door,  when  who  should 
issue  forth  but  my  friend  Jo.  Toms, 
and  turning  suddenly  up  Chancery-  [60 
lane  with  that  quick  jerk  and  impatient 
stride  which  distinguishes  a  lover  of  the 
Fancy,  I  said,  "I'll  be  hanged  if  that 
fellow  is  not  going  to  the  fight,  and  is  on 
his  way  to  get  me  to  go  with  him."  So 
it  proved  in  effect,  and  we  agreed  to  ad- 
journ to  my  lodgings  to  discuss  matters 
with  that  cordiality  which  makes  old 
friends  like  new,  and  new  friends  like  old, 
on  great  occasions.  We  are  cold  [70 
to  others  only  when  we  are  dull  in  our- 
selves, and  have  neither  thoughts  nor 
feelings  to  impart  to  them.  Give  a  man 
a  topic  in  his  head,  a  throb  of  pleasure  in 
his  heart,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  share  it 
with  the  first  person  he  meets.  Toms 
and  I,  though  we  seldom  meet,  were  an 
alter  idem  on  this  memorable  occasion, 
and  had  not  an  idea  that  we  did  not 
candidly  impart;  and  "so  carelessly  [80 
did  we  fleet  the  time,"  that  I  wish  no 
better,  when  there  is  another  fight,  than 
to  have  him  for  a  companion  on  my  jour- 
ney down,  and  to  return  with  my  friend 
Jack  Pigott,  talking  of  what  was  to  happen 
or  of  what  did  happen,  with  a  noble 
subject  always  at  hand,  and  liberty 
to  digress  to  others  whenever  they  offered. 
Indeed,  on  my  repeating  the  lines  from 
Spenser  in  an  involuntary  fit  of  en-  [90 
thusiasm, 

"What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty?" 

my  last-named  ingenious  friend  stopped 
me  by  saying  that  this,  translated  into 
the  vulgate,  meant  "Going  to  see  a  fight." 
Jo.  Toms  and  I  could  not  settle  about 
the  method  of  going  down.  He  said  there 
was  a  caravan,  he  understood,  to  start 


534 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


from  Tom  Belcher's  at  two,  which  [ioo 
would  go  there  right  out  and  back  again 
the  next  day.  Now  I  never  travel  all 
night,  and  said  I  should  get  a  cast  to 
Newbury  by  one  of  the  mails.  Jo.  swore 
the  thing  was  impossible,  and  I  could 
only  answer  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  it.  In  short,  he  seemed  to  me  to  waver, 
said  he  only  came  to  see  if  I  was  going, 
had  letters  to  write,  a  cause  coming  on 
the  day  after,  and  faintly  said  at  [no 
parting  (for  I  was  bent  on  setting  out 
that  moment) — "Well,  we  meet  at  Phil- 
ippi!"  I  made  the  best  of  my  way  to 
Piccadilly.  The  mail  coach  stand  was 
bare.  "They  are  all  gone,"  said  I — 
"this  is  always  the  way  with  me — in  the 
instant  I  lose  the  future — if  I  had  not 
stayed  to  pour  out  that  last  cup  of  tea, 
I  should  have  been  just  in  time" — and 
cursing  my  folly  and  ill-luck  to-  [120 
gether,  without  inquiring  at  the  coach- 
office  whether  the  mails  were  gone  or 
not,  I  walked  on  in  despite,  and  to  punish 
my  own  dilatoriness  and  want  of  deter- 
mination. At  any  rate,  I  would  not 
turn  back:  I  might  get  to  Hounslow,  or 
perhaps  farther,  to  be  on  my  road  the 
next  morning.  I  passed  Hyde  Park 
Corner  (my  Rubicon),  and  trusted  to 
fortune.  Suddenly  I  heard  the  clat-  [130 
tering  of  a  Brentford  stage,  and  the  fight 
rushed  full  upon  my  fancy.  I  argued 
(not  unwisely)  that  even  a  Brentford 
coachman  was  better  company  than  my 
own  thoughts  (such  as  they  were  just 
then),  and  at  his  invitation  mounted  the 
box  with  him.  I  immediately  stated  my 
case  to  him — namely,  my  quarrel  with 
myself  for  missing  the  Bath  or  Bristol 
mail,  and  my  determination  to  get  [140 
on  in  consequence  as  well  as  I  could,  with- 
out any  disparagement  or  insulting  com- 
parison between  longer  or  shorter  stages. 
It  is  a  maxim  with  me  that  stage-coaches 
and  consequently  stage-coachmen,  are 
respectable  in  proportion  to  the  distance 
they  have  to  travel;  so  I  said  nothing 
on  that  subject  to  my  Brentford  friend. 
Any  incipient  tendency  to  an  abstract 
proposition,  or  (as  he  might  have  con-  [150 
strued  it)  to  a  personal  reflection  of  this 
kind,  was  however  nipped  in  the  bud;  for 
I  had  no  sooner  declared  indignantly  that 


I  had  missed  the  mails,  than  he  flatly 
denied  that  they  were  gone  along,  and 
lo!  at  the  instant  three  of  them  drove 
by  in  rapid,  provoking,  orderly  succes- 
sion, as  if  they  would  devour  the  ground 
before  them.  Here  again  I  seemed  in 
the  contradictory  situation  of  the  [160 
man  in  Dryden  who  exclaims: 

"I    follow    Fate,    which    does    too    hard 
pursue!" 

If  I  had  stopped  to  inquire  at  the 
White  Horse  Cellar,  which  would  not 
have  taken  me  a  minute,  I  should  now 
have  been  driving  down  the  road  in  all 
the  dignified  unconcern  and  ideal  perfec- 
tion of  mechanical  conveyance.  The 
Bath  mail  I  had  set  my  mind  upon,  and 
I  had  missed  it,  as  I  missed  every-  [170 
thing  else,  by  my  own  absurdity,  in 
putting  the  will  for  the  deed,  and  aiming 
at  ends  without  employing  means.  "Sir," 
said  he  of  the  Brentford,  "the  Bath  mail 
will  be  up  presently;  my  brother-in-law 
drives  it,  and  I  will  engage  to  stop  him 
if  there  is  a  place  empty."  I  almost 
doubted  my  good  genius;  but,  sure  enough, 
up  it  drove  like  lightning,  and  stopped 
directly  at  the  call  of  the  Brentford  [180 
Jehu.  I  would  not  have  believed  this 
possible,  but  the  brother-in-law  of  a 
mail-coach  driver  is  himself  no  mean  man. 
I  was  transferred  without  loss  of  time  from 
the  top  of  one  coach  to  that  of  the  other, 
desired  the  guard  to  pay  my  fare  to  the 
Brentford  coachman  for  me  as  I  had  no 
change,  was  accommodated  with  a  great- 
coat, put  up  my  umbrella  to  keep  off  a 
drizzling  mist,  and  we  began  to  cut  [190 
through  the  air  like  an  arrow.  The  mile- 
stones disappeared  one  after  another,  the 
rain  kept  off;  Tom  Turtle,  the  trainer, 
sat  before  me  on  the  coach-box,  with 
whom  I  exchanged  civilities  as  a  gentle- 
man going  to  the  fight;  the  passion  that 
had  transported  me  an  hour  before  was 
subdued  to  pensive  regret  and  conjec- 
tural musing  on  the  next  day's  battle;  I 
was  promised  a  place  inside  at  Read-  [200 
ing,  and  upon  the  whole,  I  thought  my- 
self a  lucky  fellow.  Such  is  the  force  of 
imagination!  On  the  outside  of  any 
other  coach  on  the  10th  of  December, 
with  a  Scotch  mist  drizzling  through  the 


HAZLITT 


535 


cloudy  moonlight  air,  I  should  have  been 
;old.  comfortless,  impatient  and,  no  doubt, 
wet  through;  but  seated  on  the  Royal 
mail,  I  felt  warm  and  comfortable,  the 
air  did  me  good,  the  ride  did  me  [210 
good,  I  was  pleased  with  the  progress 
we  had  -made,  and  confident  that  all 
would  go  well  through  the  journey.  When 
I  got  inside  at  Reading,  I  found  Turtle 
and  a  stout  valetudinarian,  whose  cos- 
tume bespoke  him  one  of  the  Fancy,  and 
who  had  risen  from  a  three  months'  sick 
bed  to  get  into  the  mail  to  see  the  fight. 
They  were  intimate,  and  we  fell  into  a 
lively  discourse.  My  friend  the  [220 
trainer  was  confined  in  his  topics  to  fight- 
ing dogs  and  men,  to  bears  and  badgers; 
beyond  this  he  was  "quite  chap-fallen," 
had  not  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog,  or 
indeed  very  wisely  fell  asleep,  when  any 
other  game  was  started.  The  whole  art 
of  training  (I,  however,  learned  from 
him)  consists  in  two  things,  exercise  and 
abstinence,  abstinence  and  exercise,  re- 
peated alternately  and  without  end.  [230 
A  yolk  of  an  egg  with  a  spoonful  of  rum 
in  it  is  the  first  thing  in  a  morning,  and 
then  a  walk  of  six  miles  till  breakfast. 
This  meal  consists  of  a  plentiful  supply  of 
tea  and  toast  and  beef-steaks.  Then 
another  six  or  seven  miles  till  dinner- 
time, and  another  supply  of  solid  beef  or 
mutton  with  a  pint  of  porter,  and  perhaps, 
at  the  utmost,  a  couple  of  glasses  of  sherry. 
Martin  trains  on  water,  but  this  in-  [240 
creases  his  infirmity  on  another  very 
dangerous  side.  The  Gas-man  takes  now 
and  then  a  chirping  glass  ^  under  the  rose) 
to  console  him,  during  a  six  weeks'  proba- 
tion, for  the  absence  of  Mrs.  Hickman — 
an  agreeable  woman,  with  (I  understand) 
a  pretty  fortune  of  two  hundred  pounds. 
How  matter  presses  on  me!  What  stub- 
born things  are  facts!  How  inexhaustible 
is  nature  and  art!  "It  is  well,"  as  [250 
I  once  heard  Mr.  Richmond  observe,  "to 
see  a  variety."  He  was  speaking  of 
cock-fighting  as  an  edifying  spectacle. 
I  cannot  deny  that  one  learns  more  of 
what  is  (I  do  not  say  of  what  ought  to  be) 
in  this  desultory  mode  of  practical  study, 
than  from  reading  the  same  book  twice 
over,  even  though  it  should  be  a  moral 
treatise.    Where  was  I?    I  was  sitting  at 


dinner  with  the  candidate  for  the  [260 
honors  of  the  ring,  "where  good  digestion 
waits  on  appetite,  and  health  on  both." 
Then  follows  an  hour  of  social  chat  and 
native  glee;  and  afterwards,  to  another 
breathing  over  heathy  hill  or  dale.  Back 
to  supper,  and  then  to  bed,  and  up  by 
six  again. — Our  hero 

"Follows  so  the  ever-running  sun 
With  profitable  ardor" — 

to  the  day  that  brings  him  victory  [270 
or  defeat  in  the  green  fairy  circle.  Is  not 
this  life  more  sweet  than  mine?  I  was 
going  to  say;  but  I  will  not  libel  any  life 
by  comparing  it  to  mine,  which  is  (at  the 
date  of  these  presents)  bitter  as  colo- 
quintida  and  the  dregs  of  aconitum ! 

The  invalid  in  the  Bath  mail  soared  a 
pitch  above  the  trainer,  and  did  not  sleep 
so  sound,  because  he  had  "more  figures 
and  more  fantasies."  We  talked  the  [280 
hours  away  merrily.  He  had  faith  in 
surgery,  for  he  had  had  three  ribs  set  right, 
that  had  been  broken  in  a  turn-up  at 
Belcher's,  but  thought  physicians  old 
women,  for  they  had  no  antidote  in  their 
catalogue  for  brandy.  An  indigestion 
is  an  excellent  common-place  for  two 
people  that  never  met  before.  By  way  of 
ingratiating  myself,  I  told  him  the  story  of 
my  doctor,  who,  on  my  earnestly  rep-  [290 
resenting  to  him  that  I  thought  his  regi- 
men had  done  me  harm,  assured  me  that 
the  whole  pharmacopeia  contained  noth- 
ing comparable  to  the  prescription  he 
had  given  me;  and,  as  a  proof  of  its  un- 
doubted efficacy,  said  that  "he  had  had 
one  gentleman  with  my  complaint  under 
his  hands  for  the  last  fifteen  years." 
This  anecdote  made  my  companion  shake 
the  rough  sides  of  his  three  great-  [300 
coats  with  boisterous  laughter;  and  Turtle, 
starting  out  of  his  sleep,  swore  he  knew 
how  the  fight  would  go,  for  he  had  had  a 
dream  about  it.  Sure  enough  the  rascal 
told  us  how  the  first  three  rounds  went 
off,  but  his  "dream,"  like  others,  "de- 
noted a  foregone  conclusion."  He  knew 
his  men.  The  moon  now  rose  in  silver 
state,  and  I  ventured,  with  some  hesita- 
tion, to  point  out  this  object  of  [310 
placid  beauty,  with  the  blue  serene  be- 
yond,  to  the  man   of  science,   to  which 


536 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


his  ear  he  "seriously  inclined,"  the  more 
as  it  gave  promise  (Tun  beau  jour  for  the 
morrow,  and  showed  the  ring  undrenched 
by  envious  showers,  arrayed  in  sunny 
smiles.  Just  then,  all  going  on  well,  I 
thought  on  my  friend  Toms,  whom  I 
had  left  behind,  and  said  innocently, 
"There  was  a  blockhead  of  a  fellow  [320 
I  left  in  town,  who  said  there  was  no 
possibility  of  getting  down  by  the  mail, 
and  talked  of  going  by  a  caravan  from 
Belcher's  at  two  in  the  morning,  after  he 
had  written  some  letters."  "Why,"  said 
he  of  the  lapels,  "I  should  not  wonder  if 
that  was  the  very  person  we  saw  running 
about  like  mad  from  one  coach-door  to 
another,  and  asking  if  any  one  had  seen  a 
friend  of  his,  a  gentleman  going  to  [330 
the  fight,  whom  he  had  missed  stupidly 
enough  by  staying  to  write  a  note." 
"Pray,  sir,"  said  my  fellow  traveller, 
"had  he  a  plaid  cloak  on?"— "Why,  no," 
said  I,  "not  at  the  time  I  left  him,  but 
he  very  well  might  afterwards,  for  he 
offered  to  lend  me  one."  The  plaid  cloak 
and  the  letter  decided  the  thing.  Joe, 
sure  enough,  was  in  the  Bristol  mail, 
which  preceded  us  by  about  fifty  [340 
yards.  This  was  droll  enough.  We  had 
now  but  a  few  miles  to  our  place  of  des- 
tination, and  the  first  thing  I  did  on 
alighting  at  Newbury,  both  coaches  stop- 
ping at  the  same  time,  was  to  call  out, 
"Pray,  is  there  a  gentleman  in  that  mail 
of  the  name  of  Toms?"  "No,"  said  Joe, 
borrowing  something  of  the  vein  of  Gilpin, 
"for  I  have  just  got  out."  "Well!"  says 
he,  "this  is  lucky;  but  you  don't  [350 
know  how  vexed  I  was  to  miss  you;  for," 
added  he,  lowering  his  voice,  "do  you 
know  when  I  left  you  I  went  to  Belcher's 
to  ask  about  the  caravan,  and  Mrs. 
Belcher  said  very  obligingly  she  couldn't 
tell  about  that,  but  there  were  two  gentle- 
men who  had  taken  places  by  the  mail 
and  were  gone  on  in  a  landau,  and  she 
could  frank  us.  It's  a  pity  I  didn't  meet 
with  you;  we  could  then  have  got  [360 
down  for  nothing.  But  muni's  the  word.'1'' 
It's  the  devil  for  any  one  to  tell  me  a 
secret,  for  it's  sure  to  come  out  in  print. 
[  do  not  care  so  much  to  gratify  a  friend, 
but  the  public  ear  is  too  great  a  tempta- 
tion to  me. 


Our  present  business  was  to  get  beds 
and  a  supper  at  an  inn;  but  this  was  no 
easy  task.  The  public-houses  were  full, 
and  where  you  saw  a  light  at  a  private  [370 
house,  and  people  poking  their  heads  out 
of  the  casement  to  see  what  was  going  on, 
they  instantly  put  them  in  and  shut  the 
window,  the  moment  you  seemed  advanc- 
ing with  a  suspicious  overture  for  ac- 
commodation. Our  guard  and  coachman 
thundered  away  at  the  outer  gate  of  the 
Crown  for  some  time  without  effect — 
such  was  the  greater  noise  within;  and 
when  the  doors  were  unbarred,  and  [380 
we  got  admittance,  we  found  a  party  as- 
sembled in  the  kitchen  round  a  good  hos- 
pitable fire,  some  sleeping,  others  drinking, 
others  talking  on  politics  and  on  the  fight. 
A  tall  English  yeoman  (something  like 
Matthews  in  the  face,  and  quite  as  great 
a  wag) — 

"A  lusty  man  to  ben  an  abbot  able" 

was  making  such  a  prodigious  noise  about 
rent  and  taxes,  and  the  price  of  corn  [390 
now  and  formerly,  that  he  had  prevented 
us  from  being  heard  at  the  gate.  The 
first  thing  I  heard  him  say  was  to  a  shuf- 
fling fellow  who  wanted  to  be  off  a  bet 
for  a  shilling  glass  of  brandy  and  water — 
"Confound  it,  man,  don't  be  insipid!" 
Thinks  I,  that  is  a  good  phrase.  It  was  a 
good  omen.  He  kept  it  up  so  all  night, 
nor  flinched  with  the  approach  of  morn- 
ing. He  was  a  fine  fellow,  with  [400 
sense,  wit,  and  spirit,  a  hearty  body  and 
a  joyous  mind,  free-spoken,  frank,  con- 
vivial— one  of  that  true  English  breed 
that  went  with  Harry  the  Fifth  to  the 
siege  of  Harfleur — "standing  like  gray- 
hounds  in  the  slips,"  &c.  We  ordered 
tea  and  eggs  (beds  were  soon  found  to  be 
out  of  the  question)  and  this  fellow's  con- 
versation was  sauce  piquante.  It  did 
one's  heart  good  to  see  him  brandish  [410 
his  oaken  towel  and  to  hear  him  talk. 
He  made  mince-meat  of  a  drunken,  stupid, 
red-faced,  quarrelsome,  frowsy  farmer, 
whose  nose  "he  moralized  into  a  thousand 
similes,"  making  it  out  a  firebrand  like 
Bardolph's.  "I'll  tell  you  what,  my 
friend,"  says  he,  "the  landlady  has  only 
to  keep  you  here  to  save  fire  and  candle. 
If  one  was  to  touch  your  nose,  it  would 


HAZLITT 


537 


go  off  like  a  piece  of  charcoal."  At  [420 
this  the  other  only  grinned  like  an  idiot, 
the  sole  variety  in  his  purple  face  being 
his  little  peering  gray  eyes  and  yellow 
teeth;  called  for  another  glass,  swore  he 
would  not  stand  it;  and  after  many  at- 
tempts to  provoke  his  humorous  antago- 
nist to  single  combat,  which  the  other 
turned  off  (after  working  him  up  to  a 
ludicrous  pitch  of  choler)  with  great  ad- 
roitness, he  fell  quietly  asleep  with  [430 
a  glass  of  liquor  in  his  hand,  which  he 
could  not  lift  to  his  head.  His  laughing 
persecutor  made  a  speech  over  him,  and 
turning  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  room, 
where  they  were  all  sleeping  in  the  midst 
of  this  "loud  and  furious  fun,"  said, 
"There's  a  scene  for  Hogarth  to  paint. 
I  think  he  and  Shakespeare  were  our  two 
best  men  at  copying  life."  This  confirmed 
me  in  my  good  opinion  of  him.  Ho-  [440 
garth,  Shakespeare,  and  Nature,  were 
just  enough  for  him  (indeed  for  any  man) 
to  know.  I  said,  "You  read  Cobbett, 
don't  you?  At  least,"  says  I,  "you  talk 
just  as  well  as  he  writes."  He  seemed  to 
doubt  this.  But  I  said,  "We  have  an 
hour  to  spare:  if  you'll  get  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  and  keep  on  talking,  I'll  write 
down  what  you  say;  and  if  it  doesn't 
make  a  capital  'Political  Register'  [450 
I'll  forfeit  my  head.  You  have  kept  me 
alive  to-night,  however.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  you." 
He  did  not  dislike  this  view  of  the  thing, 
nor  my  asking  if  he  was  not  about  the 
size  of  Jem  Belcher;  and  told  me  soon 
afterwards,  in  the  confidence  of  friendship, 
that  "the  circumstance  which  had  given 
him  nearly  the  greatest  concern  in  his 
life,  was  Cribb's  beating  Jem  after  he  [460 
had  lost  his  eye  by  racket-playing." — 
The  morning  dawns;  that  dim  but  yet 
clear  light  appears,  which  weighs  like 
solid  bars  of  metal  on  the  sleepless  eye- 
lids; the  guests  drop  down  from  their 
(chambers  one  by  one — but  it  was  too  late 
Ito  think  of  going  to  bed  now  (the  clock 
Iwas  on  the  stroke  of  seven),  wre  had 
rlnothing  for  it  but  to  find  a  barber's  (the 
(pole  that  glittered  in  the  morning  sun  [470 
''lighted  us  to  his  shop),  and  then  a  nine 
jjmiles'  march  to  Hungerford.  The  day 
tjwas  fine,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  mists  were 


retiring  from  the  marshy  ground,  the 
path  was  tolerably  dry,  the  sitting-up 
all  night  had  not  done  us  much  harm — 
at  least  the  cause  was  good;  we  talked  of 
this  and  that  with  amicable  difference, 
roving  and  sipping  of  many  subjects, 
but  still  invariably  we  returned  to  the  [480 
fight.  At  length,  a  mile  to  the  left  of 
Hungerford,  on  a  gentle  eminence,  we 
saw  the  ring  surrounded  by  covered  carts, 
gigs,  and  carriages,  of  which  hundreds 
had  passed  us  on  the  road;  Toms  gave  a 
youthful  shout,  and  we  hastened  down  a 
narrow  lane  to  the  scene  of  action. 

Reader,  have  you  ever  seen  a  fight? 
If  not,  you  have  a  pleasure  to  come,  at 
least  if  it  is  a  fight  like  that  between  [490 
the  Gas-man  and  Bill  Neate.  The  crowd 
was  very  great  when  we  arrived  on  the 
spot;  open  carriages  were  coming  up, 
with  streamers  flying  and  music  playing; 
and  the  country  people  were  pouring 
in  over  hedge  and  ditch  in  all  directions,  to 
see  their  hero  beat  or  be  beaten.  The 
odds  were  still  on  Gas,  but  only  about 
five  to  four.  Gully  had  been  down  to  try 
Neate,  and  had  backed  him  con-  [500 
siderably,  which  was  a  damper  to  the 
sanguine  confidence  of  the  adverse  party. 
About  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  were 
pending.  The  Gas  says  he  has  lost 
3000/.  which  were  promised  him  by  dif- 
ferent gentlemen  if  he  had  won.  He  had 
presumed  too  much  on  himself,  which 
had  made  others  presume  on  him.  This 
spirited  and  formidable  young  fellow 
seems  to  have  taken  for  his  motto  [510 
the  old  maxim,  that  "there  are  three 
things  necessary  to  success  in  life — 
Impudence!  Impudence!  Impudence!''''  It 
is  so  in  matters  of  opinion,  but  not  in  the 
Fancy,  which  is  the  most  practical  of  all 
things,  though  even  here  confidence  is 
half  the  battle,  but  only  half.  Our  friend 
had  vapored  and  swaggered  too  much, 
as  if  he  wanted  to  grin  and  bully  his  ad- 
versary out  of  the  fight.  "Alas!  the  [520 
Bristol  man  was  not  so  tamed!"  "This 
is  the  grave-digger"  (would  Tom  Hickman 
exclaim  in  the  moments  of  intoxication 
from  gin  and  success,  showing  his  tre- 
mendous right  hand),  "this  will  send 
many  of  them  to  their  long  homes;  I 
haven't    done    with    them    yet!"      Why 


538 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


should  he — though  he  had  licked  four  of 
the  best  men  within  the  hour,  yet  why 
should  he  threaten  to  inflict  dis-  [530 
honorable  chastisement  on  my  old  master 
Richmond,  a  veteran  going  off  the  stage, 
and  who  had  borne  his  sable  honors 
meekly?  Magnanimity,  my  dear  Tom, 
and  bravery,  should  be  inseparable.  Or 
why  should  he  go  up  to  his  antagonist, 
the  first  time  he  ever  saw  him  at  the  Fives 
Court,  and  measuring  him  from  head 
to  foot  with  a  glance  of  contempt,  as 
Achilles  surveyed  Hector,  say  to  [540 
him,  "What,  are  you  Bill  Neate?  I'll 
knock  more  blood  out  of  that  great  car- 
case of  thine,  this  day  fortnight,  than 
you  ever  knocked  out  of  a  bullock's!" 
It  was  not  manly,  'twas  not  fighter-like. 
If  he  was  sure  of  the  victory  (as  he  was 
not),  the  less  said  about  it  the  better. 
Modesty  should  accompany  the  Fancy 
as  its  shadow.  The  best  men  were  always 
the  best  behaved.  Jem  Belcher,  the  [550 
Game  Chicken,  (before  whom  the  Gas- 
man could  not  have  lived)  were  civil, 
silent  men.  So  is  Cribb,  so  is  Tom  Belcher, 
the  most  elegant  of  sparrers,  and  not  a 
man  for  every  one  to  take  by  the  nose. 
I  enlarged  on  this  topic  in  the  mail  (while 
Turtle  was  asleep),  and  said  very  wisely 
(as  I  thought)  that  impertinence  was  a 
part  of  no  profession.  A  boxer  was 
bound  to  beat  his  man,  but  not  to  [560 
thrust  his  fist,  either  actually  or  by  im- 
plication, in  every  one's  face.  Even  a 
highwayman,  in  the  way  of  trade,  may 
blow  out  your  brains,  but  if  he  uses  foul 
language  at  the  same  time,  I  should  say 
he  was  no  gentleman.  A  boxer,  I  would 
infer,  need  not  be  a  blackguard  or  a  cox- 
comb, more  than  another.  Perhaps  I 
press  this  point  too  much  on  a  fallen 
man — Mr.  Thomas  Hickman  has  by  [570 
this  time  learnt  that  first  of  all  lessons, 
"That  man  was  made  to  mourn."  He 
has  lost  nothing  by  the  late  fight  but  his 
presumption;  and  that  every  man  may 
do  as  well  without!  By  an  over-display 
of  this  quality,  however,  the  public  had 
been  prejudiced  against  him,  and  the 
knowing-ones  were  taken  in.  Few  but 
those  who  had  bet  on  him  wished  Gas  to 
win.  With  my  own  prepossessions  [580 
on  the  subject,  the  result  of  the  nth  of 


December  appeared  to  me  as  fine  a  piece 
of  poetical  justice  as  I  had  ever  witnessed. 
The  difference  of  weight  between  the  two 
combatants  (14  stone  to  12)  was  nothing 
to  the  sporting  men.  Great,  heavy, 
clumsy,  long-armed  Bill  Neate  kicked  the 
beam  in  the  scale  of  the  Gas-man's 
vanity.  The  amateurs  were  frightened 
at  his  big  words,  and  thought  that  [590 
they  would  make  up  for  the  difference  of 
six  feet  and  five  feet  nine.  Truly,  the 
Fancy  are  not  men  of  imagination. 
They  judge  of  what  has  been,  and  cannot 
conceive  of  anything  that  is  to  be.  The 
Gas-man  had  won  hitherto;  therefore  he 
must  beat  a  man  half  as  big  again  as 
himself — and  that  to  a  certainty.  Be- 
sides, there  are  as  many  feuds,  factions, 
prejudices,  pedantic  notions  in  the  [600 
Fancy  as  in  the  state  or  in  the  schools. 
Mr.  Gully  is  almost  the  only  cool,  sensible 
man  among  them,  who  exercises  an  un- 
biassed discretion,  and  is  not  a  slave  to 
his  passions  in  these  matters.  But  enough 
of  reflections,  and  to  our  tale.  The  day, 
as  I  have  said,  was  fine  for  a  December 
morning.  The  grass  was  wet,  and  the 
ground  miry,  and  ploughed  up  with  mul- 
titudinous feet,  except  that,  within  [610 
the  ring  itself,  there  was  a  spot  of  virgin- 
green  closed  in  and  unprofaned  by  vulgar 
feet,  that  shone  with  dazzling  brightness 
in  the  mid-day  sun.  For  it  was  now 
noon,  and  we  had  an  hour  to  wait.  This 
is  the  trying  time.  It  is  then  the  heart 
sickens,  as  you  think  what  the  two  cham- 
pions are  about,  and  how  short  a  time 
will  determine  their  fate.  After  the  first 
blow  is  struck,  there  is  no  oppor-  [620 
tunity  for  nervous  apprehensions;  you 
are  swallowed  up  in  the  immediate  in- 
terest of  the  scene — but 

"  Between  the  acting  of  a  dreadful  thing 
And  the  first  motion,  all  the  interim  is 
Like  a  phantasma,  or  a  hideous  dream." 

I  found  it  so  as  I  felt  the  sun's  rays  cling- 
ing to  my  back,  and  saw  the  white  wintry 
clouds  sink  below  the  verge  of  the  horizon. 
"So,"  I  thought,  "my  fairest  hopes  [63c1 
have  faded  from  my  sight! — so  will  the 
Gas-man's  glory,  or  that  of  his  adversary, 
vanish  in  an  hour."  The  swells  were; 
parading   in    their   white   box-coats,    the 


HAZLITT 


539 


outer  ring  was  cleared  with  some  bruises 
on  the  heads  and  shins  of  the  rustic  as- 
sembly (for  the  cockneys  had  been  dis- 
tanced by  the  sixty-six  miles) ;  the  time 
drew  near,  I  had  got  a  good  stand;  a 
bustle,  a  buzz,  ran  through  the  crowd,  [640 
and  from  the  opposite  side  entered  Neate, 
between  his  second  and  bottle-holder. 
He  rolled  along,  swathed  in  his  loose 
great-coat,  his  knock-knees  bending  under 
his  huge  bulk;  and  with  a  modest,  cheerful 
air,  threw  his  hat  into  the  ring.  He  then 
just  looked  round,  and  began  quietly  to 
undress;  when  from  the  other  side  there 
was  a  similar  rush  and  an  opening  made, 
and  the  Gas-man  came  forward  with  [650 
a  conscious  air  of  anticipated  triumph, 
too  much  like  the  cock-of-the-walk.  He 
strutted  about  more  than  became  a  hero, 
sucked  oranges  with  a  supercilious  air, 
and  threw  away  the  skin  with  a  toss  of 
his  head,  and  went  up  and  looked  at 
Neate,  which  was  an  act  of  supererogation.  | 
The  only  sensible  thing  he  did  was,  as 
he  strode  away  from  the  modern  Ajax, 
to  fling  out  his  arms,  as  if  he  wanted  [660 
to  try  whether  they  would  do  their  work 
that  day.  By  this  time  they  had  stripped, 
and  presented  a  strong  contrast  in  appear- 
ance. If  Neate  was  like  Ajax,  "with 
Atlantean  shoulders,  fit  to  bear"  the 
pugilistic  reputation  of  all  Bristol,  Hick- 
man might  be  compared  to  Diomed, 
light,  vigorous,  elastic,  and  his  back  glis- 
tened in  the  sun,  as  he  moved  about,  like 
a  panther's  hide.  There  was  now  a  [670 
dead  pause — attention  was  awe-struck. 
Who,  at  that  moment,  big  with  a  great 
event,  did  not  draw  his  breath  short,  did 
not  feel  his  heart  throb?  All  was  ready. 
They  tossed  up  for  the  sun,  and  the 
Gas-man  won.  They  were  led  up  to  the 
scratch — shook  hands,  and  went  at  it. 

In  the  first  round  every  one  thought 
it  was  all  over.  After  making  play  a 
short  time,  the  Gas-man  flew  at  his  [680 
adversary  like  a  tiger,  struck  five  blows 
in  as  many  seconds,  three  first,  and  then 
following  him  as  he  staggered  back,  two 
more,  right  and  left,  and  down  he  fell, 
a  mighty  ruin.  There  was  a  shout,  and 
I  said,  "There  is  no  standing  this." 
Neate  seemed  like  a  lifeless  lump  of  flesh 
and  bone,   round   which   the   Gas-man's 


blows  played  with  the  rapidity  of  elec- 
tricity or  lightning,  and  you  imag-  [690 
ined  he  would  only  be  lifted  up  to  be 
knocked  down  again.  It  was  as  if  Hick- 
man held  a  sword  or  a  fire  in  that  right 
hand  of  his,  and  directed  it  against  an 
unarmed  body.  They  met  again,  and 
Neate  seemed,  not  cowed,  but  particularly 
cautious.  I  saw  his  teeth  clenched  to- 
gether and  his  brows  knit  close  against 
the  sun.  He  held  out  both  his  arms  at 
full  length  straight  before  him,  like  [700 
two  sledge-hammers,  and  raised  his  left 
an  inch  or  two  higher.  The  Gas-man 
could  not  get  over  this  guard — they  struck 
mutually  and  fell,  but  without  advantage 
on  either  side.  It  was  the  same  in  the 
next  round;  but  the  balance  of  power 
was  thus  restored — the  fate  of  the  battle 
was  suspended.  No  one  could  tell  how  it 
would  end.  This  was  the  only  moment 
in  which  opinion  was  divided;  for,  [710 
in  the  next,  the  Gas-man  aiming  a  mortal 
blow  at  his  adversary's  neck,  with  his 
right  hand,  and  failing  from  the  length 
he  had  to  reach,  the  other  returned  it 
with  his  left  at  full  swing,  planted  a 
tremendous  blow  on  his  cheek-bone  and 
eyebrow,  and  made  a  red  ruin  of  that  side 
of  his  face.  The  Gas-man  went  down,  and 
there  was  another  shout — a  roar  of  tri- 
umph as  the  waves  of  fortune  rolled  [720 
tumultuously  from  side  to  side.  This 
was  a  settler.  Hickman  got  up,  and 
"grinned  horrible  a  ghastly  smile,"  yet 
he  was  evidently  dashed  in  his  opinion 
of  himself;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
ever  been  so  punished;  all  one  side  of  his 
face  was  perfect  scarlet,  and  his  right 
eye  was  closed  in  dingy  blackness,  as  he 
advanced  to  the  fight,  less  confident  but 
still  determined.  After  one  or  two  [730 
rounds,  not  receiving  another  such  re- 
membrancer, he  rallied  and  went  at  it 
with  his  former  impetuosity.  But  in 
vain.  His  strength  had  been  weakened, — 
his  blows  could  not  tell  at  such  a  distance, 
— he  was  obliged  to  fling  himself  at  his 
adversary,  and  could  not  strike  from  his 
feet;  and  almost  as  regularly  as  he  flew 
at  him  with  his  right  hand,  Neate  warded 
the  blow,  or  drew  back  out  of  its  [740 
reach,  and  felled  him  with  the  return  of 
his  left.     There  was  little  cautious  spar- 


540 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


ring — no  half-hits — no  tapping  and  trifling, 
none  of  the  petit-maitreship  of  the  art — 
they  were  almost  all  knockdown  blows: — 
the  fight  was  a  good  stand-up  fight.  The 
wonder  was  the  half-minute  time.  If 
there  had  been  a  minute  or  more  allowed 
between  each  round,  it  would  have  been 
intelligible  how  they  should  by  de-  [750 
grees  recover  strength  and  resolution; 
but  to  see  two  men  smashed  to  the  ground, 
smeared  with  gore,  stunned,  senseless,  the 
breath  beaten  out  of  their  bodies;  and 
then,  before  you  recover  from  the  shock, 
to  see  them  rise  up  with  new  strength 
and  courage,  stand  ready  to  inflict  or 
receive  mortal  offence,  and  rush  upon 
each  other  "like  two  clouds  over  the 
Caspian" — this  is  the  most  as-  [760 
tonishing  thing  of  all: — this  is  the  high 
and  heroic  state  of  man!  From  this  time 
forward  the  event  became  more  certain 
every  round;  and  about  the  twelfth  it 
seemed  as  if  it  must  have  been  over. 
Hickman  generally  stood  with  his  back 
to  me;  but  in  the  scuffle  he  had  changed 
positions,  and  Neate  just  then  made  a 
tremendous  lunge  at  him,  and  hit  him 
full  in  the  face.  It  was  doubtful  [770 
whether  he  would  fall  backwards  or 
forwards;  he  hung  suspended  for  a  second 
or  two,  and  then  fell  back,  throwing  his 
hands  in  the  air,  and  with  his  face  lifted 
up  to  the  sky.  I  never  saw  anything 
more  terrific  than  his  aspect  just  before 
he  fell.  All  traces  of  life,  of  natural 
expression,  were  gone  from  him.  His  face 
was  like  a  human  skull,  a  death's  head, 
spouting  blood.  The  eyes  were  filled  [780 
with  blood,  the  nose  streamed  with  blood, 
the  mouth  gaped  blood.  He  was  not  like 
an  actual  man,  but  like  a  preternatural, 
spectral  appearance,  or  like  one  of  the 
figures  in  Dante's  Inferno.  Yet  he  fought 
on  after  this  for  several  rounds,  still 
striking  the  first  desperate  blow,  and 
Neate  standing  on  the  defensive,  and 
using  the  same  cautious  guard  to  the 
last,  as  if  he  had  still  all  his  work  [790 
to  do;  and  it  was  not  until  the  Gas-man 
was  so  stunned  in  the  seventeenth  or 
eighteenth  round  that  his  senses  forsook 
him  and  he  could  not  come  to  time,  that 
the  battle  was  declared  over.1    Ye  who 

1  Scroggins  said  of  the  Gas-man,  that  he  thought  he  was 


despise  the  Fancy,  do  something  to  show 
as  much  pluck,  or  as  much  self-possession 
as  this,  before  you  assume  a  superiority 
which  you  have  never  given  a  single  proof 
of  by  any  one  action  in  the  whole  [800 
course  of  your  lives! — When  the  Gas-man 
came  to  himself  the  first  words  he  uttered 
were,  "Where  am  I?  What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" "Nothing  is  the  matter,  Tom, — 
you  have  lost  the  battle,  but  you  are  the 
bravest  man  alive."  And  Jackson  whis- 
pered to  him,  "I  am  collecting  a  purse 
for  you,  Tom." — Vain  sounds,  and  un- 
heard at  that  moment!  Neate  instantly 
went  up  and  shook  him  cordially  by  [8io" 
the  hand,  and  seeing  some  old  acquaint- 
ance, began  to  flourish  with  his  fists, 
calling  out,  "Ah,  you  always  said  I  could- 
n't fight — What  do  you  think  now?" 
But  all  in  good  humor,  and  without  any 
appearance  of  arrogance;  only  it  was 
evident  Bill  Neate  was  pleased  that  he 
had  won  the  fight.  When  it  was  over 
I  asked  Cribb  if  he  did  not  think  it  was  a 
good  one.  He  said,  "Pretty  well!"  [820 
The  carrier-pigeons  now  mounted  into 
the  air,  and  one  of  them  flew  with  the 
news  of  her  husband's  victory  to  the 
bosom  of  Mrs.  Neate.  Alas  for  Mrs. 
Hickman ! 

Mais  au  revoir,  as  Sir  Fopling  Flutter 
says.  I  went  down  with  Toms;  I  re- 
turned with  Jack  Pigott,  whom  I  met  on 
the  ground.  Toms  is  a  rattle  brain ;  Pigott 
is  a  sentimentalist.  Now,  under  favor,  [830 
I  am  a  sentimentalist  too — therefore  I 
say  nothing  but  that  the  interest  of  the 
excursion  did  not  flag  as  I  came  back. 
Pigott  and  I  marched  along  the  causeway 
leading  from  Hungerford  to  Newbury, 
now  observing  the  effect  of  a  brilliant 
sun  on  the  tawny  meads  or  moss-colored 
cottages,  now  exulting  in  the  fight,  now 
digressing  to  some  topic  of  general  and 
elegant  literature.  My  friend  was  [840 
dressed  in  character  for  the  occasion,  or 
like  one  of  the  Fancy:  that  is,  with  a 
double  portion  of  great-coats,  clogs,  and 
overhauls;  and  just  as  we  had  agreed 
with  a  couple  of  country  lads  to  carry 

a  man  of  that  courage  that  if  his  hands  were  cut  off,  he 
would  still  fight  on  with  the  stumps — like  that  of  Widring- 
ton, — 

"  In  doleful  dumps, 
Who,  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off 

Still  fought  upon  his  stumps." — (Hazlitt's  Note). 


HAZLITT 


54i 


his  superfluous  wearing-apparel  to  the 
next  town,  we  were  overtaken  by  a  return 
post-chaise,  into  which  I  got,  Pigott 
preferring  a  seat  on  the  bar.  There  were 
two  strangers  already  in  the  chaise,  [850 
and  on  their  observing  they  supposed  I 
had  been  to  the  fight,  I  said  I  had,  and 
concluded  they  had  done  the  same. 
They  appeared,  however,  a  little  shy  and 
sore  on  the  subject;  and  it  was  not  till 
after  several  hints  dropped,  and  ques- 
tions put,  that  it  turned  out  that  they 
had  missed  it.  One  of  these  friends  had 
undertaken  to  drive  the  other  there  in 
his  gig:  they  had  set  out,  to  make  [860 
sure  work,  the  day  before  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  The  owner  of  the  one-horse 
vehicle  scorned  to  ask  his  way,  and  drove 
right  on  to  Bagshot,  instead  of  turning 
off  at  Hounslow;  there  they  stopped  all 
night,  and  set  off  the  next  day  across  the 
country  to  Reading,  from  whence  they 
took  coach,  and  got  down  within  a  mile 
or  two  of  Hungerford,  just  half  an  hour 
after  the  fight  was  over.  This  might  [870 
be  safely  set  down  as  one  of  the  miseries 
of  human  life.  We  parted  with  these 
two  gentlemen  who  had  been  to  see  the 
fight,  but  had  returned  as  they  went, 
at  Wolhampton,  where  we  were  promised 
beds  (an  irresistible  temptation,  for  Pigott 
had  passed  the  preceding  night  at  Hunger- 
ford  as  we  had  done  at  Newbury),  and 
we  turned  into  an  old  bow-windowed 
parlor  with  a  carpet  and  a  snug  fire;  [880 
and  after  devouring  a  quantity  of  tea, 
toast,  and  eggs,  sat  down  to  consider, 
during  an  hour  of  philosophic  leisure, 
what  we  should  have  for  supper.  In  the 
midst  of  an  Epicurean  deliberation  be- 
tween a  roasted  fowl  and  mutton  chops 
with  mashed  potatoes,  we  were  inter- 
rupted by  an  inroad  of  Goths  and  Van- 
dals— 0  procid  este  profani — not  real 
flash-men,  but  interlopers,  noisy  [890 
pretenders,  butchers  from  Tothill-fields, 
brokers  from  Whitechapel,  who  called 
immediately  for  pipes  and  tobacco,  hop- 
ing it  would  not  be  disagreeable  to 
the  gentlemen,  and  began  to  insist 
that  it  was  a  cross.  Pigott  withdrew  from 
the  smoke  and  noise  into  another  room, 
and  left  me  to  dispute  the  point  with 
them  for  a  couple  of  hours  sans  intermis- 


sion by  the  dial.  The  next  morning  [900 
we  rose  refreshed;  and  on  observing  that 
Jack  had  a  pocket  volume  in  his  hand, 
in  which  he  read  in  the  intervals  of  our 
discourse,  I  inquired  what  it  was,  and 
learned  to  my  particular  satisfaction  that 
it  was  a  volume  of  the  New  Eloise.  Ladies 
after  this  will  you  contend  that  a  love  for 
the  Fancy  is  incompatible  with  the  cul- 
tivation of  sentiment? — We  jogged  on  as 
before,  my  friend  setting  me  up  in  a  [910 
genteel  drab  great-coat  and  green  silk 
handkerchief  (which  I  must  say  became 
me  exceedingly),  and  after  stretching 
our  legs  for  a  few  miles,  and  seeing  Jack 
Randall,  Ned  Turner,  and  Scroggins  pass 
on  the  top  of  one  of  the  Bath  coaches, 
we  engaged  with  the  driver  of  the  second 
to  take  us  to  London  for  the  usual  fee. 
I  got  inside,  and  found  three  other  passen- 
gers. One  of  them  was  an  old  gentle-  [920 
man  with  an  aquiline  nose,  powdered 
hair,  and  a  pigtail,  and  who  looked 
as  if  he  had  played  many  a  rubber  at 
the  Bath  rooms.  I  said  to  myself,  he  is 
very  like  Mr.  Windham;  I  wish  he  would 
enter  into  conversation,  that  I  might  hear 
what  fine  observations  would  come  from 
those  finely-turned  features.  However, 
nothing  passed,  till,  stopping  to  dine  at 
Reading,  some  inquiry  was  made  by  [930 
the  company  about  the  fight,  and  I  gave 
(as  the  reader  may  believe)  an  eloquent 
and  animated  description  of  it.  When  we 
got  into  the  coach  again  the  old  gentleman, 
after  a  graceful  exordium,  said  he  had 
when  a  boy  been  to  a  fight  between  the 
famous  Broughton  and  George  Steven- 
son, who  was  called  the  Fighting  Coach- 
man, in  the  year  1770,  with  the  late  Mr. 
Windham.  This  beginning  flattered  [940 
the  spirit  of  prophecy  within  me  and  riv- 
eted my  attention.  He  went  on —  "  George 
Stevenson  was  coachman  to  a  friend  of 
my  father's.  He  was  an  old  man  when  I 
saw  him  some  years  afterwards.  He  took 
hold  of  his  own  arm  and  said  'there  was 
muscle  here  once,  but  now  it  is  no  more 
than  this  young  gentleman's.'  He  added, 
'well,  no  matter;  I  have  been  here  long, 
I  am  willing  to  go  hence,  and  I  hope  I  [950 
have  done  no  more  harm  than  another 
man.'  Once,"  said  my  unknown  com- 
panion, "I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  beat 


542 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Broughton?  He  said  yes;  that  he  had 
fought  with  him  three  times,  and  the  last 
time  he  fairly  beat  him,  though  the  world 
did  not  allow  it.  'I'll  tell  you  how  it  was, 
master.  When  the  seconds  lifted  us  up  in 
the  last  round,  we  were  so  exhausted  that 
neither  of  us  could  stand,  and  we  fell  [960 
upon  one  another,  and  as  Master  Brough- 
ton fell  uppermost  the  mob  gave  it  in  his 
favor,  and  he  was  said  to  have  won  the 
battle.  But,'  says  he,  'the  fact  was,  that 
as  his  second  (John  Cuthbert)  lifted  him 
up,  he  said  to  him,  "I'll  fight  no  more, 
I've  had  enough;"  which,'  says  Steven- 
son, 'you  know  gave  me  the  victory. 
And  to  prove  to  you  that  this  was  the 
case,  when  John  Cuthbert  was  on  [970 
his  death-bed,  and  they  asked  him  if 
there  was  anything  on  his  mind  which  he 
wished  to  confess,  he  answered,  "Yes, 
that  there  was  one  thing  he  wished  to 
set  right,  for  that  certainly  Master  Steven- 
son won  that  last  fight  with  Master 
Broughton;  for  he  whispered  him  as  he 
lifted  him  up  in  the  last  round  of  all, 
that  he  had  had  enough.'"  This,"  said 
the  Bath  gentleman,  "  was  a  bit  of  hu-  [980 
man  nature;"  and  I  have  written  this  ac- 
count of  the  fight  on  purpose  that  it  might 
not  be  lost  to  the  world.  He  also  stated 
as  a  proof  of  the  candor  of  mind  in  this 
class  of  men,  that  Stevenson  acknowl- 
edged that  Broughton  could  have  beat 
him  in  his  best  day;  but  that  he  (Brough- 
ton) was  getting  old  in  their  last  ren- 
counter. When  we  stopped  in  Piccadilly 
I  wanted  to  ask  the  gentleman  some  [990 
questions  about  the  late  Mr.  Windham, 
but  had  not  courage.  I  got  out,  resigned 
my  coat  and  green  silk  handkerchief  to 
Pigott  (loth  to  part  with  these  ornaments 
of  life),  and  walked  home  in  high  spirits. 

P.  S.  Toms  called  upon  me  the  next  day, 
to  ask  me  if  I  did  not  think  the  fight  was  a 
complete  thing.  I  said  I  thought  it  was. 
I  hope  he  will  relish  my  account  of  it. 


ON  GOING  A  JOURNEY 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the 
world  is  going  a  journey;  but  I  like  to  go 
by  myself.  I  can  enjoy  society  in  a 
room ;  but  out  of  doors,  nature  is  company 


enough  for  me.  I  am  then  never  less 
alone  than  when  alone. 

"The   fields   his    study,   nature   was  his 
book." 

I  cannot  see  the  wit  of  walking  and 
talking  at  the  same  time.  When  I  am 
in  the  country  I  wish  to  vegetate  like  [10 
the  country.  I  am  not  for  criticising 
hedgerows  and  black  cattle.  I  go  out  of 
town  in  order  to  forget  the  town  and  all 
that  is  in  it.  There  are  those  who  for 
this  purpose  go  to  watering-places,  and 
carry  the  metropolis  with  them.  I  like 
more  elbow-room  and  fewer  encumbrances. 
I  like  solitude,  when  I  give  myself  up  to 
it,  for  the  sake  of  solitude;  nor  do  I  ask  for 

"a  friend  in  my  retreat,  [20 
Whom  I  may  whisper  solitude  is  sweet." 

The  soul  of  a  journey  is  liberty,  perfect 
liberty,  to  think,  feel,  do  just  as  one 
pleases.  We  go  a  journey  chiefly  to  be 
free  of  all  impediments  and  of  all  incon- 
veniences; to  leave  ourselves  behind,  much 
more  to  get  rid  of  others.  It  is  because  I 
want  a  little  breathing-space  to  muse  on 
indifferent  matters,  where  Contemplation 

"May  plume  her  feathers  and  let  grow 
her  wings,  [30 

That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all  too  ruffled,  and  sometimes  im- 
paired," 

that  I  absent  myself  from  the  town  for  a 
while,  without  feeling  at  a  loss  the  moment 
I  am  left  by  myself.  Instead  of  a  friend 
in  a  post-chaise  or  in  a  Tilbury,  to  ex- 
change good  things  with,  and  vary  the 
same  stale  topics  over  again,  for  once 
let  me  have  a  truce  with  impertinence. 
Give  me  the  clear  blue  sky  over  my  [40 
head,  and  the  green  turf  beneath  my  feet, 
a  winding  road  before  me,  and  a  three 
hours'  march  to  dinner — and  then  to 
thinking!  It  is  hard  if  I  cannot  start 
some  game  on  these  lone  heaths.  I  laugh, 
I  run,  I  leap,  I  sing  for  joy.  From  the 
point  of  yonder  rolling  cloud  I  plunge 
into  my  past  being,  and  revel  there,  as 
the  sun-burnt  Indian  plunges  headlong 
into  the  wave  that  wafts  him  to  his  [50 
native  shore.  Then  long-forgotten  things, 
like   "sunken   wrack  and   sumless   treas- 


HAZLITT 


543 


uries,"  burst  upon  my  eager  sight,  and  I 
begin  to  feel,  think,  and  be  myself  again. 
Instead  of  an  awkward  silence,  broken 
by  attempts  at  wit  or  dull  common- 
places, mine  is  that  undisturbed  silence 
of  the  heart  which  alone  is  perfect  elo- 
quence. No  one  likes  puns,  alliterations, 
antitheses,  argument,  and  analysis  [60 
better  than  I  do;  but  I  sometimes  had 
rather  be  without  them.  "Leave,  oh, 
leave  me  to  my  repose!"  I  have  just 
now  other  business  in  hand,  which  would 
seem  idle  to  you,  but  is  with  me  "very 
stuff  o'  the  conscience."  Is  not  this  wild 
rose  sweet  without  a  comment?  Does 
not  this  daisy  leap  to  my  heart,  set  in  its 
coat  of  emerald?  Yet  if  I  were  to  explain 
to  you  the  circumstance  that  has  so  [70 
endeared  it  to  me,  you  would  only  smile. 
Had  I  not  better  then  keep  it  to  myself, 
and  let  it  serve  me  to  brood  over,  from 
here  to  yonder  craggy  point,  and  from 
thence  onward  to  the  far-distant  horizon? 
I  should  be  but  bad  company  all  that 
way,  and  therefore  prefer  being  alone. 
I  have  heard  it  said  that  you  may,  when 
the  moody  fit  comes  on,  walk  or  ride  on 
by  yourself,  and  indulge  your  reveries.  [80 
But  this  looks  like  a  breach  of  man- 
ners, a  neglect  of  others,  and  you  are 
thinking  all  the  time  that  you  ought  to 
rejoin  your  party.  "Out  upon  such  half- 
faced  fellowship,"  say  I.  I  like  to  be 
either  entirely  to  myself,  or  entirely  at 
the  disposal  of  others;  to  talk  or  be  silent, 
to  walk  or  sit  still,  to  be  sociable  or  soli- 
tary. I  was  pleased  with  an  observation 
of  Mr.  Cobbett's,  that  "he  thought  it  [90 
a  bad  French  custom  to  drink  our  wine 
with  our  meals,  and  that  an  Englishman 
ought  to  do  only  one  thing  at  a  time." 
So  I  cannot  talk  and  think,  or  indulge  in 
melancholy  musing  and  lively  conversa- 
tion by  fits  and  starts.  "Let  me  have  a 
companion  of  my  way,"  says  Sterne, 
"were  it  but  to  remark  how  the  shadows 
lengthen  as  the  sun  declines."  It  is  beau- 
tifully said;  but,  in  my  opinion,  this  [100 
continual  comparing  of  notes  interferes 
with  the  involuntary  impression  of  things 
upon  the  mind,  and  hurts  the  sentiment. 
If  you  only  hint  what  you  feel  in  a  kind 
of  dumb  show,  it  is  insipid:  if  you  have 
to  explain  it,  it  is  making  a   toil  of  a 


pleasure.  You  cannot  read  the  book  of 
nature  without  being  perpetually  put  to 
the  trouble  of  translating  it  for  the  benefit 
of  others.  I  am  for  the  synthetical  [no 
method  on  a  journey  in  preference  to 
the  analytical.  I  am  content  to  lay  in  a 
stock  of  ideas  then,  and  to  examine  and 
anatomise  them  afterwards.  I  want  to 
see  my  vague  notions  float  like  the  down 
of  the  thistle  before  the  breeze,  and  not 
to  have  them  entangled  in  the  briars  and 
thorns  of  controversy.  For  once,  I  like 
to  have  it  all  my  own  way;  and  this  is 
impossible  unless  you  are  alone,  or  [120 
in  such  company  as  I  do  not  covet.  I 
have  no  objection  to  argue  a  point  with 
any  one  for  twenty  miles  of  measured 
road,  but  not  for  pleasure.  If  you  re- 
mark the  scent  of  a  bean-field  crossing 
the  road,  perhaps  your  fellow-traveller 
has  no  smell.  If  you  point  to  a  distant 
object,  perhaps  he  is  short-sighted,  and 
has  to  take  out  his  glass  to  look  at  it. 
There  is  a  feeling  in  the  air,  a  tone  in  [130 
the  color  of  a  cloud,  which  hits  your  fancy, 
but  the  effect  of  which  you  are  unable  to 
account  for.  There  is  then  no  sympathy, 
but  an  uneasy  craving  after  it,  and  a  dis- 
satisfaction which  pursues  you  on  the 
way,  and  in  the  end  probably  produces 
ill-humor.  Now  I  never  quarrel  with 
myself,  and  take  all  my  own  conclusions 
for  granted  till  I  find  it  necessary  to  de- 
fend them  against  objections.  It  is  [140 
not  merely  that  you  may  not  be  of  accord 
on  the  objects  and  circumstances  that 
present  themselves  before  you — these  may 
recall  a  number  of  objects,  and  lead  to 
associations  too  delicate  and  refined  to 
be  possibly  communicated  to  others.  Yet 
these  I  love  to  cherish,  and  sometimes 
still  fondly  clutch  them,  when  I  can 
escape  from  the  throng  to  do  so.  To  give 
way  to  our  feelings  before  com-  [150 
pany  seems  extravagance  or  affectation; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  to  have  to  un- 
ravel this  mystery  of  our  being  at  every 
turn,  and  to  make  others  take  an  equal 
interest  in  it  (otherwise  the  end  is  not 
answered),  is  a  task  to  which  few  are  com- 
petent. We  must  "give  it  an  under- 
standing, but  no  tongue."    My  old  friend 

C ,  however,  could  do  both.    He  could 

go  on  in  the  most  delightful  explan-  [160 


544 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


atory  way  over  hill  and  dale,  a  summer's 
day,  and  convert  a  landscape  into  a  di- 
dactic poem  or  a  Pindaric  ode.  "He 
talked  far  above  singing."  If  I  could  so 
clothe  my  ideas  in  sounding  and  flowing 
words,  I  might  perhaps  wish  to  have 
some  one  with  me  to  admire  the  swelling 
theme;  or  I  could  be  more  content,  were 
it  possible  for  me  still  to  hear  his  echoing 
voice  in  the  woods  of  All-Foxden.  They  [i  70 
had  "that  fine  madness  in  them  which 
our  first  poets  had";  and  if  they  could 
have  been  caught  by  some  rare  instrument, 
would  have  breathed  such  strains  as  the 
following: 

"Here  be  woods  as  green 
As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet 
As  when  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the 

fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  stream,  with  flow'rs  as 

many 
As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice 

as  any; 
Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and 

wells,  [180 

Arbors  o'ergrown  with  woodbines,  caves 

and  dells; 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  whilst  I  sit  by 

and  sing, 
Or  gather  rushes  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  fingers;  tell  thee  tales  of  love, 
How  the  pale  Phcebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 
First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose 

eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 
How  she  conveyed  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,   to  the 

steep 
Head  of  old  Latmos,   where  she  stoops 

each  night,  [190 

Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  brother's 

light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest." 

Had  I  words  and  images  at  command 
like  these,  I  would  attempt  to  wake  the 
thoughts  that  lie  slumbering  on  golden 
ridges  in  the  evening  clouds:  but  at  the 
sight  of  nature  my  fancy,  poor  as  it  is, 
droops  and  closes  up  its  leaves,  like 
flowers  at  sunset.  I  can  make  nothing 
out  on  the  spot:  I  must  have  time  to  [200 
collect  myself. 

In  general,  a  good  thing  spoils  out-of- 


door  prospects:  it  should  be  reserved  for 

Table-talk.     L is  for  this  reason,  I 

take  it,  the  worst  company  in  the  world 
out  of  doors;  because  he  is  the  best 
within.  I  grant  there  is  one  subject  on 
which  it  is  pleasant  to  talk  on  a  journey, 
and  that  is,  what  one  shall  have  for 
supper  when  we  get  to  our  inn  at  night.  [210 
The  open  air  improves  this  sort  of  con- 
versation or  friendly  altercation,  by  set- 
ting a  keener  edge  on  appetite.  Every 
mile  of  the  road  heightens  the  flavor  of 
the  viands  we  expect  at  the  end  of  it. 
How  fine  it  is  to  enter  some  old  town, 
walled  and  turreted,  just  at  approach  of 
nightfall,  or  to  come  to  some  straggling 
village,  with  the  lights  streaming  through 
the  surrounding  gloom;  and  then,  after  [220 
inquiring  for  the  best  entertainment  that 
the  place  affords,  to  "take  one's  ease  at 
one's  inn!"  These  eventful  moments  in 
our  lives'  history  are  too  precious,  too 
full  of  solid,  heartfelt  happiness  to  be 
frittered  and  dribbled  away  in  imperfect 
sympathy.  I  would  have  them  all  to 
myself,  and  drain  them  to  the  last  drop: 
they  will  do  to  talk  of  or  to  write  about 
afterwards.  What  a  delicate  specula-  [230 
tion  it  is,  after  drinking  whole  goblets 
of  tea — 

"The  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate " — 

and  letting  the  fumes  ascend  into  the 
brain,  to  sit  considering  what  we  shall 
have  for  supper — eggs  and  a  rasher,  a 
rabbit  smothered  in  onions,  or  an  excel- 
lent veal  cutlet!  Sancho  in  such  a  situa- 
tion once  fixed  on  cow-heel;  and  his  choice, 
though  he  could  not  help  it,  is  not  to  [240 
be  disparaged.  Then,  in  the  intervals  of 
pictured  scenery  and  Shandean  contem- 
plation, to  catch  the  preparation  and  the 
stir  in  the  kitchen.  Procul,  0  procul 
este  profani!  These  hours  are  sacred  to 
silence  and  to  musing,  to  be  treasured 
up  in  the  memory,  and  to  feed  the  source 
of  smiling  thoughts  hereafter.  I  would 
not  waste  them  in  idle  talk;  or  if  I  must 
have  the  integrity  of  fancy  broken  [250 
in  upon,  I  would  rather  it  were  by  a 
stranger  than  a  friend.  A  stranger  takes 
his  hue  and  character  from  the  time 
and  place;  he  is  a  part  of  the  furniture  and 
costume  of  an  inn.    If  he  is  a  Quaker,  or 


HAZLITT 


545 


from  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  so 
much  the  better.  I  do  not  even  try  to 
sympathise  with  him,  and  he  breaks 
no  squares.  I  associate  nothing  with  my 
travelling  companion  but  present  [260 
objects  and  passing  events.  In  his  ig- 
norance of  me  and  my  affairs,  I  in  a  man- 
ner forget  myself.  But  a  friend  reminds 
one  of  other  things,  rips  up  old  grievances, 
and  destroys  the  abstraction  of  the  scene. 
He  comes  in  ungraciously  between  us 
and  our  imaginary  character.  Something 
is  dropped  in  the  course  of  conversation 
that  gives  a  hint  of  your  profession  and 
pursuits;  or  from  having  some  one  [270 
with  you  that  knows  the  less  sublime  por- 
tions of  your  history,  it  seems  that  other 
people  do.  You  are  no  longer  a  citizen  of 
the  world;  but  your  "unhoused  free  con- 
dition is  put  into  circumspection  and 
confine."  The  incognito  of  an  inn  is  one 
of  its  striking  privileges — "lord  of  one's 
self,  uncumbered  with  a  name."  Oh!  it 
is  great  to  shake  off  the  trammels  of  the 
world  and  of  public  opinion — to  lose  [280 
our  importunate,  tormenting,  everlasting 
personal  identity  in  the  elements  of  na- 
ture, and  become  the  creature  of  the 
moment,  clear  of  all  ties — to  hold  to  the 
universe  only  by  a  dish  of  sweetbreads, 
and  to  owe  nothing  but  the  score  of  the 
evening — and  no  longer  seeking  for  ap- 
plause and  meeting  with  contempt,  to  be 
known  by  no  other  title  than  the  Gentle- 
man in  the  parlor!  One  may  take  [290 
one's  choice  of  all  characters  in  this  ro- 
mantic state  of  uncertainty  as  to  one's 
real  pretensions,  and  become  indefinitely 
respectable  and  negatively  right  wor- 
shipful. We  baffle  prejudice  and  disap- 
point conjecture;  and  from  being  so  to 
others,  begin  to  be  objects  of  curiosity 
and  wonder  even  to  ourselves.  We  are 
no  more  those  hackneyed  common-places 
that  we  appear  in  the  world;  an  inn  [300 
restores  us  to  the  level  of  nature,  and 
quits  scores  with  society !  I  have  certainly 
spent  some  enviable  hours  at  inns — 
sometimes  when  I  have  been  left  entirely 
to  myself,  and  have  tried  to  solve  some 
metaphysical  problem,  as  once  at  Witham 
Common,  where  I  found  out  the  proof 
that  likeness  is  not  a  case  of  the  associa- 
tion of  ideas — at  other  times,  when  there 


have  been  pictures  in  the  room,  as  at  [310 
St.  Neot's  (I  think  it  was,)  where  I  first 
met  with  Gribelin's  engravings  of  the 
Cartoons,  into  which  I  entered  at  once, 
and  at  a  little  inn  on  the  borders  of  Wales, 
where  there  happened  to  be  hanging  some 
of  Westall's  drawings,  which  I  com- 
pared triumphantly  (for  a  theory  that  I 
had,  not  for  the  admired  artist)  with  the 
figure  of  a  girl  who  had  ferried  me  over 
the  Severn,  standing  up  in  a  boat  be-  [320 
tween  me  and  the  twilight — at  other 
times  I  might  mention  luxuriating  in 
books,  with  a  peculiar  interest  in  this 
way,  as  I  remember  sitting  up  half  the 
night  to  read  Paul  and  Virginia,  which  I 
picked  up  at  an  inn  at  Bridgewater,  after 
being  drenched  in  the  rain  all  day;  and 
at  the  same  place  I  got  through  two 
volumes  of  Madame  d'Arblay's  Camilla. 
It  was  on  the  10th  of  April,  1798,  that  [330 
I  sat  down  to  a  volume  of  the  New  Eloise, 
at  the  inn  at  Llangollen,  over  a  bottle  of 
sherry  and  a  cold  chicken.  The  letter 
I  chose  was  that  in  which  St.  Preux 
describes  his  feelings  as  he  first  caught  a 
glimpse  from  the  heights  of  the  Jura  of 
the  Pays  de  Vaud,  which  I  had  brought 
with  me  as  a  bon  bouche  to  crown  the 
evening  with.  It  was  my  birthday,  and 
I  had  for  the  first  time  come  from  a  [340 
place  in  the  neighborhood  to  visit  this 
delightful  spot.  The  road  to  Llangollen 
turns  off  between  Chirk  and  Wrexham; 
and  on  passing  a  certain  point  you  come 
all  at  once  upon  the  valley,  which  opens 
like  an  amphitheatre,  broad,  barren  hills 
rising  in  majestic  state  on  either  side, 
with  "green  upland  swells  that  echo  to 
the  bleat  of  flocks"  below,  and  the  river 
Dee  babbling  over  its  stony  bed  in  [350 
the  midst  of  them.  The  valley  at  this 
time  "  glittered  green  with  sunny  showers," 
and  a  budding  ash-tree  dipped  its  tender 
branches  in  the  chiding  stream.  How 
proud,  how  glad  I  was  to  walk  along  the 
high  road  that  overlooks  the  delicious 
prospect,  repeating  the  lines  which  I 
have  just  quoted  from  Mr.  Coleridge's 
poems!  But  besides  the  prospect  which 
opened  beneath  my  feet,  another  [360 
also  opened  to  my  inward  sight,  a  heav- 
enly vision,  on  which  were  written,  in 
letters  large  as  Hope  could  make  them, 


546 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


these  four  words,  Liberty,  Genius, 
Love,  Virtue;  which  have  since  faded 
into  the  light  of  common  day,  or  mock 
my  idle  gaze. 

"  The  beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns 
not." 

Still  I  would  return  some  time  or  other 
to  this  enchanted  spot;  but  I  would  [370 
return  to  it  alone.  What  other  self  could 
I  find  to  share  that  influx  of  thoughts, 
of  regret,  and  delight,  the  fragments  of 
which  I  could  hardly  conjure  up  to  my- 
self, so  much  have  they  been  broken  and 
defaced.  I  could  stand  on  some  tall  rock, 
and  overlook  the  precipice  of  years  that 
separates  me  from  what  I  then  wras.  I 
was  at  that  time  going  shortly  to  visit  the 
poet  whom  I  have  above  named.  [380 
Where  is  he  now?  Not  only  I  myself 
have  changed;  the  world,  which  was  then 
new  to  me,  has  become  old  and  incor- 
rigible. Yet  will  I  turn  to  thee  in  thought, 
O  sylvan  Dee,  in  joy,  in  youth  and  glad- 
ness as  thou  then  wert;  and  thou  shalt 
always  be  to  me  the  river  of  Paradise, 
where  I  will  drink  of  the  waters  of  life 
freely ! 

There  is  hardly  anything  that  shows  [390 
the  shortsightedness  or  capriciousness 
of  the  imagination  more  than  travelling 
does.  With  change  of  place  we  change 
our  ideas;  nay,  our  opinions  and  feelings. 
We  can  by  an  effort  indeed  transport 
ourselves  to  old  and  long-forgotten  scenes, 
and  then  the  picture  of  the  mind  revives 
again;  but  we  forget  those  that  we  have 
just  left.  It  seems  that  we  can  think  but 
of  one  place  at  a  time.  The  canvas  [400 
of  the  fancy  is  but  of  a  certain  extent, 
and  if  we  paint  one  set  of  objects  upon 
it,  they  immediately  efface  every  other. 
We  cannot  enlarge  our  conceptions,  we 
only  shift  our  point  of  view.  The  land- 
scape bares  its  bosom  to  the  enraptured 
eye,  we  take  our  fill  of  it,  and  seem  as 
if  we  could  form  no  other  image  of  beauty 
or  grandeur.  We  pass  on,  and  think  no 
more  of  it:  the  horizon  that  shuts  it  [410 
from  our  sight  also  blots  it  from  our 
memory  like  a  dream.  In  travelling 
through  a  wild  barren  country  I  can  form 
no  idea  of  a  woody  and  cultivated  one. 
It  appears  to  me  that  all  the  world  must 


be  barren,  like  what  I  see  of  it.  In  the 
country  we  forget  the  town,  and  in  town 
we  despise  the  country.  "Beyond  Hyde 
Park,"  says  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  "all  is 
a  desert."  All  that  part  of  the  map  [420 
that  we  do  not  see  before  us  is  blank. 
The  world  in  our  conceit  of  it  is  not  much 
bigger  than  a  nutshell.  It  is  not  one 
prospect  expanded  into  another,  county 
joined  to  county,  kingdom  to  kingdom, 
land  to  seas,  making  an  image  volumi- 
nous and  vast; — the  mind  can  form  no 
larger  idea  of  space  than  the  eye  can  take 
in  at  a  single  glance.  The  rest  is  a  name 
written  in  a  map,  a  calculation  of  [430 
arithmetic.  For  instance,  what  is  the  true 
signification  of  that  immense  mass  of 
territory  and  population  known  by  the 
name  of  China  to  us?  An  inch  of  paste- 
board on  a  wooden  globe,  of  no  more 
account  than  a  China  orange!  Things 
near  us  are  seen  of  the  size  of  life:  things 
at  a  distance  are  diminished  to  the  size 
of  the  understanding.  We  measure  the 
universe  by  ourselves,  and  even  com-  [440 
prehend  the  texture  of  our  own  being  only 
piecemeal.  In  this  way,  however,  we 
remember  an  infinity  of  things  and  places. 
The  mind  is  like  a  mechanical  instrument 
that  plays  a  great  variety  of  tunes,  but 
it  must  play  them  in  succession.  One  idea 
recalls  another,  but  it  at  the  same  time 
excludes  all  others.  In  trying  to  renew 
old  recollections,  we  cannot  as  it  were 
unfold  the  whole  web  of  our  existence;  [450 
we  must  pick  out  the  single  threads.  So 
in  coming  to  a  place  where  we  have 
formerly  lived,  and  with  which  we  have 
intimate  associations,  every  one  must 
have  found  that  the  feeling  grows  more 
vivid  the  nearer  we  approach  the  spot, 
from  the  mere  anticipation  of  the  actual 
impression:  we  remember  circumstances, 
feelings,  persons,  faces,  names  that  we 
had  not  thought  of  for  years;  but  for  [460 
the  time  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is  for- 
gotten ! — To  return  to  the  question  I  have 
quitted  above: — 

I  have  no  objection'  to  go  to  see  ruins, 
aqueducts,  pictures,  in  company  with  a 
friend  or  a  party,  but  rather  the  contrary, 
for  the  former  reason  reversed.  They 
are  intelligible  matters,  and  will  bear 
talking   about.      The   sentiment   here   is 


HAZLITT 


547 


not  tacit,  but  communicable  and  [470 
overt.  Salisbury  Plain  is  barren  of  criti- 
cism, but  Stonehenge  will  bear  a  discus- 
sion antiquarian,  picturesque,  and  philo- 
sophical. In  setting  out  on  a  party  of 
pleasure,  the  first  consideration  always  is 
where  we  shall  go  to:  in  taking  a  solitary 
ramble,  the  question  is  what  we  shall 
meet  with  by  the  way.  "The  mind  is  its 
own  place";  nor  are  we  anxious  to  arrive 
at  the  end  of  our  journey.  I  can  my-  [480 
self  do  the  honors  indifferently  well  to 
works  of  art  and  curiosity.  I  once  took 
a  party  to  Oxford  with  no  mean  eclat — 
showed  them  that  seat  of  the  Muses  at 
a  distance, 

"  With  glistering  spires  and  pinnacles 
adorned," 

descanted  on  the  learned  air  that  breathes 
from  the  grassy  quadrangles  and  stone 
walls  of  halls  and  colleges — was  at  home 
in  the  Bodleian;  and  at  Blenheim  [490 
quite  superseded  the  powdered  Cicerone 
that  attended  us,  and  that  pointed  in 
vain  with  his  wand  to  commonplace 
beauties  in  matchless  pictures.  As  an- 
other exception  to  the  above  reasoning, 
I  should  not  feel  confident  in  venturing 
on  a  journey  in  a  foreign  country  without 
a  companion.  I  should  want  at  intervals 
to  hear  the  sound  of  my  own  language. 
There  is  an  involuntary  antipathy  in  [500 
the  mind  of  an  Englishman  to  foreign 
manners  and  notions  that  requires  the 
assistance  of  social  sympathy  to  carry  it 
off.  As  the  distance  from  home  increases, 
this  relief,  which  was  at  first  a  luxury, 
becomes  a  passion  and  an  appetite.  A 
person  would  almost  feel  stifled  to  find 
himself  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia  without 
friends  and  countrymen:  there  must  be 
allowed  to  be  something  in  the  view  [510 
of  Athens  or  old  Rome  that  claims  the 
utterance  of  speech;  and  I  own  that  the 
Pyramids  are  too  mighty  for  any  single 
contemplation.  In  such  situations,  so 
opposite  to  all  one's  ordinary  train  of 
ideas,  one  seems  a  species  by  one's-self,  a 
limb  torn  off  from  society,  unless  one 
can  meet  with  instant  fellowship  and 
support.  Yet  I  did  not  feel  this  want  or 
craving  very  pressing  once,  when  I  [520 
first  set  my  foot  on  the  laughing  shores 


of  France.  Calais  was  peopled  with 
novelty  and  delight.  The  confused,  busy 
murmur  of  the  place  was  like  oil  and  wine 
poured  into  my  ears;  nor  did  the  mariners' 
hymn,  which  was  sung  from  the  top  of  an 
old  crazy  vessel  in  the  harbor,  as  the  sun 
went  down,  send  an  alien  sound  into 
my  soul.  I  only  breathed  the  air  of 
general  humanity.  I  walked  over  [530 
"the  vine-covered  hills  and  gay  regions  of 
France,"  erect  and  satisfied;  for  the 
image  of  man  was  not  cast  down  and 
chained  to  the  foot  of  arbitrary  thrones. 
I  was  at  no  loss  for  language,  for  that  of 
all  the  great  schools  of  painting  was  open 
to  me.  The  whole  is  vanished  like  a 
shade.  Pictures,  heroes,  glory,  freedom, 
all  are  fled:  nothing  remains  but  the 
Bourbons  and  the  French  people! —  [540 
There  is  undoubtedly  a  sensation  in  travel- 
ling into  foreign  parts  that  is  to  be  had 
nowhere  else ;  but  it  is  more  pleasing  at  the 
time  than  lasting.  It  is  too  remote  from 
our  habitual  associations  to  be  a  common 
topic  of  discourse  or  reference,  and,  like 
a  dream  or  another  state  of  existence, 
does  not  piece  into  our  daily  modes  of  life. 
It  is  an  animated  but  a  momentary  hal- 
lucination. It  demands  an  effort  to  [550 
exchange  our  actual  for  our  ideal  identity ; 
and  to  feel  the  pulse  of  our  old  transports 
revive  very  keenly,  we  must  "jump"  all 
our  present  comforts  and  connections. 
Our  romantic  and  itinerant  character  is 
not  to  be  domesticated.  Dr.  Johnson 
remarked  how  little  foreign  travel  added 
to  the  facilities  of  conversation  in  those 
who  had  been  abroad.  In  fact,  the  time 
we  have  spent  there  is  both  delightful,  [560 
and  in  one  sense  instructive;  but  it  ap- 
pears to  be  cut  out  of  our  substantial, 
downright  existence,  and  never  to  join 
kindly  on  to  it.  We  are  not  the  same,  but 
another,  and  perhaps  more  enviable 
individual,  all  the  time  we  are  out  of  our 
own  country.  We  are  lost  to  ourselves, 
as  well  as  our  friends.  So  the  poet  some- 
what quaintly  sings: 

"  Out  of  my  country  and  myself  I  go."  [570 

Those  who  wish  to  forget  painful  thoughts, 
do  well  to  absent  themselves  for  a  while 
from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recall  them; 
but  we  can  be  said  only  to  fulfil  our  des- 


548 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


tiny  in  the  place  that  gave  us  birth.  I 
should  on  this  account  like  well  enough 
to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  in  travelling 
abroad,  if  I  could  anywhere  borrow 
another  life  to  spend  afterwards  at 
home! 


ON   FAMILIAR   STYLE 

It  is  not  easy  to  write  a  familiar 
style.  Many  people  mistake  a  familiar 
for  a  vulgar  style,  and  suppose  that 
to  write  without  affectation  is  to  write 
at  random.  On  the  contrary,  there 
is  nothing  that  requires  more  precision, 
and,  if  I  may  so  say,  purity  of  ex- 
pression, than  the  style  I  am  speak- 
ing of.  It  utterly  rejects  not  only  all 
unmeaning  pomp,  but  all  low,  cant  [10 
phrases,  and  loose,  unconnected,  slip- 
shod allusions.  It  is  not  to  take 
the  first  word  that  offers,  but  the 
best  word  in  common  use;  it  is  not 
to  throw  words  together  in  any  com- 
binations we  please,  but  to  follow  and 
avail  ourselves  of  the  true  idiom  of  the 
language.  To  write  a  genuine  familiar  or 
truly  English  style  is  to  write  as  any  one 
would  speak  in  common  conversation  [20 
who  had  a  thorough  command  and  choice 
of  words,  or  who  could  discourse  with 
ease,  force,  and  perspicuity,  setting  aside 
all  pedantic  and  oratorical  flourishes. 
Or,  to  give  another  illustration,  to  write 
naturally  is  the  same  thing  in  regard  to 
common  conversation  as  to  read  naturally 
is  in  regard  to  common  speech.  It  does 
not  follow  that  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  give 
the  true  accent  and  inflection  to  the  [30 
words  you  utter,  because  you  do  not 
attempt  to  rise  above  the  level  of  ordinary 
life  and  colloquial  speaking.  You  do  not 
assume,  indeed,  the  solemnity  of  the 
pulpit,  or  the  tone  of  stage-declamation; 
neither  are  you  at  liberty  to  gabble  on  at 
a  venture,  without  emphasis  or  discre- 
tion, or  to  resort  to  vulgar  dialect  or 
clownish  pronunciation.  You  must  steer 
a  middle  course.  You  are  tied  down  [40 
to  a  given  and  appropriate  articulation, 
which  is  determined  by  the  habitual  as- 
sociations between  sense  and  sound,  and 
which  you  can  only  hit  by  entering  into 


the  author's  meaning,  as  you  must  find 
the  proper  words  and  style  to  express 
yourself  by  fixing  your  thoughts  on  the 
subject  you  have  to  write  about.  Any 
one  may  mouth  out  a  passage  with  a 
theatrical  cadence,  or  get  upon  stilts  [50 
to  tell  his  thoughts;  but  to  write  or  speak 
with  propriety  and  simplicity  is  a  more 
difficult  task.  Thus  it  is  easy  to  affect  a 
pompous  style,  to  use  a  word  twice  as 
big  as  the  thing  you  want  to  express:  it 
is  not  so  easy  to  pitch  upon  the  very  word 
that  exactly  fits  it.  Out  of  eight  or  ten 
words  equally  common,  equally  intelli- 
gible, with  nearly  equal  pretensions,  it 
is  a  matter  of  some  nicety  and  dis-  [60 
crimination  to  pick  out  the  very  one  the 
preferableness  of  which  is  scarcely  per- 
ceptible, but  decisive.  The  reason  why 
I  object  to  Dr.  Johnson's  style  is  that 
there  is  no  discrimination,  no  selection, 
no  variety  in  it.  He  uses  none  but  "tall, 
opaque  words,"  taken  from  the  "first 
row  of  the  rubric;" — words  with  the 
greatest  number  of  syllables,  or  Latin 
phrases  with  merely  English  termina-  [70 
tions.  If  a  fine  style  depended  on  this 
sort  of  arbitrary  pretension,  it  would  be 
fair  to  judge  of  an  author's  elegance  by 
the  measurement  of  his  words,  and  the 
substitution  of  foreign  circumlocutions 
(with  no  precise  associations)  for  the 
mother- tongue.1  How  simple  it  is  to  be 
dignified  without  ease,  to  be  pompous 
without  meaning!  Surely,  it  is  but 
a  mechanical  rule  for  avoiding  what  [80 
is  low,  to  be  always  pedantic  and 
affected.  It  is  clear  you  cannot  use 
a  vulgar  English  word  if  you  never 
use  a  common  English  word  at  all.  A 
fine  tact  is  shown  in  adhering  to  those 
which  are  perfectly  common,  and  yet 
never  falling  into  any  expressions  which 
are  debased  by  disgusting  circumstances, 
or  which  owe  their  signification  and 
point  to  technical  or  professional  [90 
allusions.  A  truly  natural  or  familiar 
style  can  never  be  quaint  or  vulgar,  for 
this  reason,  that  it  is  of  universal  force 
and    applicability,    and    that    quaintness 

1 1  have  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  an  author  who  makes  it 
a  rule  never  to  admit  a  monosyllable  into  his  vapid  verse. 
Yet  the  charm  and  sweetness  of  Marlowe's  lines  depended 
often  on  their  being  made  up  almost  entirely  of  monosvllables. 

[Hazlitt.! 


HAZLITT 


549 


and  vulgarity  arise  out  of  the  immediate 
connection  of  certain  words  with  coarse 
and  disagreeable  or  with  confined  ideas. 
The  last  form  what  we  understand  by 
cant  or  slang  phrases. — To  give  an  exam- 
ple of  what  is  not  very  clear  in  the  [ioo 
general  statement.  I  should  say  that 
the  phrase  To  cut  with  a  knife,  or  To  cut 
a  piece  of  wood,  is  perfectly  free  from 
vulgarity,  because  it  is  perfectly  com- 
mon; but  To  cut  an  acquaintance  is  not 
quite  unexceptionable,  because  it  is  not 
perfectly  common  or  intelligible,  and 
has  hardly  yet  escaped  out  of  the  limits 
of  slang  phraseology.  I  should  hardly, 
therefore,  use  the  word  in  this  [no 
sense  without  putting  it  in  italics  as  a 
license  of  expression,  to  be  received  cum 
grano  salis.  All  provincial  or  bye-phrases 
come  under  the  same  mark  of  reproba- 
tion— all  such  as  the  writer  transfers  to 
the  page  from  his  fireside  or  a  particular 
coterie,  or  that  he  invents  for  his  own 
sole  use  and  convenience.  I  conceive  that 
words  are  like  money,  not  the  worse  for 
being  common,  but  that  it  is  the  stamp  [120 
of  custom  alone  that  gives  them  circula- 
tion or  value.  I  am  fastidious  in  this 
respect,  and  would  almost  as  soon  coin 
the  currency  of  the  realm  as  counterfeit 
the  King's  English.  I  never  invented  or 
gave  a  new  and  unauthorised  meaning 
to  any  word  but  one  single  one  (the 
term  impersonal  applied  to  feelings),  and 
that  was  in  an  abstruse  metaphysical  dis- 
cussion to  express  a  very  difficult  dis-  [130 
tinction.  I  have  been  (I  know)  loudly  ac- 
cused of  revelling  in  vulgarisms  and  broken 
English.  I  cannot  speak  to  that  point;  but 
so  far  I  plead  guilty  to  the  determined 
use  of  acknowledged  idioms  and  common 
elliptical  expressions.  I  am  not  sure  that 
the  critics  in  question  know  the  one  from 
the  other,  that  is,  can  distinguish  any 
medium  between  formal  pedantry  and 
the  most  barbarous  solecism.  As  an  [140 
author  I  endeavor  to  employ  plain  words 
and  popular  modes  of  construction,  as, 
were  I  a  chapman  and  dealer,  I  should 
common  weights  and  measures. 

The  proper  force  of  words  lies  not  in  the 
words  themselves,  but  in  their  applica- 
tion. A  word  may  be  a  fine-sounding 
word,  of  an  unusual  length,  and  very  im- 


posing from  its  learning  and  novelty,  and 
yet  in  the  connection  in  which  it  is  [150 
introduced  may  be  quite  pointless  and 
irrelevant.  It  is  not  pomp  or  pretension, 
but  the  adaptation  of  the  expression  to 
the  idea,  that  clenches  a  writer's  mean- 
ing:— as  it  is  not  the  size  or  glossiness  of 
the  materials,  but  their  being  fitted  each 
to  its  place,  that  gives  strength  to  the 
arch ;  or  as  the  pegs  and  nails  are  as  neces- 
sary to  the  support  of  the  building  as 
the  larger  timbers,  and  more  so  than  [160 
the  mere  showy,  unsubstantial  ornaments. 
I  hate  anything  that  occupies  more  space 
than  it  is  worth.  I  hate  to  see  a  load  of 
bandboxes  go  along  the  street,  and  I  hate 
to  see  a  parcel  of  big  words  without  any- 
thing in  them.  A  person  who  does  not 
deliberately  dispose  of  all  his  thoughts 
alike  in  cumbrous  draperies  and  flimsy  dis- 
guises may  strike  out  twenty  varieties 
of  familiar  everyday  language,  each  [170 
coming  somewhat  nearer  to  the  feeling  he 
wants  to  convey,  and  at  last  not  hit  upon 
that  particular  and  only  one  which  may 
be  said  to  be  identical  with  the  exact 
impression  in  his  mind.  This  would  seem 
to  show  that  Mr.  Cobbett  is  hardly  right 
in  saying  that  the  first  word  that  occurs 
is  always  the  best.  It  may  be  a  very 
good  one;  and  yet  a  better  may  present  it- 
self on  reflection  or  from  time  to  time.  [180 
It  should  be  suggested  naturally,  however, 
and  spontaneously,  from  a  fresh  and  lively 
conception  of  the  subject.  We  seldom 
succeed  by  trying  at  improvement,  or  by 
merely  substituting  one  word  for  another 
that  we  are  not  satisfied  with,  as  we  can- 
not recollect  the  name  of  a  place  or  person 
by  merely  plaguing  ourselves  about  it. 
We  wander  farther  from  the  point  by 
persisting  in  a  wrong  scent;  but  it  [190 
starts  up  accidentally  in  the  memory 
when  we  least  expected  it,  by  touching 
some  link  in  the  chain  of  previous  asso- 
ciation. 

There  are  those  who  hoard  up  and  make 
a  cautious  display  of  nothing  but  rich  and 
rare  phraseology; — ancient  medals,  ob- 
scure coins,  and  Spanish  pieces  of  eight. 
They  are  very  curious  to  inspect;  but  I 
myself  would  neither  offer  nor  take  [200 
them  in  the  course  of  exchange.  A 
sprinkling  of  archaisms  is  not  amiss;  but 


55° 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


a  tissue  of  obsolete  expressions  is  more 
fit  for  keep  than  wear.  I  do  not  say  I  would 
not  use  any  phrase  that  had  been  brought 
into  fashion  before  the  middle  or  the  end 
of  the  last  century ;  but  I  should  be  shy  of 
using  any  that  had  not  been  employed  by 
any  approved  author  during  the  whole  of 
that  time.  Words,  like  clothes,  get  [210 
old-fashioned,  or  mean  and  ridiculous, 
when  they  have  been  for  some  time  laid 
aside.  Mr.  Lamb  is  the  only  imitator  of 
old  English  style  I  can  read  with  pleasure; 
and  he  is  so  thoroughly  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  his  authors  that  the  idea  of  imi- 
tation is  almost  done  away.  There  is  an 
inward  unction,  a  marrowy  vein  both  in 
the  thought  and  feeling,  an  intuition,  deep 
and  lively,  of  his  subject,  that  carries  [220 
off  any  quaintness  or  awkwardness  arising 
from  an  antiquated  style  and  dress.  The 
matter  is  completely  his  own,  though  the 
manner  is  assumed.  Perhaps  his  ideas  are 
altogether  so  marked  and  individual  as 
to  require  their  point  and  pungency  to  be 
neutralised  by  the  affectation  of  a  sin- 
gular but  traditional  form  of  conveyance. 
Tricked  out  in  the  prevailing  costume, 
they  would  probably  seem  more  [230 
startling  and  out  of  the  way.  The  old 
English  authors,  Burton,  Fuller,  Coryate, 
Sir  Thomas  Browne,  are  a  kind  of  media- 
tors between  us  and  the  more  eccentric 
and  whimsical  modern,  reconciling  us  to 
his  peculiarities.  I  do  not,  however,  know 
how  far  this  is  the  case  or  not,  till  he  con- 
descends to  write  like  one  of  us.  I  must 
confess  that  what  I  like  best  of  his  papers 
under  the  signature  of  Elia  (still  I  [240 
do  not  presume,  amidst  such  excellence, 
to  decide  what  is  most  excellent)  is  the 
account  of  "Mrs.  Battle's  Opinions  on 
Whist,"  which  is  also  the  most  free  from 
obsolete  allusions  and  turns  of  expres- 
sion— 

"A  well  of  native  English  undefiled." 

To  those  acquainted  with  his  admired  pro- 
totypes, these  Essays  of  the  ingenious  and 
highly  gifted  author  have  the  same  [250 
sort  of  charm  and  relish  that  Erasmus's 
Colloquies  or  a  fine  piece  of  modern  Latin 
have  to  the  classical  scholar.  Certainly, 
I  do  not  know  any  borrowed  pencil  that 
has  more  power  or  felicity  of  execution 


than  the  one  of  which  I  have  here  been 
speaking. 

It  is  as  easy  to  write  a  gaudy  style 
without  ideas  as  it  is  to  spread  a  pallet  of 
showy  colors  or  to  smear  in  a  flaunt-  [260 
ing  transparency.  "What  do  you  read?" 
"Words,  words,  words." — "What  is  the 
matter?"  "Nothing"  it  might  be  an- 
swered. The  florid  style  is  the  reverse  of 
the  familiar.  The  last  is  employed  as 
an  unvarnished  medium  to  convey  ideas; 
the  first  is  resorted  to  as  a  spangled  veil 
to  conceal  the  want  of  them.  When  there 
is  nothing  to  be  set  down  but  words,  it 
costs  little  to  have  them  fine.  Look  [270 
through  the  dictionary,  and  cull  out  a 
florilegium,  rival  the  tulip  pomania.  Rouge 
high  enough,  and  never  mind  the  natural 
complexion.  The  vulgar,  who  are  not 
in  the  secret,  will  admire  the  look  of  pre- 
ternatural health  and  vigor;  and  the  fash- 
ionable, who  regard  only  appearances, 
will  be  delighted  with  the  imposition. 
Keep  to  your  sounding  generalities,  your 
tinkling  phrases,  and  all  will  be  well.  [280 
Swell  out  an  unmeaning  truism  to  a 
perfect  tympany  of  style.  A  thought,  a 
distinction,  is  the  rock  on  which  all  this 
brittle  cargo  of  verbiage  splits  at  once. 
Such  writers  have  merely  verbal  imagina- 
tions, that  retain  nothing  but  words. 
Or  their  puny  thoughts  have  dragon-wings 
all  green  and  gold.  They  soar  far  above 
the  vulgar  failing  of  the  sermo  humi 
obrepens — their  most  ordinary  speech  [290 
is  never  short  of  an  hyperbole,  splendid, 
imposing,  vague,  incomprehensible,  mag- 
niloquent, a  cento  of  sounding  common- 
places. If  some  of  us,  whose  "ambition 
is  more  lowly,"  pry  a  little  too  narrowly 
into  nooks  and  corners  to  pick  up  a  num- 
ber of  "unconsidered  trifles,"  they  never 
once  direct  their  eyes  or  lift  their  hands 
to  seize  on  any  but  the  most  gorgeous, 
tarnished,  threadbare,  patchwork  set  [300 
of  phrases,  the  left-off  finery  of  poetic 
extravagance,  transmitted  down  through 
successive  generations  of  barren  pre- 
tenders. If  they  criticise  actors  and  ac- 
tresses, a  huddled  phantasmagoria  of 
feathers,  spangles,  floods  of  light,  and 
oceans  of  sound  float  before  their  morbid 
sense,  which  they  paint  in  the  style  of 
Ancient  Pistol.    Not  a  glimpse  can  you 


HAZLITT 


55i 


get  of  the  merits  or  defects  of  the  per-  [310 
formers:  they  are  hidden  in  a  profusion 
of  barbarous  epithets  and  wilful  rhodo- 
montade.  Our  hypercritics  are  not  think- 
ing of  these  little  fantoccini  beings — 

"That  strut  and  fret  their  hour  upon 
the  stage" — 

but  of  tall  phantoms  of  words,  abstrac- 
tions, genera  and  species,  sweeping  clauses, 
periods  that  unite  the  Poles,  forced  al- 
literations, astounding  antitheses —      [319 

"  And  on  their  pens  Fustian  sits  plumed." 

If  they  describe  kings  and  queens,  it  is 
an  Eastern  pageant.  The  Coronation  at 
either  House  is  nothing  to  it.  We  get  at 
four  repeated  images — a  curtain,  a  throne, 
a  sceptre,  and  a  foot-stool.  These  are 
with  them  the  wardrobe  of  a  lofty  imagina- 
tion; and  they  turn  their  servile  strains 
to  servile  uses.  Do  we  read  a  description 
of  pictures?  It  is  not  a  reflection  of  tones 
and  hues  which  "nature's  own  sweet  [330 
and  cunning  hand  laid  on,"  but  piles  of 
precious  stones,  rubies,  pearls,  emeralds, 
Golconda's  mines,  and  all  the  blazonry 
of  art.  Such  persons  are  in  fact  besotted 
with  words,  and  their  brains  are  turned 
with  the  glittering  but  empty  and  sterile 
phantoms  of  things.  Personifications, 
capital  letters,  seas  of  sunbeams,  visions 
of  glory,  shining  inscriptions,  the  figures 
of  a  transparency,  Britannia  with  her  [340 
shield,  or  Hope  leaning  on  an  anchor, 
make  up  their  stock  in  trade.  They  may 
be  considered  as  hieroglyphical  writers. 
Images  stand  out  in  their  minds  isolated 
and  important  merely  in  themselves, 
without  any  groundwork  of  feeling — there 
is  no  context  in  their  imaginations.  Words 
affect  them  in  the  same  way,  by  the  mere 
sound,  that  is,  by  their  possible,  not  by 
their  actual  application  to  the  subject  [350 
in  hand.  They  are  fascinated  by  first 
appearances,  and  have  no  sense  of  con- 
sequences. Nothing  more  is  meant  by 
them  than  meets  the  ear:  they  under- 
stand or  feel  nothing  more  than  meets 
their  eye.  The  web  and  texture  of  the 
universe,  and  of  the  heart  of  man,  is 
a  mystery  to  them:  they  have  no  faculty 
that  strikes  a  chord  in  unison  with  it. 
They  cannot  get  beyond  the  daubings  [360 


of  fancy,  the  varnish  of  sentiment.  Objects 
are  not  linked  to  feelings,  words  to  things, 
but  images  revolve  in  splendid  mockery, 
words  represent  themselves  in  their 
strange  rhapsodies.  The  categories  of 
such  a  mind  are  pride  and  ignorance — 
pride  in  outside  show,  to  which  they  sacri- 
fice everything,  and  ignorance  of  the  true 
worth  and  hidden  structure  both  of  words 
and  things.  With  a  sovereign  con-  [370 
tempt  for  what  is  familiar  and  natural, 
they  are  the  slaves  of  vulgar  affectation — 
of  a  routine  of  high-flown  phrases.  Scorn- 
ing to  imitate  realities,  they  are  unable 
to  invent  anything,  to  strike  out  one 
original  idea.  They  are  not  copyists  of 
nature,  it  is  true;  but  they  are  the  poorest 
of  all  plagiarists,  the  plagiarists  of  words. 
All  is  far-fetched,  dear-bought,  artificial, 
oriental  in  subject  and  allusion;  [380 
all  is  mechanical,  conventional,  vapid, 
formal,  pedantic  in  style  and  execution. 
They  startle  and  confound  the  under- 
standing of  the  reader  by  the  remoteness 
and  obscurity  of  their  illustrations;  they 
soothe  the  ear  by  the  monotony  of  the 
same  everlasting  round  of  circuitous 
metaphors.  They  are  the  mock-school  in 
poetry  and  prose.  They  flounder  about  be- 
tween fustian  in  expression  and  bathos  [390 
in  sentiment.  They  tantalise  the  fancy, 
but  never  reach  the  head  nor  touch  the 
heart.  Their  Temple  of  Fame  is  like  a 
shadowy  structure  raised  by  Dulness  to 
Vanity,  or  like  Cowper's  description  of 
the  Empress  of  Russia's  palace  of  ice, 
"as  worthless  as  in  show  'twas  glitter- 
ing"— 

"It  smiled,  and  it  was  cold!" 


THOMAS    DE     QUINCEY    (1785-1859) 

From   CONFESSIONS   OF    AN    ENG- 
LISH  OPIUM-EATER 

I  have  often  been  asked  how  I  came  to 
be  a  regular  opium  eater;  and  have  suf- 
fered, very  unjustly,  in  the  opinion  of 
my  acquaintance,  from  being  reputed  to 
have  brought  upon  myself  all  the  suffer- 
ings which  I  shall  have  to  record,  by  a 
long  course  of  indulgence  in  this  practice 
purely  for  the  sake  of  creating  an  artificial 


552 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


state  of  pleasurable  excitement.  This, 
however,  is  a  misrepresentation  of  [10 
my  case.  True  it  is,  that  for  nearly  ten 
years  I  did  occasionally  take  opium  for 
the  sake  of  the  exquisite  pleasure  it  gave 
me:  but,  so  long  as  I  took  it  with  this 
view,  I  was  effectually  protected  from 
all  material  bad  consequences,  by  the 
necessity  of  interposing  long  intervals 
between  the  several  acts  of  indulgence, 
in  order  to  renew  the  pleasurable  sensa- 
tions. It  was  not  for  the  purpose  of  [20 
creating  pleasure,  but  of  mitigating  pain 
in  the  severest  degree,  that  I  first  began 
to  use  opium  as  an  article  of  daily  diet. 
In  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  my  age, 
a  most  painful  affection  of  the  stomach, 
which  I  had  first  experienced  about  ten 
years  before,  attacked  me  in  great  strength. 
This  affection  had  originally  been  caused 
by  extremities  of  hunger,  suffered  in  my 
boyish  days.  During  the  season  of  [30 
hope  and  redundant  happiness  which 
succeeded  (that  is,  from  eighteen  to 
twenty-four)  it  had  slumbered;  for  the 
three  following  years  it  had  revived  at 
intervals;  and  now,  under  unfavorable 
circumstances,  from  depression  of  spirits, 
it  attacked  me  with  a  violence  that  yielded 
to  no  remedies  but  opium.  As  the  youth- 
ful sufferings,  which  first  produced  this 
derangement  of  the  stomach,  were  in-  [40 
teresting  in  themselves,  and  in  the  cir- 
cumstances that  attended  them,  I  shall 
here  briefly  retrace  them. 

My  father  died  when  I  was  about  seven 
years  old,  and  left  me  to  the  care  of  four 
guardians.  I  was  sent  to  various  schools, 
great  and  small;  and  was  very  early  dis- 
tinguished for  my  classical  attainments, 
especially  for  my  knowledge  of  Greek. 
At  thirteen  I  wrote  Greek  with  ease;  [50 
and  at  fifteen  my  command  of  that  lan- 
guage was  so  great,  that  I  not  only  com- 
posed Greek  verses  in  lyric  meters,  but 
could  converse  in  Greek  fluently  and 
without  embarrassment — an  accomplish- 
ment which  I  have  not  since  met  with  in 
any  scholar  of  my  times,  and  which,  in 
my  case,  was  owing  to  the  practice  of 
daily  reading  off  the  newspapers  into  the 
best  Greek  I  could  furnish  extempore;  [60 
for  the  necessity  of  ransacking  my  memory 
and  invention,  for  all  sorts  and  combina- 


tions of  periphrastic  expressions,  as  equiva- 
lents for  modern  ideas,  images,  relations 
of  things,  etc.,  gave  me  a  compass  of  dic- 
tion which  would  never  have  been  called 
out  by  a  dull  translation  of  moral  essays, 
etc.  "That  boy,"  said  one  of  my  masters, 
pointing  the  attention  of  a  stranger 
to  me,  "that  boy  could  harangue  [70 
an  Athenian  mob,  better  than  you  and 
I  could  address  an  English  one."  He 
who  honored  me  with  this  eulogy  was  a 
scholar,  "and  a  ripe  and  good  one;"  and 
of  all  my  tutors,  was  the  only  one  whom 
I  loved  or  reverenced.  Unfortunately 
for  me  (and,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  to 
this  worthy  man's  great  indignation)  I  was 
transferred  to  the  care,  first  of  a  block- 
head, who  was  in  a  perpetual  panic  [80 
lest  I  should  expose  his  ignorance;  and 
finally,  to  that  of  a  respectable  scholar, 
at  the  head  of  a  great  school  on  an  ancient 
foundation.    This  man  had  been  appointed 

to  his  situation  by College,  Oxford; 

and  was  a  sound,  well-built  scholar,  but 
like  most  men  whom  I  have  known 
from  that  college,  coarse,  clumsy,  and 
inelegant.  A  miserable  contrast  he  pre- 
sented, in  my  eyes,  to  the  Etonian  bril-  [90 
liancy  of  my  favorite  master;  and  be- 
sides, he  could  not  disguise  from  my 
hourly  notice,  the  poverty  and  meager- 
ness  of  his  understanding.  It  is  a  bad 
thing  for  a  boy  to  be,  and  to  know  himself, 
far  beyond  his  tutors,  whether  in  knowl- 
edge or  in  power  of  mind.  This  was  the 
case,  so  far  as  regarded  knowledge  at  least, 
not  with  myself  only;  for  the  two  boys 
who  jointly  with  myself  composed  [100 
the  first  form  were  better  Grecians  than 
the  head-master,  though  not  more  ele- 
gant scholars,  nor  at  all  more  accustomed 
to  sacrifice  to  the  graces.  When  I  first 
entered,  I  remember  that  we  read  Soph- 
ocles; and  it  was  a  constant  matter  of 
triumph  to  us,  the  learned  triumvirate 
of  the  first  form,  to  see  our  "Archididas- 
calus,"  as  he  loved  to  be  called,  conning 
our  lessons  before  we  went  up,  and  [no 
laying  a  regular  train,  with  lexicon  and 
grammar,  for  blowing  up  and  blasting,  as 
it  were,  any  difficulties  he  found  in  the 
choruses;  whilst  we  never  condescended 
to  open  our  books  until  the  moment  of 
going   up,  and  were  generally  employed 


DE  QUINCEY 


553 


in  writing  epigrams  upon  his  wig,  or  some 
such  important  matter.  My  two  class- 
fellows  were  poor,  and  dependent  for 
their  future  prospects  at  the  univer-  [120 
sity  on  the  recommendation  of  the  head- 
master; but  I,  who  had  a  small  patri- 
monial property,  the  income  of  which 
was  sufficient  to  support  me  at  college, 
wished  to  be  sent  thither  immediately. 
I  made  earnest  representations  on  the 
subject  to  my  guardians,  but  all  to  no 
purpose.  One,  who  was  more  reasonable, 
and  had  more  knowledge  of  the  world 
than  the  rest,  lived  at  a  distance;  two  [130 
of  the  other  three  resigned  all  their  au- 
thority into  the  hands  of  the  fourth; 
and  this  fourth  with  whom  I  had  to  ne- 
gotiate, was  a  worthy  man,  in  his  way, 
but  haughty,  obstinate,  and  intolerant 
of  all  opposition  to  his  will.  After  a 
certain  number  of  letters  and  personal 
interviews,  I  found  that  I  had  nothing  to 
hope  for,  not  even  a  compromise  of  the 
matter,  from  my  guardian;  uncondi-  [140 
tional  submission  was  what  he  demanded ; 
and  I  prepared  myself,  therefore,  for  other 
measures.  Summer  was  now  coming 
on  with  hasty  steps,  and  my  seventeenth 
birthday  was  fast  approaching;  after 
which  day  I  had  swrorn  within  myself  that 
I  would  no  longer  be  numbered  amongst 
school-boys.  Money  being  what  I  chiefly 
wanted,  I  wrote  to  a  woman  of  high  rank, 
who,  though  young  herself,  had  known  [150 
me  from  a  child,  and  had  latterly  treated 
me  with  great  distinction,  requesting 
that  she  would  "lend"  me  five  guineas. 
For  upwards  of  a  week  no  answer 
came;  and  I  was  beginning  to  despond, 
when,  at  length,  a  servant  put  into  my 
hands  a  double  letter,  with  a  coronet  on 
the  seal.  The  letter  was  kind  and  oblig- 
ing: the  fair  writer  was  on  the  sea-coast, 
and  in  that  way  the  delay  had  arisen;  [160 
she  enclosed  double  of  wThat  I  had  asked, 
and  good-naturedly  hinted  that  if  I 
should  never  repay  her,  it  would  not 
absolutely  ruin  her.  Now  then,  I  was 
prepared  for  my  scheme;  ten  guineas, 
added  to  about  two  which  I  had  remain- 
ing from  my  pocket  money,  seemed  to 
me  sufficient  for  an  indefinite  length  of 
time;  and  at  that  happy  age,  if  no  def- 
inite boundary  can  be  assigned  to    [170 


one's  power,  the  spirit  of  hope  and  pleas- 
ure makes  it  virtually  infinite. 

It  is  a  just  remark  of  Dr.  Johnson's, 
and,  what  cannot  often  be  said  of  his  re- 
marks, it  is  a  very  feeling  one,  that  we 
never  do  anything  consciously  for  the 
last  time— of  things,  that  is,  which  we 
have  long  been  in  the  habit  of  doing — 
without  sadness  of  heart.     This  truth  I 

felt  deeply,  when  I  came  to  leave ,  [180 

a  place  which  I  did  not  love,  and  where 
I  had  not  been  happy.     On  the  evening 

before  I  left forever,  I  grieved  when 

the  ancient  and  lofty  school-room  re- 
sounded with  the  evening  service,  per- 
formed for  the  last  time  in  my  hearing, 
and  at  night,  when  the  muster-roll  of 
names  was  called  over,  and  mine,  as 
usual,  was  called  first,  I  stepped  forward, 
and,  passing  the  head-master,  who  [190 
was  standing  by,  I  bowed  to  him,  and 
looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  thinking  to 
myself,  "He  is  old  and  infirm,  and  in 
this  world  I  shall  not  see  him  again."  I 
was  right:  I  never  did  see  him  again,  nor 
ever  shall.  He  looked  at  me  compla- 
cently, smiled  good-naturedly,  returned 
my  salutation,  or  rather,  my  valediction, 
and  we  parted,  though  he  knew  it  not, 
forever.  I  could  not  reverence  him  [200 
intellectually;  but  he  had  been  uniformly 
kind  to  me,  and  had  allowed  me  many 
indulgences;  and  I  grieved  at  the  thought 
of  the  mortification  I  should  inflict  upon 
him. 

The  morning  came  which  was  to  launch 
me  into  the  world,  and  from  which  my 
whole  succeeding  life  has,  in  many  im- 
portant points,  taken  its  coloring.  I 
lodged  in  the  head-master's  house,  and  [210 
had  been  allowed,  from  my  first  entrance, 
the  indulgence  of  a  private  room,  which 
I  used  both  as  a  sleeping  room  and  a 
study.  At  half  after  three  I  rose,  and 
gazed  with  deep  emotion  at  the  ancient 

towers  of ,  "dressed  in  earliest  light," 

and  beginning  to  crimson  with  the  radiant 
luster  of  a  cloudless  July  morning.  I 
was  firm  and  immovable  in  my  purpose; 
but  yet  agitated  by  anticipation  of  [220 
uncertain  danger  and  troubles;  and,  if  I 
could  have  foreseen  the  hurricane  and 
perfect  hail-storm  of  affliction  which 
soon   fell   upon   me,   well   might   I  have 


554 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


been  agitated.  To  this  agitation  the  deep 
peace  of  the  morning  presented  an  af- 
fecting contrast,  and  in  some  degree  a 
medicine.  The  silence  was  more  pro- 
found than  that  of  midnight;  and  to  me 
the  silence  of  a  summer  morning  is  [230 
more  touching  than  all  other  silence, 
because,  the  light  being  broad  and  strong, 
as  that  of  noon-day  at  other  seasons  of 
the  year,  it  seems  to  differ  from  perfect 
day  chiefly  because  man  is  not  yet  abroad; 
and  thus,  the  peace  of  nature,  and  of  the 
innocent  creatures  of  God,  seems  to  be 
secure  and  deep  only  so  long  as  the  I 
presence  of  man,  and  his  restless  and  j 
unquiet  spirit,  are  not  there  to  trouble  [240 
its  sanctity.  I  dressed  myself,  took  my 
hat  and  gloves,  and  lingered  a  little  in 
the  room.  For  the  last  year  and  a  half 
this  room  had  been  my  "pensive  citadel;" 
here  I  had  read  and  studied  through  all 
the  hours  of  night;  and  though  true  it 
was  that  for  the  latter  part  of  this  time 
I,  who  was  framed  for  love  and  gentle 
affections,  had  lost  my  gaiety  and  hap- 
piness, during  the  strife  and  fever  of  [250 
contention  with  my  guardian;  yet,  on 
the  other  hand,  as  a  boy  so  passionately 
fond  of  books,  and  dedicated  to  intel- 
lectual pursuits,  I  could  not  fail  to  have 
enjoyed  many  happy  hours  in  the  midst 
of  general  dejection.  I  wept  as  I  looked 
round  on  the  chair,  hearth,  writing-table, 
and  other  familiar  objects,  knowing  too 
certainly  that  I  looked  upon  them  for 
the  last  time.  Whilst  I  write  this,  it  [260 
is  eighteen  years  ago;  and  yet,  at  this 
moment,  I  see  distinctly,  as  if  it  were 
yesterday,  the  lineaments  and  expression 
of  the  object  on  which  I  fixed  my  parting 

gaze;  it  was  a  picture  of  the  lovely , 

which  hung  over  the  mantelpiece;  the 
eyes  and  mouth  of  which  were  so  beauti- 
ful, and  the  whole  countenance  so  radiant 
with  benignity  and  divine  tranquillity, 
that  I  had  a  thousand  times  laid  down  [270 
my  pen,  or  my  book,  to  gather  consola- 
tion from  it,  as  a  devotee  from  his  patron 
saint.     Whilst  I  was  yet  gazing  upon  it, 

the  deep  tones  of  clock  proclaimed 

that  it  was  four  o'clock.  I  went  up  to 
the  picture,  kissed  it,  and  then  gently 
walked  out,  and  closed  the  door  for  ever! 


If  any  man,  poor  or  rich,  were  to  say 
that  he  would  tell  us  what  had  been  the 
happiest  day  in  his  life,  and  the  why  [280 
and  the  wherefore,  I  suppose  that  we 
should  all  cry  out — Hear  him!  hear  him! 
As  to  the  happiest  day,  that  must  be  very 
difficult  for  any  wise  man  to  name;  be- 
cause any  event  that  could  occupy  so 
distinguished  a  place  in  a  man's  ret- 
rospect of  his  life,  or  be  entitled  to  have 
shed  a  special  felicity  on  any  one  day, 
ought  to  be  of  such  an  enduring  character 
as  that,  accidents  apart,  it  should  [29c 
have  continued  to  shed  the  same  felicity, 
or  one  not  distinguishably  less,  on  many 
years  together.  To  the  happiest  lustrum, 
however,  or  even  to  the  happiest  year,  it 
may  be  allowed  to  any  man  to  point 
without  discountenance  from  wisdom. 
This  year,  in  my  case,  reader,  was  the 
one  which  we  have  now  reached;  though 
it  stood,  I  confess,  as  a  parenthesis  be- 
tween years  of  a  gloomier  character.  [300 
It  was  a  year  of  brilliant  water,  to  speak 
after  the  manner  of  jewelers,  set  as  it 
were,  and  insulated,  in  the  gloom  and 
cloudy  melancholy  of  opium.  Strange 
as  it  may  sound,  I  had  a  little  before  this 
time  descended  suddenly,  and  without 
any  considerable  effort,  from  320  grains 
of  opium  (7.  e.,  eight l  thousand  drops  of 
laudanum)  per  day  to  forty  grains,  or 
one-eighth  part.  Instantaneously,  [310 
and  as  if  by  magic,  the  cloud  of  profound- 
est  melancholy  which  rested  upon  my 
brain,  like  some  black  vapors  that  I  have 
seen  roll  away  from  the  summits  of  moun- 
tains, drew  off  in  one  day  (vvxOrjficpov) , 
passed  off  with  its  murky  banners  as 
simultaneously  as  a  ship  that  has  been 
stranded,  and  is  floated  off  by  a  spring 
tide— 

"That  moveth  altogether,  if  it  move  at 
all."  [320 

Now,  then,  I  was  again  happy;  I  now 
took  only  1,000  drops  of  laudanum  per 

1 1  here  reckon  twenty-five  drops  of  laudanum  as  equiva- 
lent to  one  grain  of  opium,  which,  I  believe,  is  the  common 
estimate.  However,  as  both  may  be  considered  variable 
quantities  (the  crude  opium  varying  much  in  strength,  and 
the  tincture  still  more),  I  suppose  that  no  infinitesimal  ac- 
curacy can  be  had  in  such  a  calculation.  Teaspoons  vary  as 
much  in  size  as  opium  in  strength.  Small  ones  hold  about 
100  drops;  so  that  8,000  drops  are  about  eighty  times  a  tea- 
spoonful.  The  reader  sees  how  much  I  kept  within  Dr. 
Buchan's  indulgent  allowance.   [De  Quincey.) 


DE  QUINCEY 


555 


day;  and  what  was  that?  A  latter  spring 
had  come- to  close  up  the  season  of  youth; 
my  brain  performed  its  functions  as 
healthily  as  ever  before;  I  read  Kant 
again,  and  again  I  understood  him,  or 
fancied  that  I  did.  Again  my  feelings  of 
pleasure  expanded  themselves  to  all 
around  me;  and  if  any  man  from  Ox-  [330 
ford  or  Cambridge,  or  from  neither,  had 
been  announced  to  me  in  my  unpretend- 
ing cottage,  I  should  have  welcomed  him 
with  as  sumptuous  a  reception  as  so  poor 
a  man  could  offer.  Whatever  else  was 
wanting  to  a  wise  man's  happiness, — of 
laudanum  I  would  have  given  him  as 
much  as  he  wished,  and  in  a  golden  cup. 
And,  by  the  way,  now  that  I  speak  of 
giving  laudanum  away,  I  remember,  [340 
about  this  time,  a  little  incident,  which 
I  mention,  because,  trifling  as  it  was, 
the  reader  will  soon  meet  it  again  in  my 
dreams,  which  it  influenced  more  fear- 
fully than  could  be  imagined.  One  day 
a  Malay  knocked  at  my  door.  What 
business  a  Malay  could  have  to  transact 
amongst  English  mountains,  I  cannot 
conjecture;  but  possibly  he  was  on  his 
road  to  a  seaport  about  forty  miles  [350 
distant. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  to 
him  was  a  young  girl  born  and  bred 
amongst  the  mountains,  who  had  never 
seen  an  Asiatic  dress  of  any  sort;  his  tur- 
ban, therefore,  confounded  her  not  a 
little;  and,  as  it  turned  out,  that  his  at- 
tainments in  English  were  exactly  of  the 
same  extent  as  hers  in  the  Malay,  there 
seemed  to  be  an  impassable  gulf  fixed  [360 
between  all  communication  of  ideas,  if 
either  party  had  happened  to  possess 
any.  In  this  dilemma,  the  girl,  recollect- 
ing the  reputed  learning  of  her  master, 
and  doubtless  giving  me  credit  for  a 
knowledge  of  all  the  languages  of  the 
earth,  besides,  perhaps,  a  few  of  the  lunar 
ones,  came  and  gave  me  to  understand 
that  there  was  a  sort  of  demon  below, 
whom  she  clearly  imagined  that  my  [370 
art  could  exorcise  from  the  house.  I  did 
not  immediately  go  down;  but,  when  I 
did,  the  group  which  presented  itself, 
arranged  as  it  was  by  accident,  though 
not  very  elaborate,  took  hold  of  my  fancy 
and  my  eye  in  a  way  that  none  of  the 


statuesque  attitudes  exhibited  in  the 
ballets  at  the  Opera  House,  though  so 
ostentatiously  complex,  had  ever  done. 
In  a  cottage  kitchen,  but  panelled  [380 
on  the  wall  with  dark  wood  that  from 
age  and  rubbing  resembled  oak,  and 
looking  more  like  a  rustic  hall  of  entrance 
than  a  kitchen,  stood  the  Malay — his 
turban  and  loose  trousers  of  dingy  white 
relieved  upon  the  dark  panelling;  he  had 
placed  himself  nearer  to  the  girl  than  she 
seemed  to  relish;  though  her  native  spirit 
of  mountain  intrepidity  contended  with 
the  feeling  of  simple  awe  which  her  [390 
countenance  expressed  as  she  gazed  upon 
the  tiger-cat  before  her.  And  a  more 
striking  picture  there  could  not  be  imag- 
ined, than  the  beautiful  English  face  of 
the  girl,  and  its  exquisite  fairness,  together 
with  her  erect  and  independent  attitude, 
contrasted  with  the  sallow  and  bilious 
skin  of  the  Malay,  enamelled  or  veneered 
with  mahogany  by  marine  air,  his  small, 
fierce,  restless  eyes,  thin  lips,  slavish  [400 
gestures,  and  adorations.  Half-hidden  by 
the  ferocious- looking  Malay,  was  a  little 
child  from  a  neighboring  cottage  who 
had  crept  in  after  him,  and  was  now  in 
the  act  of  reverting  its  head,  and  gazing 
upwards  at  the  turban,  and  the  fiery  eyes 
beneath  it,  whilst  with  one  hand  he 
caught  at  the  dress  of  the  young  woman 
for  protection.  My  knowledge  of  the 
Oriental  tongues  is  not  remarkably  [410 
extensive,  being  indeed  confined  to  two 
words — the  Arabic  word  for  barley,  and 
the  Turkish  for  opium  (madjoon),  which 
I  have  learned  from  Anastasius.  And, 
as  I  had  neither  a  Malay  dictionary,  nor 
even  Adelung's  Mithridates ,  which  might 
have  helped  me  to.  a  few  words,  I  ad- 
dressed him  in  some"  lines  from  the  Iliad; 
considering  that,  of  such  languages  as  I 
possessed,  Greek,  in  point  of  longitude,  [420 
came  geographically  nearest  to  an  Ori- 
ental one.  He  worshipped  me  in  a  most 
devout  manner,  and  replied  in  what  I 
suppose  was  Malay.  In  this  way  I  saved 
my  reputation  with  my  neighbors;  for 
the  Malay  had  no  means  of  betraying  the 
secret.  He  lay  down  upon  the  floor  for 
about  an  hour,  and  then  pursued  his 
journey.  On  his  departure  I  presented 
him  with  a  piece  of  opium.    To  him,  [430 


556 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


as  an  Orientalist,  I  concluded  that  opium 
must  be  familiar;  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  convinced  me  that  it  was.  Never- 
theless, I  was  struck  with  some  little 
consternation  when  I  saw  him  suddenly 
raise  his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and,  in  the 
school-boy  phrase,  bolt  the  whole,  di- 
vided into  three  pieces,  at  one  mouthful. 
The  quantity  was  enough  to  kill  three 
dragoons  and  their  horses;  and  I  felt  [440 
some  alarm  for  the  poor  creature;  but 
what  could  be  done?  I  had  given  him 
the  opium  in  compassion  for  his  solitary 
life,  on  recollecting  that  if  he  had  travelled 
on  foot  from  London,  it  must  be  nearly 
three  weeks  since  he  could  have  ex- 
changed a  thought  with  any  human 
being.  I  could  not  think  of  violating  the 
laws  of  hospitality,  by  having  him  seized 
and  drenched  with  an  emetic,  and  [450 
thus  frightening  him  into  a  notion  that 
we  were  going  to  sacrifice  him  to  some 
English  idol.  No:  there  was  clearly  no 
help  for  it; — he  took  his  leave,  and  for 
some  days  I  felt  anxious;  but  as  I  never 
heard  of  any  Malay  being  found  dead, 
I  became  convinced  that  he  was  used  to 
opium;  and  that  I  must  have  done  him 
the  service  I  designed,  by  giving  him  one 
night  of  respite  from  the  pains  of  [460 
wandering. 


I  now  pass  to  what  is  the  main  subject 
of  these  latter  Confessions,  to  the  his- 
tory and  journal  of  what  took  place  in 
my  dreams;  for  these  were  the  immediate 
and  proximate  cause  of  my  acutest  suf- 
fering. 

The  first  notice  I  had  of  any  important 
change  going  on  in  this  part  of  my  physical 
economy,  was  from  the  re-awakening  [470 
of  a  state  of  eye  generally  incident  to 
childhood,  or  exalted  states  of  irritability. 
I  know  not  whether  my  reader  is  aware 
that  many  children,  perhaps  most,  have 
a  power  of  painting,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
darkness,  all  sorts  of  phantoms;  in  some, 
that  power  is  simply  a  mechanic  affec- 
tion of  the  eye;  others  have  a  voluntary, 
or  semi-voluntary  power  to  dismiss  or 
to  summon  them;  or,  as  a  child  once  [480 
said  to  me  when  I  questioned  him  on  this 
matter,  "I  can  tell  them  to  go,  and  they 


go;  but  sometimes  they  come,  when  I 
don't  tell  them  to  come."  Whereupon 
I  told  him  that  he  had  almost  as  unlimited 
a  command  over  apparitions  as  a  Roman 
centurion  over  his  soldiers.  In  the  middle 
of  181 7,  I  think  it  was,  that  this  faculty 
became  positively  distressing  to  me- 
at night,  when  I  lay  awake  in  bed,  [490 
vast  processions  passed  along  in  mourn- 
ful pomp;  friezes  of  never-ending  stories, 
that  to  my  feelings  were  as  sad  and 
solemn  as  if  they  were  stories  drawn  from 
times  before  CEdipus  or  Priam — before 
Tyre — before  Memphis.  And,  at  the 
same  time,  a  corresponding  change  took 
place  in  my  dreams;  a  theatre  seemed 
suddenly  opened  and  lighted  up  within 
my  brain,  which  presented  nightly  [500 
spectacles  of  more  than  earthly  splendor. 
And  the  four  following  facts  may  be  men- 
tioned, as  noticeable  at  this  time: 

1.  That  as  the  creative  state  of  the  eye 
increased,  a  sympathy  seemed  to  arise 
between  the  waking  and  the  dreaming 
states  of  the  brain  in  one  point — that 
whatsoever  I  happened  to  call  up  and  to 
trace  by  a  voluntary  act  upon  the  dark- 
ness was  very  apt  to  transfer  itself  to  [510 
my  dreams;  so  that  I  feared  to  exercise 
this  faculty;  for,  as  Midas  turned  all 
things  to  gold,  that  yet  baffled  his  hopes 
and  defrauded  his  human  desires,  so 
whatsoever  things  capable  of  being  visu- 
ally represented  I  did  but  think  of  in  the 
darkness,  immediately  shaped  themselves 
into  phantoms  of  the  eye;  and,  by  a 
process  apparently  no  less  inevitable,  when 
thus  once  traced  in  faint  and  visionary  [520 
colors,  like  writings  in  sympathetic  ink, 
they  were  drawn  out  by  the  fierce  chemis- 
try of  my  dreams,  into  insufferable  splen- 
dor that  fretted  my  heart. 

2.  For  this,  and  all  other  changes  in 
my  dreams,  were  accompanied  by  deep- 
seated  anxiety  and  gloomy  melancholy, 
such  as  are  wholly  incommunicable  by 
words.  I  seemed  every  night  to  descend, 
not  metaphorically,  but  literally  to  [530 
descend,  into  chasms  and  sunless  abysses, 
depths  below  depths,  from  which  it  seemed 
hopeless  that  I  could  ever  re-ascend. 
Nor  did  I,  by  waking,  feel  that  I  had 
re-ascended.  This  I  do  not  dwell  upon; 
because    the    state   of   gloom    which    at- 


DE  QUINCEY 


557 


tended  these  gorgeous  spectacles,  amount- 
ing at  last  to  utter  darkness,  as  of  some 
suicidal  despondency,  cannot  be  ap- 
proached by  words.  [540 

3.  The  sense  of  space,  and,  in  the  end, 
the  sense  of  time,  were  both  powerfully 
affected.  Buildings,  landscapes,  etc.,  were 
exhibited  in  proportions  so  vast  as  the 
bodily  eye  is  not  fitted  to  receive.  Space 
swelled,  and  was  amplified  to  an  extent 
of  unutterable  infinity.  This,  however, 
did  not  disturb  me  so  much  as  the  vast 
expansion  of  time;  I  sometimes  seemed 
to  have  lived  for  seventy  or  a  hundred  [550 
years  in  one  night;  nay,  sometimes  had 
feelings  representative  of  a  millennium 
passed  in  that  time,  or,  however,  of  a 
duration  far  beyond  the  limits  of  any 
human  experience. 

4.  The  minutest  incidents  of  childhood, 
or  forgotten  scenes  of  later  years,  were 
often  revived;  I  could  not  be  said  to 
recollect  them;  for  if  I  had  been  told  of 
them  when  waking,  I  should  not  have  [560 
been  able  to  acknowledge  them  as  parts 
of  my  past  experience.  But  placed  as 
they  were  before  me,  in  dreams  like  in- 
tuitions, and  clothed  in  all  their  evanes- 
cent circumstances  and  accompanying 
feelings,  I  recognised  them  instanta- 
neously. I  was  once  told  by  a  near  rela- 
tive of  mine,  that  having  in  her  childhood 
fallen  into  a  river,  and  being  on  the  very 
verge  of  death  but  for  the  critical  as-  [570 
sistance  which  reached  her,  she  saw  in  a 
moment  her  whole  life,  in  its  minutest 
incidents,  arrayed  before  her  simulta- 
neously as  in  a  mirror;  and  she  had  a 
faculty  developed  as  suddenly  for  com- 
prehending the  whole  and  every  part. 
This,  from  some  opium  experiences  of 
mine,  I  can  believe;  I  have,  indeed,  seen 
the  same  thing  asserted  twice  in  modern 
books,  and  accompanied  by  a  remark  [580 
which  I  am  convinced  is  true — viz.,  that 
the  dread  book  of  account,  which  the 
Scriptures  speak  of,  is,  in  fact,  the  mind 
itself  of  each  individual.  Of  this,  at  least, 
I  feel  assured,  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  forgetting  possible  to  the  mind;  a 
thousand  accidents  may  and  will  inter- 
pose a  veil  between  our  present  con- 
sciousness and  the  secret  inscriptions  on 
the  mind;  accidents  of  the  same  sort  [590 


will  also  rend  away  this  veil;  but  alike, 
whether  veiled  or  unveiled,  the  inscrip- 
tion remains  for  ever;  just  as  the  stars 
seem  to  withdraw  before  the  common 
light  of  day,  whereas,  in  fact,  we  all  know 
that  it  is  the  light  which  is  drawn  over 
them  as  a  veil,  and  that  they  are  waiting 
to  be  revealed  when  the  obscuring  day- 
light shall  have  withdrawn. 

Having  noticed  these  four  facts  as  [600 
memorably  distinguishing  my  dreams 
from  those  of  health,  I  shall  now  cite  a 
case  illustrative  of  the  first  fact;  and  shall 
then  cite  any  others  that  I  remember, 
either  in  their  chronological  order,  or 
any  other  that  may  give  them  more  effect 
as  pictures  to  the  reader. 

I  had  been  in  youth,  and  even  since, 
for  occasional  amusement,  a  great  reader 
of  Livy,  whom,  I  confess,  that  I  pre-  [610 
fer,  both  for  style  and  matter,  to  any 
other  of  the  Roman  historians;  and  I 
had  often  felt  as  most  solemn  and  appal- 
ling sounds,  and  most  emphatically  repre- 
sentative of  the  majesty  of  the  Roman 
people,  the  two  words  so  often  occur- 
ring in  Livy — Consul  Romanus;  especially 
when  the  consul  is  introduced  in  his  mili- 
tary character.  I  mean  to  say  that  the 
words  king — sultan — regent,  etc.,  or  [620 
any  other  titles  of  those  who  embody  in 
their  own  persons  the  collective  majesty  of 
a  great  people,  had  less  power  over  my 
reverential  feelings.  I  had  also,  though 
no  great  reader  of  history,  made  myself 
minutely  and  critically  familiar  with 
one  period  of  English  history — viz.,  the 
period  of  the  Parliamentary  War — having 
been  attracted  by  the  moral  grandeur  of 
some  who  figured  in  that  day,  and  [630 
by  the  many  interesting  memoirs  which 
survive  those  unquiet  times.  Both  these 
parts  of  my  lighter  reading,  having  fur- 
nished me  often  with  matter  of  reflection, 
now  furnished  me  with  matter  for  my 
dreams.  Often  I  used  to  see,  after  paint- 
ing upon  the  blank  darkness  a  sort  of 
rehearsal  whilst  waking,  a  crowd  of  ladies, 
and  perhaps  a  festival,  and  dances.  And 
I  heard  it  said,  or  I  said  to  myself,  [640 
"These  are  English  ladies  from  the  un- 
happy times  of  Charles  I.  These  are  the 
wives  and  the  daughters  of  those  who 
met  in  peace,  and  sat  at  the  same  tables, 


558 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


and  were  allied  by  marriage  or  by  blood; 
and  yet,  after  a  certain  day  in  August, 
1642,  never  smiled  upon  each  other 
again,  nor  met  but  in  the  field  of  battle; 
and  at  Marston  Moor,  at  Newbury,  or 
at  Naseby,  cut  asunder  all  ties  of  love  [650 
by  the  cruel  sabre,  and  washed  away  in 
blood  the  memory  of  ancient  friendship." 
The  ladies  danced,  and  looked  as  lovely 
as  the  court  of  George  IV.  Yet  I  knew, 
even  in  my  dreams,  that  they  had  been 
in  the  grave  for  nearly  two  centuries. 
This  pageant  would  suddenly  dissolve; 
and,  at  a  clapping  of  hands,  would  be 
heard  the  heart-quaking  sound  of  Consul 
Romanus;  and  immediately  came  [660 
"sweeping  by,"  in  gorgeous  paludaments, 
Paulus  or  Marius,  girt  round  by  a  com- 
pany of  centurions,  with  the  crimson 
tunic  hoisted  on  a  spear,  and  followed  by 
the  alalagmos  of  the  Roman  legions. 


And  now  came  a  tremendous  change, 
which,  unfolding  itself  slowly  like  a  scroll, 
through  many  months,  promised  an 
abiding  torment;  and,  in  fact,  it  never 
left  me  until  the  winding  up  of  my  [670 
case.  Hitherto  the  human  face  had 
mixed  often  in  my  dreams,  but  not 
despotically,  nor  with  any  special  power 
of  tormenting.  But  now  that  which  I 
have  called  the  tyranny  of  the  human 
face  began  to  unfold  itself.  Perhaps 
some  part  of  my  London  life  might  be 
answerable  for  this.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
now  it  was  that  upon  the  rocking  waters 
of  the  ocean  the  human  face  began  to  [680 
appear:  the  sea  appeared  paved  with 
innumerable  faces,  upturned  to  the  heav- 
ens; faces  imploring,  wrathful,  despairing, 
surged  upwards  by  thousands,  by  myr- 
iads, by  generations,  by  centuries: — my 
agitation  was  infinite, — my  mind  tossed 
and  surged  with  the  ocean. 

May,  1818. 
The  Malay  has  been  a  fearful  enemy 
for  months.  I  have  been  every  night, 
through  his  means,  transported  into  [690 
Asiatic  scenes.  I  know  not  whether 
others  share  in  my  feelings  on  this  point; 
but  I  have  often  thought  that  if  I  were 
compelled  to  forego  England,  and  to  live 


in  China,  and  among  Chinese  manners 
and  modes  of  life  and  scenery,  I  should 
go  mad.  The  causes  of  my  horror  lie 
deep;  and  some  of  them  must  be  com- 
mon to  others.  Southern  Asia,  in  general, 
is  the  seat  of  awful  images  and  asso-  [700 
ciations.  As  the  cradle  of  the  human 
race,  it  would  alone  have  a  dim  and 
reverential  feeling  connected  with  it. 
But  there  are  other  reasons.  No  man 
can  pretend  that  the  wild,  barbarous, 
and  capricious  superstitions  of  Africa, 
or  of  savage  tribes  elsewhere,  affect  him 
in  the  way  that  he  is  affected  by  the  an- 
cient, monumental,  cruel,  and  elaborate 
religions  of  Indostan,  etc.  The  mere  [710 
antiquity  of  Asiatic  things,  of  their  in- 
stitutions, histories,  modes  of  faith,  etc., 
is  so  impressive,  that  to  me  the  vast 
age  of  the  race  and  name  overpowers 
the  sense  of  youth  in  the  individual.  A 
young  Chinese  seems  to  me  an  ante- 
diluvian man  renewed.  Even  English- 
men, though  not  bred  in  any  knowledge 
of  such  institutions,  cannot  but  shudder 
at  the  mystic  sublimity  of  castes  that  [720 
have  flowed  apart,  and  refused  to  mix, 
through  such  immemorial  tracts  of  time; 
nor  can  any  man  fail  to  be  awed  by  the 
names  of  the  Ganges,  or  the  Euphrates. 
It  contributes  much  to  these  feelings,  that 
southern  Asia  is,  and  has  been  for  thou- 
sands of  years,  the  part  of  the  earth  most 
swarming  with  human  life;  the  great 
qfficina  gentium.  Man  is  a  weed  in  those 
regions.  The  vast  empires  also,  into  [730 
which  the  enormous  population  of  Asia 
has  always  been  cast,  give  a  further 
sublimity  to  the  feelings  associated  with 
all  oriental  names  or  images.  In  China, 
over  and  above  what  it  has  in  common 
with  the  rest  of  southern  Asia,  I  am 
terrified  by  the  modes  of  life,  by  the  man- 
ners, and  the  barrier  of  utter  abhorrence, 
and  want  of  sympathy,  placed  between 
us  by  feelings  deeper  than  I  can  [740 
analyse.  I  could  sooner  live  with  lunatics, 
or  brute  animals.  All  this,  and  much 
more  than  I  can  say,  or  have  time  to  say, 
the  reader  must  enter  into  before  he 
can  comprehend  the  unimaginable  horror 
which  these  dreams  of  oriental  imagery, 
and  mythological  tortures,  impressed  upon 
me.      Under    the    connecting    feeling    of 


DE  QUINCEY 


559 


tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights,  I 
brought  together  all  creatures,  birds,  [750 
beasts,  reptiles,  all  trees  and  plants, 
usages  and  appearances,  that  are  found 
in  all  tropical  regions,  and  assembled 
them  together  in  China  or  Indostan. 
From  kindred  feelings,  I  soon  brought 
Egypt  and  all  her  gods  under  the  same 
law.  I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned 
at,  chattered  at,  by  monkeys,  by  paro- 
'  quets,  by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pago- 
das: and  was  fixed,  for  centuries,  [760 
at  the  summit,  or  in  secret  rooms;  I  was 
the  idol;  I  was  the  priest;  I  was  wor- 
shipped; I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled  from  the 
wrath  of  Brahma  through  all  the  forests  of 
Asia:  Vishnu  hated  me:  Seeva  laid  wait 
for  me.  I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and 
Osiris:  I  had  done  a  deed,  they  said, 
which  the  ibis  and  the  crocodile  trembled 
at.  I  was  buried,  for  a  thousand 
years,  in  stone  coffins,  with  mummies  [770 
and  sphinxes,  in  narrow  chambers  at  the 
heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  I  was  kissed, 
with  cancerous  kisses,  by  crocodiles;  and 
laid,  confounded  with  all  unutterable 
slimy  things,  amongst  reeds  and  Nilotic 
mud. 

I  thus  give  the  reader  some  slight  ab- 
straction of  my  oriental  dreams,  which 
always  filled  me  with  such  amazement 
at  the  monstrous  scenery,  that  [780 
horror  seemed  absorbed,  for  a  while,  in 
sheer  astonishment.  Sooner  or  later, 
came  a  reflux  of  feeling  that  swallowed  up 
the  astonishment,  and  left  me,  not  so 
much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomina- 
tion of  what  I  saw.  Over  every  form, 
and  threat,  and  punishment,  and  dim 
sightless  incarceration,  brooded  a  sense 
of  eternity  and  infinity  that  drove  me  into 
an  oppression  as  of  madness.  Into  [790 
these  dreams  only,  it  was,  with  one  or 
two  slight  exceptions,  that  any  circum- 
stances of  physical  horror  entered.  All 
before  had  been  moral  and  spiritual 
terrors.  But  here  the  main  agents  were 
ugly  birds,  or  snakes,  or  crocodiles;  es- 
pecially the  last.  The  cursed  crocodile 
became  to  me  the  object  of  more  horror 
than  almost  all  the  rest.  I  was  com- 
pelled to  live  with  him;  and  (as  was  [800 
always  the  case  almost  in  my  dreams) 
I  for  centuries.     I  escaped  sometimes,  and 


found  myself  in  Chinese  houses,  with 
cane  tables,  etc.  All  the  feet  of  the 
tables,  sofas,  etc.,  soon  became  instinct 
with  life:  the  abominable  head  of  the 
crocodile,  and  his  leering  eyes,  looked  out 
at  me,  multiplied  into  a  thousand  repeti- 
tions: and  I  stood  loathing  and  fasci- 
nated. And  so  often  did  this  hideous  [810 
reptile  haunt  my  dreams,  that  many 
times  the  very  same  dream  was  broken 
up  in  the  very  same  way:  I  heard  gentle 
voices  speaking  to  me  (I  hear  everything 
when  I  am  sleeping) ;  and  instantly  I 
awoke:  it  was  broad  noon;  and  my  chil- 
dren were  standing,  hand  in  hand,  at  my 
bed-side;  come  to  show  me  their  colored 
shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see  them 
dressed  for  going  out.  I  protest  that  so  [820 
awful  was  the  transition  from  the  damned 
crocodile,  and  the  other  unutterable  mon- 
sters and  abortions  of  my  dreams,  to  the 
sight  of  innocent  human  natures  and  of 
infancy,  that,  in  the  mighty  and  sudden 
revulsion  of  mind,  I  wept,  and  could  not 
forbear  it,  as  I  kissed  their  faces. 


ON  THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE 
IN  MACBETH 

From  my  boyish  days  I  had  always  felt 
a  great  perplexity  on  one  point  in  Mac- 
beth. It  was  this: — the  knocking  at  the 
gate  which  succeeds  to  the  murder  of 
Duncan  produced  to  my  feelings  an  ef- 
fect for  which  I  could  never  account. 
The  effect  was  that  it  reflected  back  upon 
the  murderer  a  peculiar  awfulness  and 
a  depth  of  solemnity;  yet  however  ob- 
stinately I  endeavored  with  my  un-  [10 
derstanding  to  comprehend  this,  for  many 
years  I  never  could  see  why  it  should 
produce  such  an  effect. 


My  understanding  could  furnish  no 
reason  why  the  knocking  at  the  gate  in 
Macbeth  should  produce  any  effect,  direct 
or  reflected.  In  fact,  my  understanding 
said  positively  that  it  could  not  produce 
any  effect.  But  I  knew  better;  I  felt  that 
it  did;  and  I  waited  and  clung  to  the  [20 
problem  until  further  knowledge  should 
enable  me  to  solve  it.    At  length,  in  181 2, 


560 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


Mr.  Williams  made  his  debut  on  the  stage 
of  Ratcliffe  Highway,  and  executed  those 
unparalleled  murders  which  have  procured 
for  him  such  a  brilliant  and  undying  repu- 
tation. On  which  murders,  by  the  way, 
I  must  observe  that  in  one  respect  they 
have  had  an  ill  effect,  by  making  the 
connoisseur  in  murder  very  fastidious  [30 
in  his  taste,  and  dissatisfied  by  anything 
that  has  been  since  done  in  that  line.  All 
other  murders  look  pale  by  the  deep  crim- 
son of  his;  and,  as  an  amateur  once  said 
to  me  in  a  querulous  tone,  "There  has 
been  absolutely  nothing  doing  since  his 
time,  or  nothing  that's  worth  speaking 
of."  But  this  is  wrong;  for  it  is  unrea- 
sonable to  expect  all  men  to  be  great 
artists,  and  born  with  the  genius  of  [40 
Mr.  Williams.  Now,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered that  in  the  first  of  these  murders 
(that  of  the  Marrs)  the  same  incident  (of 
a  knocking  at  the  door  soon  after  the 
extermination  was  complete)  did  ac- 
tually occur  which  the  genius  of  Shake- 
speare has  invented;  and  all  good  judges, 
and  the  most  eminent  dilettanti,  ac- 
knowledged the  felicity  of  Shakespeare's 
suggestion  as  soon  as  it  was  actually  [50 
realized.  Here,  then,  was  a  fresh  proof 
that  I  was  right  in  relying  on  my  own 
feeling,  in  opposition  to  my  understand- 
ing; and  again  I  set  myself  to  study  the 
problem.  At  length  I  solved  it  to  my 
own  satisfaction;  and  my  solution  is 
this: — -Murder,  in  ordinary  cases,  where 
the  sympathy  is  wholly  directed  to  the 
case  of  the  murdered  person,  is  an  incident 
of  coarse  and  vulgar  horror;  and  for  [60 
this  reason,— that  it  flings  the  interest 
exclusively  upon  the  natural  but  ignoble 
instinct  by  which  we  cleave  to  life:  an 
instinct  which,  as  being  indispensable 
to  the  primal  •  law  of  self-preservation, 
is  the  same  in  kind  (though  different 
in  degree)  amongst  all  living  creatures. 
This  instinct,  therefore,  because  it  anni- 
hilates all  distinctions,  and  degrades  the 
greatest  of  men  to  the  level  of  "the  [70 
poor  beetle  that  we  tread  on,"  exhibits 
human  nature  in  its  most  abject  and 
humiliating  attitude.  Such  an  attitude 
would  little  suit  the  purposes  of  the  poet. 
What  then  must  he  do?  He  must  throw 
the  interest  on  the  murderer.     Our  sym- 


pathy must  be  with  him  (of  course  I 
mean  a  sympathy  of  comprehension,  a 
sympathy  by  which  we  enter  into  his 
feelings,  and  are  made  to  understand  [80 
them, — not  a  sympathy  of  pity  or  ap- 
probation). In  the  murdered  person,  all 
strife  of  thought,  all  flux  and  reflux  of 
passion  and  of  purpose,  are  crushed  by 
one  overwhelming  panic;  the  fear  of  in- 
stant death  smites  him  "with  its  petrific 
mace."  But  in  the  murderer,  such  a 
murderer  as  a  poet  will  condescend  to, 
there  must  be  raging  some  storm  of  pas- 
sion,— jealousy,  ambition,  vengeance,  [90 
hatred, — which  will  create  a  hell  within 
him;  and  into  this  hell  we  are  to  look. 

In  Macbeth,  for  the  sake  of  gratifying 
his  own  enormous  and  teeming  faculty 
of  creation,  Shakespeare  has  introduced 
two  murderers:  and,  as  usual  in  his  hands, 
they  are  remarkably  discriminated:  but, — 
though  in  Macbeth  the  strife  of  mind  is 
greater  than  in  his  wife,  the  tiger  spirit 
not  so  awake,  and  his  feelings  caught  [100 
chiefly  by  contagion  from  her, — yet,  as 
both  were  finally  involved  in  the  guilt  of 
murder,  the  murderous  mind  of  necessity 
is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.  This 
was  to  be  expressed;  and,  on  its  own  ac- 
count, as  well  as  to  make  it  a  more  pro- 
portionable antagonist  to  the  unoffending 
nature  of  their  victim,  "the  gracious 
Duncan,"  and  adequately  to  expound 
"the  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  [no 
off,"  tins  was  to  be  expressed  with  pe- 
culiar energy.  We  were  to  be  made  to 
feel  that  the  human  nature, — i.  e.,  the 
divine  nature  of  love  and  mercy,  spread 
through  the  hearts  of  all  creatures,  and 
seldom  utterly  withdrawn  from  man, — 
was  gone,  vanished,  extinct,  and  that  the 
fiendish  nature  had  taken  its  place.  And, 
as  this  effect  is  marvellously  accom- 
plished in  the  dialogues  and  soliloquies  [120 
themselves,  so  it  is  finally  consummated 
by  the  expedient  under  consideration; 
and  it  is  to  this  that  I  now  solicit  the 
reader's  attention.  If  the  reader  has 
ever  witnessed  a  wife,  daughter,  or  sister, 
in  a  fainting  fit,  he  may  chance  to  have 
observed  that  the  most  affecting  moment 
in  such  a  spectacle  is  that  in  which  a 
sigh  and  a  stirring  announce  the  recom- 
mencement of  suspended  life.    Or,  if  [130 


DE  QUINCEY 


56i 


the  reader  has  ever  been  present  in  a  vast 
metropolis  on  the  day  when  some  great 
national  idol  was  carried  in  funeral  pomp 
to  his  grave,  and,  chancing  to  walk  near 
the  course  through  which  it  passed,  has 
felt  powerfully,  in  the  silence  and  deser- 
tion of  the  streets,  and  in  the  stagnation 
of  ordinary  business,  the  deep  interest 
which  at  that  moment  was  possessing 
the  heart  of  man, — if  all  at  once  he  [140 
should  hear  the  death-like  stillness  broken 
up  by  the  sound  of  wheels  rattling  away 
from  the  scene,  and  making  known  that 
the  transitory  vision  was  dissolved,  he 
will  be  aware  that  at  no  moment  was  his 
sense  of  the  complete  suspension  and 
pause  in  ordinary  human  concerns  so 
full  and  affecting  as  at  that  moment 
when  the  suspension  ceases,  and  the 
goings-on  of  human  life  are  suddenly  [150 
resumed.  All  action  in  any  direction  is 
best  expounded,  measured,  and  made 
apprehensible,  by  reaction.  Now,  apply 
this  to  the  case  in  Macbeth.  Here,  as  I 
have  said,  the  retiring  of  the  human  heart 
and  the  entrance  of  the  fiendish  heart  was 
to  be  expressed  and  made  sensible.  An- 
other world  has  stepped  in;  and  the  mur- 
derers are  taken  out  of  the  region  of 
human  things,  human  purposes,  hu-  [160 
man  desires.  They  are  transfigured: 
Lady  Macbeth  is  "unsexed;"  Macbeth 
has  forgot  that  he  was  born  of  woman; 
both  are  conformed  to  the  image  of 
devils;  and  the  world  of  devils  is  sud- 
denly revealed.  But  how  shall  this  be 
conveyed  and  made  palpable?  In  order 
that  a  new  world  may  step  in,  this  world 
must  for  a  time  disappear.  The  mur- 
derers and  the  murder  must  be  in-  [170 
sulated— cut  off  by  an  immeasurable 
gulf  from  the  ordinary  tide  and  succes- 
sion of  human  affairs — locked  up  and 
sequestered  in  some  deep  recess;  we  must 
be  made  sensible  that  the  world  of  ordinary 
life  is  suddenly  arrested,  laid  asleep, 
tranced,  racked  into  a  dread  armistice; 
time  must  be  annihilated,  relation  to 
things  without  abolished;  and  all  must 
pass  self- withdrawn  into  a  deep  [180 
syncope  and  suspension  of  earthly  pas- 
sion. Hence  it  is  that,  when  the  deed  is 
done,  when  the  work  of  darkness  is 
perfect,  then  the  world  of  darkness  passes 


away  like  a  pageantry  in  the  clouds:  the 
knocking  at  the  gate  is  heard,  and  it 
makes  known  audibly  that  the  reaction 
has  commenced;  the  human  has  made  its 
reflux  upon  the  fiendish;  the  pulses  of  life 
are  beginning  to  beat  again;  and  the  [190 
re-establishment  of  the  goings-on  of  the 
world  in  which  we  live  first  makes  us  pro- 
foundly sensible  of  the  awful  parenthesis 
that  had  suspended  them. 

O  mighty  poet!  Thy  works  are  not  as 
those  of  other  men,  simply  and  merely 
great  works  of  art,  but  are  also  like  the 
phenomena  of  nature,  like  the  sun  and 
the  sea,  the  stars  and  the  flowers,  like 
frost  and  snow,  rain  and  dew,  hail-  [200 
storm  and  thunder,  which  are  to  be 
studied  with  entire  submission  of  our  own 
faculties,  and  in  the  perfect  faith  that  in 
them  there  can  be  no  too  much  or  too 
little,  nothing  useless  or  inert,  but  that, 
the  farther  we  press  in  our  discoveries, 
the  more  we  shall  see  proofs  of  design  and 
self-supporting  arrangement  where  the 
careless  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  ac- 
cident! 


LEVANA   AND   OUR   LADIES   OF 
SORROW 

From   Suspiria   de   Profundis 

Oftentimes  at  Oxford  I  saw  Levana  in 
my  dreams.  I  knew  her  by  her  Roman 
symbols.  Who  is  Levana?  Reader,  that 
do  not  pretend  to  have  leisure  for  very 
much  scholarship,  you  will  not  be  angry 
with  me  for  telling  you.  Levana  was  the 
Roman  goddess  that  performed  for  the 
new-born  infant  the  earliest  office  of 
ennobling  kindness, — typical,  by  its  mode, 
of  that  grandeur  which  belongs  to  [10 
man  everywhere,  and  of  that  benignity 
in  powers  invisible  which  even  in  Pagan 
worlds  sometimes  descends  to  sustain  it. 
At  the  very  moment  of  birth,  just  as  the 
infant  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  atmos- 
phere of  our  troubled  planet,  it  was  laid 
on  the  ground.  That  might  bear  different 
interpretations.  But  immediately,  lest 
so  grand  a  creature  should  grovel  there 
for  more  than  one  instant,  either  the  [20 
paternal  hand,  as  proxy  for  the  goddess 
Levana,  or  some  near  kinsman,  as  proxy 


562 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


for  the  father,  raised  it  upright,  bade  it 
look  erect  as  the  king  of  all  this  world, 
and  presented  its  forehead  to  the  stars, 
saying,  perhaps,  in  his  heart,  "Behold 
what  is  greater  than  yourselves!"  This 
symbolic  act  represented  the  function  of 
Levana.  And  that  mysterious  lady,  who 
never  revealed  her  face  (except  to  me  [30 
in  dreams),  but  always  acted  by  delega- 
tion, had  her  name  from  the  Latin  verb 
(as  still  it  is  the  Italian  verb)  levare,  to 
raise  aloft. 

This  is  the  explanation  of  Levana, 
and  hence  it  has  arisen  that  some  people 
have  understood  by  Levana  the  tutelary 
power  that  controls  the  education  of  the 
nursery.  She,  that  would  not  suffer  at 
his  birth  even  a  prefigurative  or  mimic  [40 
degradation  for  her  awful  ward,  far  less 
could  be  supposed  to  suffer  the  real 
degradation  attaching  to  the  non-develop- 
ment of  his  powers.  She  therefore  watches 
over  human  education.  Now  the  word 
educo,  with  the  penultimate  short,  was 
derived  (by  a  process  often  exemplified 
in  the  crystallisation  of  languages)  from 
the  world  edilco,  with  the  penultimate 
long.  Whatsoever  educes,  or  develops,  [50 
educates.  By  the  education  of  Levana, 
therefore,  is  meant, — not  the  poor  ma- 
chinery that  moves  by  spelling-books  and 
grammars,  but  that  mighty  system  of 
central  forces  hidden  in  the  deep  bosom 
of  human  life,  which  by  passion,  by 
strife,  by  temptation,  by  the  energies  of 
resistance,  works  for  ever  upon  children, — 
resting  not  day  or  night,  any  more  than 
the  mighty  wheel  of  day  and  night  [60 
themselves,  whose  moments,  like  restless 
spokes,  are  glimmering  for  ever  as  they 
revolve. 

If,  then,  these  are  the  ministries  by 
which  Levana  works,  how  profoundly 
must  she  reverence  the  agencies  of  grief! 
But  you,  reader,  think  that  children 
generally  are  not  liable  to  grief  such  as 
mine.  There  are  two  senses  in  the  word 
generally, — the  sense  of  Euclid,  where  [70 
it  means  universally  (or  in  the  whole 
extent  of  the  genus),  and  a  foolish  sense 
of  this  word,  where  it  means  usually. 
Now,  I  am  far  from  saying  that  children 
universally  are  capable  of  grief  like  mine. 
But  there  are  more  than  you  ever  heard 


of  who  die  of  grief  in  this  island  of  ours. 
I  will  tell  you  a  common  case.  The  rules 
of  Eton  require  that  a  boy  on  the  foun- 
dation should  be  there  twelve  years:  [80 
he  is  superannuated  at  eighteen,  conse- 
quently he  must  come  at  six.  Children 
torn  away  from  mothers  and  sisters  at 
that  age  not  urifrequently  die.  I  speak 
of  what  I  know.  The  complaint  is  not 
entered  by  the  registrar  as  grief;  but 
that  it  is.  Grief  of  that  sort,  and  at  that 
age,  has  killed  more  than  ever  have  been 
counted  amongst  its  martyrs. 

Therefore  it  is  that  Levana  often  [90 
communes  with  the  powers  that  shake 
man's  heart:  therefore  it  is  that  she  dotes 
upon  grief.  "These  ladies,"  said  I  softly 
to  myself,  on  seeing  the  ministers  with 
whom  Levana  was  conversing,  "these 
are  the  Sorrows;  and  they  are  three  in 
number,  as  the  Graces  are  three,  who 
dress  man's  life  with  beauty;  the  Parcae 
are  three,  who  weave  the  dark  arras  of 
man's  life  in  their  mysterious  loom,  [100 
always  with  colors  sad  in  part,  some- 
times angry  with  tragic  crimson  and 
black;  the  Furies  are  three,  who  visit  with 
retributions  called  from  the  other  side 
of  the  grave  offences  that  walk  upon  this; 
and  once  even  the  Muses  were  but  three, 
who  fit  the  harp,  the  trumpet,  or  the  lute, 
to  the  great  burdens  of  man's  impas- 
sioned creations.  These  are  the  Sorrows, 
all  three  of  whom  I  know."  The  last  [no 
words  I  say  now;  but  in  Oxford  I  said, 
"One  of  whom  I  know,  and  the  others  too 
surely  I  shall  know."  For  already,  in  my 
fervent  youth,  I  saw  (dimly  relieved  upon 
the  dark  background  of  my  dreams) 
the  imperfect  lineaments  of  the  awful 
sisters.  These  sisters — by  what  name 
shall  we  call  them?  If  I  say  simply, 
"The  Sorrows,"  there  will  be  a  chance 
of  mistaking  the  term;  it  might  be  [120 
understood  of  individual  sorrow, — sepa- 
rate cases  of  sorrow, — whereas  I  want  a 
term  expressing  the  mighty  abstractions 
that  incarnate  themselves  in  all  indi- 
vidual sufferings  of  man's  heart;  and  I 
wish  to  have  these  abstractions  presented 
as  impersonations,  that  is,  as  clothed 
with  human  attributes  of  life,  and  with 
functions  pointing  to  flesh.  Let  us  call 
them,  therefore,  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow.  [130 


DE  QUINCEY 


563 


I  know  them  thoroughly,  and  have 
walked  in  all  their  kingdoms.  Three 
sisters  they  are,  of  one  mysterious  house- 
hold; and  their  paths  are  wide  apart;  but 
of  their  dominion  there  is  no  end.  Them 
I  saw  often  conversing  with  Levana,  and 
sometimes  about  myself.  Do  they  talk, 
then?  Oh,  no!  Mighty  phantoms  like 
these  disdain  the  infirmities  of  language. 
They  may  utter  voices  through  the  [140 
organs  of  man  when  they  dwell  in  hu- 
man hearts,  but  amongst  themselves  is  no 
voice  nor  sound;  eternal  silence  reigns  in 
their  kingdoms.  They  spoke  not,  as  they 
talked  with  Levana;  they  whispered  not; 
they  sang  not;  though  oftentimes  me- 
thought  they  might  have  sung:  for  I  upon 
earth  had  heard  their  mysteries  often- 
times deciphered  by  harp  and  timbrel, 
by  dulcimer  and  organ.  Like  God,  [150 
whose  servants  they  are,  they  utter  their 
pleasure,  not  by  sounds  that  perish,  or 
by  words  that  go  astray,  but  by  signs  in 
heaven,  by  changes  on  earth,  by  pulses 
in  secret  rivers,  heraldries  painted  on 
darkness,  and  hieroglyphics  written  on 
the  tablets  of  the  brain.  They  wheeled 
in  mazes;  /  spelled  the  steps.  They 
telegraphed  from  afar;  /  read  the  signals. 
They  conspired  together;  and  on  the  [160 
mirrors  of  darkness  my  eye  traced  the 
plots.  Theirs  were  the  symbols;  mine 
are  the  words. 

What  is  it  the  sisters  are?  What  is  it 
that  they  do?  Let  me  describe  their 
form,  and  their  presence:  if  form  it  were 
that  still  fluctuated  in  its  outline,  or 
presence  it  were  that  for  ever  advanced 
to  the  front,  or  for  ever  receded  amongst 
shades.  [1 70 

The  eldest  of  the  three  is  named  Mater 
Lachrymarum,  Our  Lady  of  Tears.  She 
it  is  that  night  and  day  raves  and 
moans,  calling  for  vanished  faces.  She 
stood  in  Rama,  where  a  voice  was  heard 
of  lamentation, — Rachel  weeping  for  her 
children,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted. 
She  it  was  that  stood  in  Bethlehem  on 
the  night  when  Herod's  sword  swept  its 
nurseries  of  Innocents,  and  the  little  [180 
feet  were  stiffened  for  ever,  which,  heard 
at  times  as  they  tottered  along  floors  over- 
head, woke  pulses  of  love  in  household 
hearts  that  were  not  unmarked  in  heaven. 


Her  eyes  are  sweet  and  subtle,  wild  and 
sleepy,  by  turns;  oftentimes  rising  to  the 
clouds,  oftentimes  challenging  the  heav- 
ens. She  wears  a  diadem  round  her  head. 
And  I  knew  by  childish  memories  that 
she  could  go  abroad  upon  the  winds,  [190 
when  she  heard  the  sobbing  of  litanies 
or  the  thundering  of  organs,  and  when 
she  beheld  the  mustering  of  summer 
clouds.  This  sister,  the  eldest,  it  is  that 
carries  keys  more  than  papal  at  her 
girdle,  which  open  every  cottage  and 
every  palace.  She,  to  my  knowledge,  sat 
all  last  summer  by  the  bedside  of  the  blind 
beggar,  him  that  so  often  and  so  gladly 
I  talked  with,  whose  pious  daughter,  [200 
eight  years  old,  with  the  sunny  coun- 
tenance, resisted  the  temptations  of  play 
and  village  mirth  to  travel  all  day  long 
on  dusty  roads  with  her  afflicted  father. 
For  this  did  God  send  her  a  great  reward. 
In  the  spring-time  of  the  year,  and  whilst 
yet  her  own  spring  was  budding,  He  re- 
called her  to  himself.  But  her  blind 
father  mourns  for  ever  over  her;  still  he 
dreams  at  midnight  that  the  little  [210 
guiding  hand  is  locked  within  his  own; 
and  still  he  wakens  to  a  darkness  that  is 
now  within  a  second  and  a  deeper  darkness. 
This  Mater  Lachrymarum  also  has  been 
sitting  all  this  winter  of  1844-5  within 
the  bed-chamber  of  the  Czar,  bringing 
before  his  eyes  a  daughter  (not  less  pious) 
that  vanished  to  God  not  less  suddenly, 
and  left  behind  her  a  darkness  not  less 
profound.  By  the  power  of  the  [220 
keys  it  is  that  Our  Lady  of  Tears  glides 
a  ghostly  intruder  into  the  chambers  of 
sleepless  men,  sleepless  women,  sleepless 
children,  from  Ganges  to  Nile,  from  Nile 
to  Mississippi.  And  her,  because  she 
is  the  first-born  of  her  house,  and  has 
the  widest  empire,  let  us  honor  with  the 
title  of  "Madonna!" 

The  second  sister  is  called  Mater  Sus- 
piriorum — Our  Lady  of  Sighs.  She  [230 
never  scales  the  clouds,  nor  walks  abroad 
upon  the  winds.  She  wears  no  diadem. 
And  her  eyes,  if  they  were  ever  seen, 
would  be  neither  sweet  nor  subtle;  no 
man  could  read  their  story;  they  would 
be  found  filled  with  perishing  dreams, 
and  with  wrecks  of  forgotten  delirium. 
But  she  raises  not  her  eyes;  her  head,  on 


564 


THE  AGE  OF  ROMANTICISM 


which  sits  a  dilapidated  turban,  droops 
for  ever,  for  ever  fastens  on  the  dust.  [240 
She  weeps  not.  She  groans  not.  But  she 
sighs  inaudibly  at  intervals.  Her  sister, 
Madonna,  is  oftentimes  stormy  and  fran- 
tic, raging  in  the  highest  against  heaven, 
and  demanding  back  her  darlings.  But 
Our  Lady  of  Sighs  never  clamors,  never 
defies,  dreams  not  of  rebellious  aspira- 
tions. She  is  humble  to  abjectness.  Hers 
is  the  meekness  that  belongs  to  the  hope- 
less. Murmur  she  may,  but  it  is  in  [250 
her  sleep.  Whisper  she  may,  but  it  is  to 
herself  in  the  twilight.  Mutter  she  does 
at  times,  but  it  is  in  solitary  places  that 
are  desolate  as  she  is  desolate,  in  ruined 
cities,  and  when  the  sun  has  gone  down  to 
his  rest.  This  sister  is  the  visitor  of  the 
Pariah,  of  the  Jew,  of  the  bondsman  to  the 
oar  in  the  Mediterranean  galleys;  and  of 
the  English  criminal  in  Norfolk  Island, 
blotted  out  from  the  books  of  remem-  [260 
brance  in  sweet  far-off  England;  of  the 
baffled  penitent  reverting  his  eyes  for 
ever  upon  a  solitary  grave,  which  to  him 
seems  the  altar  overthrown  of  some  past 
and  bloody  sacrifice,  on  which  altar  no 
oblations  can  now  be  availing,  whether 
towards  pardon  that  he  might  implore, 
or  towards  reparation  that  he  might  at- 
tempt. Every  slave  that  at  noonday  looks 
up  to  the  tropical  sun  with  timid  re-  [270 
proach,  as  he  points  with  one  hand  to  the 
earth,  our  general  mother,  but  for  him  a 
stepmother, — as  he  points  with  the  other 
hand  to  the  Bible,  our  general  teacher, 
but  against  him  sealed  and  sequestered; — 
every  woman  sitting  in  darkness,  without 
love  to  shelter  her  head,  or  hope  to  illu- 
mine her  solitude,  because  the  heaven- 
born  instincts  kindling  in  her  nature 
germs  of  holy  affections  which  God  [280 
implanted  in  her  womanly  bosom,  hav- 
ing been  stifled  by  social  necessities,  now 
burn  sullenly  to  waste,  like  sepulchral 
lamps  amongst  the  ancients;  every  nun 
defrauded  of  her  unreturning  May-time 
by  wicked  kinsman,  whom  God  will 
judge;  every  captive  in  every  dungeon; 
all  that  are  betrayed  and  all  that  are 
rejected;  outcasts  by  traditionary  law, 
and  children  of  hereditary  disgrace, —  [290 
all  these  walk  with  Our  Lady  of  Sighs. 
She  also  carries  a  key;  but  she  needs  it 


little.  For  her  kingdom  is  chiefly  amongst 
the  tents  of  Shem,  and  the  houseless 
vagrant  of  every  clime.  Yet  in  the  very 
highest  ranks  of  man  she  finds  chapels 
of  her  own;  and  even  in  glorious  England 
there  are  some  that,  to  the  world,  carry 
their  heads  as  proudly  as  the  reindeer, 
who  yet  secretly  have  received  her  [300 
mark  upon  their  foreheads. 

But  the  third  sister,  who  is  also  the 

youngest !    Hush,  whisper  whilst  we 

talk  of  her!  Her  kingdom  is  not  large,  or 
else  no  flesh  should  live;  but  within  that 
kingdom  all  power  is  hers.  Her  head, 
turreted  like  that  of  Cybele,  rises  almost 
beyond  the  reach  of  sight.  She  droops 
not;  and  her  eyes  rising  so  high  might 
be  hidden  by  distance;  but,  being  what  [310 
they  are,  they  cannot  be  hidden;  through 
the  treble  veil  of  crape  which  she  wears, 
the  fierce  light  of  a  blazing  misery,  that 
rests  not  for  matins  or  for  vespers,  for 
noon  of  day  or  noon  of  night,  for  ebbing  or 
for  flowing  tide,  may  be  read  from  the 
very  ground.  She  is  the  defier  of  God. 
She  also  is  the  mother  of  lunacies,  and 
the  suggestress  of  suicides.  Deep  lie  the 
roots  of  her  power;  but  narrow  is  the  [320 
nation  that  she  rules.  For  she  can  ap- 
proach only  those  in  whom  a  profound 
nature  has  been  upheaved  by  central 
convulsions;  in  whom  the  heart  trembles, 
and  the  brain  rocks  under  conspiracies 
of  tempest  from  without  and  tempest 
from  within.  Madonna  moves  with 
uncertain  steps,  fast  or  slow,  but  still 
with  tragic  grace.  Our  Lady  of  Sighs 
creeps  timidly  and  stealthily.  But  [330 
this  youngest  sister  moves  with  incal- 
culable motions,  bounding,  and  with 
tiger's  leaps.  She  carries  no  key;  for, 
though  coming  rarely  amongst  men,  she 
storms  all  doors  at  which  she  is  permitted 
to  enter  at  all.  And  her  name  is  Mater 
Tenebrarum — Our  Lady  of  Darkness. 

These  were  the  Semnai  Theai,  or  Sub- 
lime Goddesses,  these  were  the  Eumenides, 
or  Gracious  Ladies  (so  called  by  an-  [340 
tiquity  in  shuddering  propitiation),  of 
my  Oxford  dreams.  Madonna  spoke. 
She  spoke  by  her  mysterious  hand. 
Touching  my  head,  she  beckoned  to 
Our  Lady  of  Sighs;  and  what  she  spoke, 
translated   out  of   the   signs   which   (ex- 


DE  QUINCEY 


565 


cept    in    dreams)    no    man    reads,    was 
this:— 

"Lo!  here  is  he,  whom  in  childhood  I 
dedicated  to  my  altars.  This  is  he  [350 
that  once  I  made  my  darling.  Him  I  led 
astray,  him  I  beguiled,  and  from  heaven 
I  stole  away  his  young  heart  to  mine. 
Through  me  did  he  become  idolatrous; 
and  through  me  it  was,  by  languishing 
desires,  that  he  worshipped  the  worm, 
and  prayed  to  the  wormy  grave.  Holy 
was  the  grave  to  him ;  lovely  was  its  dark- 
ness; saintly  its  corruption.  Him,  this 
young  idolater,  I  have  seasoned  for  [360 
thee,  dear  gentle  Sister  of  Sighs!  Do  thou 
take  him  now  to  thy  heart,  and  season 
him  for  our  dreadful  sister.  And  thou," — 
turning    to   the   Mater    Tenebrarum,   she 


said, — "wicked  sister,  that  temptest  and 
hatest,  do  thou  take  him  from  her.  See 
that  thy  sceptre  lie  heavy  on  his  head. 
Suffer  not  woman  and  her  tenderness  to 
sit  near  him  in  his  darkness.  Banish  the 
frailties  of  hope,  wither  the  relenting  [370 
of  love,  scorch  the  fountains  of  tears, 
curse  him  as  only  thou  canst  curse.  So 
shall  he  be  accomplished  in  the  furnace, 
so  shall  he  see  the  things  that  ought  not 
to  be  seen,  sights  that  are  abominable, 
and  secrets  that  are  unutterable.  So  shall 
he  read  elder  truths,  sad  truths,  grand 
truths,  fearful  truths.  So  shall  he  rise 
again  before  he  dies,  and  so  shall  our  com- 
mission be  accomplished  which  from  [380 
God  we  had, — to  plague  his  heart  until  we 
had  unfolded  the  capacities  of  his  spirit." 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 

(1775-1864) 

ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes  5 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA 

"Artemidora!  Gods  invisible, 
While    thou    art    lying    faint    along    the 

couch, 
Have  tied  the  sandal  to  thy  slender  feet 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow.  5 
Refreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariness 
Away,  and  voices  like  thy  own  come  near 
And  nearer,  and  solicit  an  embrace." 
Artemidora    sighed,    and    would    have 

pressed 
The  hand  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too 

weak.  10 

Iris  stood  over  her  dark  hair  unseen 
While   thus  Elpenor   spake.     He   looked 

into 
Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  ere- 

while 
To  those  above  them,  but  now  dim  with 

tears 
And  wakefulness.    Again  he  spake  of  joy  1 5 
Eternal.     At  that  word,  that  sad  word, 

joy, 
Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heaved  once 

more: 
Her  head  fell  back;  and  now  a  loud  deep 

sob 
Swelled  through  the  darkened  chamber; 

'twas  not  hers. 


SAPPHO  TO  HESPERUS 

I  have  beheld  thee  in  the  morning  hour 
A  solitary  star,  with  thankless  eyes, 
Ungrateful  as  I  am!  who  bade  thee  rise 
When  sleep  all  night  had  wandered  from 

my  bower. 
Can  it  be  true  that  thou  art  he  5 

Who  shinest  now  above  the  sea 
Amid  a  thousand,  but  more  bright? 
Ah  yes !  the  very  same  art  thou 
That  heard  me  then  and  hearest  now — 
Thou  seemest,  star  of  love!  to  throb  with 

light.  10 


ONE  YEAR  AGO 

One  year  ago  my  path  was  green, 
My  footstep  light,  my  brow  serene ; 
Alas !  and  could  it  have  been  so 
One  year  ago? 

There  is  a  love  that  is  to  last  5 

When  the  hot  days  of  youth  are  past : 
Such  love  did  a  sweet  maid  bestow 
One  year  ago. 

I  took  a  leaflet  from  her  braid 
And  gave  it  to  another  maid.  10 

Love!  broken  should  have  been  thy  bow 
One  year  ago. 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none 

hear 
Beside   the  singer;   and   there  is  delight 
In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  praised  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakespeare   is    not    our    poet,  but    the 

world's,  5 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech!  and  brief  for 

thee, 
Browning!  Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and 

hale, 


566 


LAN  DOR 


567 


No  man  hath  walked  about  our  roads  with 

step 
So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So    varied    in    discourse.      But    warmer 

climes  10 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing:  the 

breeze 
Of    Alpine    heights    thou    playest    with, 

borne  on 
Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amain,  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


ON  THE  HELLENICS 

Come  back,  ye  wandering  Muses,  come 

back  home, 
Ye  seem  to  have  forgotten  where  it  lies: 
Come,  let  us  walk  upon  the  silent  sands 
Of  Simois,   where  deep  footmarks   show 

long  strides; 
Thence  we  may  mount,  perhaps,  to  higher 

ground,  ^  5 

Where  Aphrodite  from  Athene  won 
The  golden  apple,   and   from  Here  too, 
And  happy  Ares  shouted  far  below. 

Or  would  ye  rather  choose  the  grassy 

vale 
Where  flows  Anapos  through  anemones,  10 
Hyacinths,  and  narcissuses,  that  bend 
To  show  their  rival  beauty  in  the  stream? 
Bring  with  you  each  her  lyre,  and  each 

in  turn 
Temper  a  graver  with  a  lighter  song. 


IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON 

Iphigeneia,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Aulis,  and  when  all  beside  the  King 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  and 

said, 
"0  father!  I  am  young  and  very  happy. 
I  do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard       5 
Distinctly  what  the  goddess  spake.    Old 

age 
Obscures  the  senses.     If  my  nurse,  who 

knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunder- 
stood 
While  I  was  resting  on  her  knee  both  arms 
And  hitting  it  to  make  her  mind  my  words, 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in 
mine,  n 


Might  he  not  also  hear  one  word  amiss, 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olym- 
pus?" 
The   father   placed   his   cheek   upon  her 

head, 
And  tears  dropped  down  it,  but  the  king 

of  men  15 

Replied  not.    Then  the  maiden  spake  once 

more. 
''0  father!  sayst  thou  nothing?    Hear'st 

thou  not 
Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 
Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  thevoice  of  birds,  20 
When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 
And   the   down   deadened   it   within   the 

nest?" 
He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent  still, 
And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears 

from  her, 
Although  she  saw  fate  nearer:  then  with 

sighs,  25 

"I  thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair 

before 
Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  have  dimmed 
Her  polished  altar  with  my  virgin  blood; 
I    thought    to    have    selected    the   white 

flowers 
To  please  the  Nymphs,  and  to  have  asked 

of  each  30 

By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret, 
Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed  the 

change, 
I  might  at  Hymen's  feet  bend  my  clipped 

brow; 
And  (after  those  who  mind  us  girls  the 

most) 
Adore  our  own  Athena,  that  she  would  35 
Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes. 
But  father!  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 
Your  love,  O  father!  go  ere  I  am  gone — " 
Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her 

back, 
Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers,        40 
And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and 

burst. 
He  turned  away;  not  far,  but  silent  still. 
She  now  first  shuddered;  for  in  him,  so 

nigh, 
So  long  a  silence  seemed  the  approach  of 

death, 
And  like  it.     Once  again  she  raised  her 

voice.  45 

"O  father!  if  the  ships  are  now  detained, 


568 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  Gods  above, 
When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  be  one 

prayer 
The  less  to  them:  and  purer  can  there  be 
Any,  or  more  fervent  than  the  daughter's 

prayer  50 

For  her  dear  father's  safety  and  success?  " 
A  groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his 

resolve. 
An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 
One  word,  stepped  slowly  on,  and  took  the 

wrist 
Of  the  pale  maiden.     She  looked  up  and 

saw  55 

The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold  eyes. 
Then  turned  she  where  her  parent  stood, 

and  cried 
"0  father!  grieve  no  more:  the  ships  can 

sail." 

TO  YOUTH 

Where  art  thou  gone,  light-ankled  Youth? 

With  wing  at  either  shoulder, 
And  smile  that  never  left  thy  mouth 

Until  the  Hours  grew  colder: 

Then  somewhat  seemed  to  whisper  near  5 

That  thou  and  I  must  part; 
I  doubted  it:  I  felt  no  fear, 

No  weight  upon  the  heart: 

If  aught  befell  it,  Love  was  by 

And  rolled  it  off  again;  10 

So,  if  there  ever  was  a  sigh, 

'Twas  not  a  sigh  of  pain. 

I  may  not  call  thee  back;  but  thou 

Returnest  when  the  hand 
Of  gentle  Sleep  waves  o'er  my  brow        15 

His  poppy-crested  wand; 

Then  smiling  eyes  bend  over  mine, 
Then  lips  once  pressed  invite; 

But  Sleep  hath  given  a  silent  sign, 
And  both,  alas!  take  flight.  20 

TO  AGE 

Welcome,  old  friend!  These  many  years 

Have  we  lived  door  by  door: 
The  fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 

Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 


I  was  indocile  at  an  age  5 

When  better  boys  were  taught, 

But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 
If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men, 

Too  little  they  from  me,  10 

But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That,  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope,       15 

I  shall  not  see  again; 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage — 
He  who  hath  braved  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age.  20 

ON   HIS   SEVENTY-FIFTH    BIRTH- 
DAY 

I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth 
my  strife, 
Nature  I  loved,  and  next  to  Nature, 
Art; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of 
life, 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


TO  MY  NINTH  DECADE 

To  my  ninth  decade  I  have  tottered  on, 
And  no  soft  arm  bends  now  my  steps 
to  steady; 
She,  who  once  led  me  where  she  would, 
is  gone, 
So  when  he  calls  me,  Death  shall  find 
me  ready. 

ALFRED,  LORD  TENNYSON 
(1809-1892) 

THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 

PART   I 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many- towered  Camelot;  5 


TENNYSON 


569 


And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 
The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver,  10 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers,     15 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veiled, 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trailed  20 

By  slow  horses;  and  unhailed 

The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sailed 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot; 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand?         25 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 

In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly  30 

From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  towered  Camelot; 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers  "'Tis  the  fairy  35 

Lady  of  Shalott." 

PART  11 
There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay  40 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  45 

And  moving  through  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot;  50 

There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 


Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad,         55 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-haired  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue  60 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 

To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights,        65 

For  often  through  the  silent  nights 

A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot; 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed;         70 
"I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART   III 

A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The    sun    came    dazzling    through    the 
leaves,  75 

And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneeled, 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field,  80 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glittered  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 

Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 

The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily  85 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot; 
And  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott.  90 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jeweled  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot;       95 
As  often  through  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott.  99 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glowed; 
On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 


57o 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


From  underneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river         105 
He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  through  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom,  m 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide; 
The  mirror  cracked  from  side  to  side;     115 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART   IV 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complain- 
ing, 120 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  towered  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote       125 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance  130 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.  135 

Lying  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot;     140 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy,  145 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 
Turned  to  towered  Camelot. 


For  ere  she  reached  upon  the  tide  150 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery,  155 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame,       160 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 

And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 

Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer;  165 

And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot; 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space; 
He  said,  "She  has  a  lovely  face; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace,  1 70 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


(ENONE 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the 

glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine 

to  pine, 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.    On  either  hand 
The  lawns   and   meadow-ledges  midway 

down  6 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them 

roars 
The  long  brook  falling  through  the  cloven 

ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus       10 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning;  but  in 

front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  columned  citadel, 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn        15 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 

her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seemed  to  float  in  rest. 


TENNYSON 


57i 


She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 
vine, 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain- 
shade  20 

Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 
upper  cliff. 

aO  mother  Ida,  many  fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill ; 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass;  25 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are 

dead. 
The  purple  flower  droops,  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled:  I  alone  awake.  29 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 
My  heart  is  breaking  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth,  hear  me,  0  hills,  O 

caves  35 

That  house  the  cold  crowned  snake!     O 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed,  40 
A  cloud  that  gathered  shape;  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die.  45 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills; 
Aloft  the  mountain-lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain-pine. 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat,  white-horned, 
white-hooved,  50 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far  off  the  torrent  called  me  from  the  cleft ; 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.    With  down- 
dropped  eyes  55 
I  sat  alone;  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved;  a  leopard 

skin 
Drooped  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny 
hair 


Clustered  about  his  temples  like  a  God's; 

And  his  cheek  brightened  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens  60 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my 
heart 

Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere 
he  came. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He   smiled,   and   opening   out   his   milk- 
white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold,  65 
That   smelled   ambrosially,   and  while   I 

looked 
And    listened,    the    full-flowing    river    of 

speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart: 

'My  own  (Enone, 
Beautiful-browed  (Enone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  in- 
graven  70 
For  the  most  fair,  would  seem  to  award  it 

thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married 
brows.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die.  75 
He  pressed  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 
And  added,  'This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 

Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  'twere 

due;  80 

But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the 

cave  85 

Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon ;  one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides  91 
Of  this  long  glen.    Then  to  the  bower  they 

came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded 

bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 


572 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel,  95 

Lotos  and  lilies;  and  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  fes- 
toon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  through 
and  through.  100 

"0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree- tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o'er  him  flowed  a  golden  cloud,  and 

leaned 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her  to  whom 
Coming  through  heaven,  like  a  light  that 

grows  106 

Larger  and  clearer,   with  one   mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.    She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestioned,  overflowing  revenue        no 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  'from  many 

a  vale 
And    river-sundered    champaign    clothed 

with  corn, 
Or  labored  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  'and  homage,  tax  and 

toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large,  u5 

Mast-thronged    beneath    her    shadowing 

citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of 

power, 
'Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all;     120 
Power  fitted  to  the  season;  wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom — from  all  neighbor 

crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such  boon 

from  me, 
From  me,  heaven's  queen,  Paris,  to  thee 

king-born,  125 

A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men, 

in  power 
Only,  are  likest  Gods,  who  have  attained 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss  130 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 


"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought 

of  power 
Flattered  his  spirit;  but  Pallas  where  she 

stood  135 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept     watch,     waiting     decision,     made 

reply:  141 

'Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 

power. 
Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncalled  for)  but  to  live  by 

law,  14s 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence. ' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said:  'I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel -of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me     151 
To  fairer.    Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbiased  by  self-profit,  0,  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to 

thee,  157 

So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall    strike    within    thy   pulses,    like    a 

God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  through  a  life  of 

shocks,  160 

Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinewed  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will, 
Circled  through  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

Here  she  ceased, 
And  Paris  pondered  and  I  cried,  'O  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas! '  but  he  heard  me  not,  166 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me! 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful,  170 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian 
wells, 


TENNYSON 


573 


With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder;  from  the  violets  her  light 

foot  175 

Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated    the    glowing    sunlights,    as    she 

moved. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half- whispered    in    his    ear,    'I    promise 

thee  182 

The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.' 
She  spoke  and  laughed;  I  shut  my  sight 

for  fear; 
But  when  I  looked,  Paris  had  raised  his 

arm,  1S5 

And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die.  190 

"Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  passed  by,  a  wild  and  wanton 

pard,1  195 

Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful 

tail 
Crouched   fawning   in   the   weed.      Most 

loving  is  she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my 

arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips 

pressed 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling 

dew  200 

Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois! 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  tall  dark  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy 
ledge  205 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 

1  leopard. 


Fostered  the  callow  eaglet — from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the  dark 

morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I 
sat  210 

Low  in  the  valley.    Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  (Enone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  through  them;  never  see  them  over- 
laid 
With  narrow  moonlit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  tremb- 
ling stars.  215 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruined  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the 

glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came  220 
Into  the  fair  Pele'ian  banquet-hall, 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change;  that  I  might  speak 

my  mind, 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her   presence,  hated  both  of   Gods  and 

men.  225 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Even  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone? 
Sealed   it  with   kisses?   watered   it   with 

tears?  230 

O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these! 
O  happy  heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my 

face? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my 

weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating 

cloud,  234 

There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth, 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live; 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids;  let  me  die.  240 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and 

more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 


574 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  in- 
most hills,  245 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.  I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born.     Her  child! — a  shudder 

comes 
Across  me:  never  child  be  born  of  me     250 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes! 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  0  earth.  I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love  256 
With  the  Greek  woman.  I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come 

forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound  260 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  whereso'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS 

"Courage!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward 

the  land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
ward soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

swoon,  5 

Breathing   like   one   that   hath   a   weary 

dream. 
Full-faced    above    the    valley    stood    the 

moon; 
And,  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams!  some,  like  a  downward 
smoke,  10 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go ; 

And  some  through  wavering  lights  and 
shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land;  far  off,  three  moun- 
tain-tops, 15 


Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood    sunset-flushed;    and,    dewed   with 

showery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  lingered  low  adown 
In  the  red  West;  through  mountain  clefts 

the  dale  20 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Bordered  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 
And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale;1 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seemed 

the  same! 
And   round   about   the   keel   with   faces 

pale,  25 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters 

came. 

Branches    they   bore   of   that   enchanted 

stern, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 

gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them    30 
And   taste,   to  him    the   gushing   of   the 

wave 
Far  far   away  did   seem   to   mourn  and 

rave 
On  alien  shores;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

grave ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seemed,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make.  36 

They  sat   them   down   upon   the  yellow 

sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  ever- 
more 40 
Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the 

oar, 
Weary    the    wandering    fields   of    barren 

foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "We  will  return  no 

more;" 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,  "Our  island 

home 
Is  far  beyond   the   wave;   we   will  no 

longer  roam."  45 

1  reeds,  sedge. 


TENNYSON 


575 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN 

I  read,  before  my  eyelids  dropped  their 
shade, 
"The  Legend  of  Good  Women,"  long 
ago 
Sung  by  the  morning-star  of  song,  who 
made 
His  music  heard  below; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath  5 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 

With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 

Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong 

gales  10 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  though 

my  heart, 

Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.  In 
every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death.  16 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning 

stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and 

wrong, 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars;  20 

And  clattering  flints  battered  with  clang- 
ing hoofs; 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  columned  sanc- 
tuaries; 
And  forms  that  passed  at  windows  and  on 
roofs 
Of  marble  palaces; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold;  heroes  tall  25 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 

Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 
Lances  in  ambush  set; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  through  with 
heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues 
of  fire;  30 

White  surf  wind-scattered  over  sails  and 
masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higher; 


Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen 
plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers 
woes, 
Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron 
grates,  35 

And  hushed  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to 

land 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same 

way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand 

Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray.  40 

I  started  once,  or  seemed  to  start  in  pain, 
Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove  to 
speak, 
As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the 
brain, 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down  45 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguered  town; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies,  by  down-lapsing 
thought 
Streamed  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and 
did  creep 
Rolled  on  each  other,  rounded,  smoothed, 
and  brought  51 

Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I  had  wandered  far 
In  an  old  wood:  fresh- washed  in  coolest 
dew 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star  53 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree-boles  did   stoop  and 

lean 

Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  with 

clearest  green, 

New  from  its  silken  sheath.  60 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey 
done, 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twi- 
light plain, 
Half-fallen  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 


576 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead 
air,  65 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.    Growths  of  jasmine 
turned 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to 
tree,  70 

And  at  the  root  through  lush  green  grasses 
burned 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I 
knew 
The    tearful    glimmer    of    the    languid 
dawn 
On    those   long,   rank,   dark   wood-walks 
drenched  in  dew,  75 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Poured  back  into  my  empty  soul  and 
frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame.  80 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  undertone 
Thrilled  through  mine  ears  in  that  un- 
blissful  clime, 
" Pass  freely  through:  the  wood  is  all  thine 
own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call,         85 
Stiller  than  chiselled  marble,  standing 
there ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  sur- 
prise 
Froze  my  swift  speech:  she,  turning  on 
my  face  90 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place: 

"I  had  great  beauty:  ask  thou  not  my 

name: 

No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er 

I  came  95 

I  brought  calamity." 


"No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:  in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died," 

I  answered  free;  and  turning  I  appealed 
To  one  that  stood  beside.  100 

But   she,    with   sick   and   scornful   looks 
averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature 
draws ; 
"  My  youth,"  she  said,  "was  blasted  with 
a  curse: 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in   that  sad 

place  105 

Which  men  called  Aulis  in  those  iron 

years; 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face; 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"Still  strove  to  speak:  my  voice  was  thick 
with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.    Dimly  I  could  descry  no 
The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish 
eyes, 
Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

"The  high  masts  flickered  as   they  lay 
afloat; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  wavered,  and 
the  shore; 
The  bright  death  quivered  at  the  victim's 
throat —  115 

Touched— and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow: 

"  I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging 

foam, 

Whirled  by  the  wind,  had  rolled  me  deep 

below, 

Then  when  I  left  my  home."  120 

Her  slow   full   words   sank   through   the 
silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea: 
Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "Come 
here, 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 125 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  unrolled; 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold 
black  eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 


TENNYSON 


577 


She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began: 

"I  governed  men  by  change,  and  so  I 

swayed  130 

All  moods.    Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  a 

man. 

Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood :  135 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not 
bend 
One  will;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine 
eye 
That  dull,  cold-blooded  Caesar.    Prythee, 
friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony?  140 

"The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode 
sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck;  we  sat  as  God  by 
God; 
The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

"We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and 
lit  145 

Lamps  which  out-burned  Canopus.    Oh, 
my  life 
In  Egypt!  Oh,  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's 
alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony,  150 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leaped  into  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die! 

"And  there  he  died:  and  when  I  heard  my 
name 
Sighed  forth  with  life,  I  would  not  brook 
my  fear 
Of  the  other;  with  a  worm  I  balked  his 
fame.  155 

What  else  was  left?  look  here!" — 

With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and 

half 

The  polished  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a 

laugh, 

Showing  the  aspic's  bite. —  160 


"I  died  a  Queen.  The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows, 

A  name  for  ever! — lying  robed  and  crowned 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and 

glance  166 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  through 

all  change 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  de- 
light; 
Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the 
ground  1 70 

She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  filled 
with  light 
The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipped  his  keenest 

darts : 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 

All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty 

hearts  175 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I  heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  through  the 
lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn:  180 

"The  torrent  brooks  of  hallowed  Israel 
From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and 
soon, 
Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  through 
the  dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

"The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel       185 
Floods   all   the  deep-blue  gloom   with 
beams  divine; 
All  night  the  splintered  crags  that  wall 
the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine 
laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  through 
the  door  190 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 


57S 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charmed  and 
tied 
■  To  where  he  stands, — so  stood  I,  when 
that  flow 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died       195 
To  save  her  father's  vow; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 
A  maiden  pure;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpah's  towered  gate  with  wel- 
come light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song.  200 

My  words  leapt  forth:  "Heaven  heads  the 
count  of  crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  rendered 
answer  high : 
"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone;  a  thousand  times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

"Single  I  grew,   like  some  green  plant, 
whose  root  205 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  be- 
neath, 
Feeding  the  flower;  but  ere  my  flower  to 
fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

"My  God,  my  land,  my  father — these  did 
move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave,  210 

Lowered  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of 
love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  Hebrew 

boy 

Shall    smile   away   my   maiden   blame 

among 

The  Hebrew  mothers' — emptied  of  all  joy, 

Leaving  the  dance  and  song,  216 

"Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 
Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 

The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower.  220 

"The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by 
one, 
Or,  from  the  darkened  glen, 


"Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame,  225 

And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  be- 
came 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"When  the  next  moon  was  rolled  into  the 
sky, 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equalled  my 
desire.  230 

How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire! 

"It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell, 
That  I   subdued   me   to   my   father's 
will; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell,     235 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hewed  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth."  Here  her  face 
Glowed,  as  I  looked  at  her.  240 

She  locked  her  lips:  she  left  me  where  I 
stood : 
"Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  passed 
afar, 
Thridding   the   sombre  boskage1   of  the 
wood, 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively,  245 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his 
head, 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  sud- 
denly, 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

"Alas!  alas!"  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 

Murmured  beside  me.    "Turn  and  look 

on  me:  250 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse 
and  poor! 

0  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  angered  Eleanor    255 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

1  undergrowth. 


TENNYSON 


579 


She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and 
trust; 
To    whom    the    Egyptian:    "Oh,    you 
tamely  died! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist, 
and  thrust 
The  dagger  through  her  side."  260 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 
creeping  beams, 
Stolen    to    my    brain,    dissolved    the 
mystery 
Of    folded    sleep.      The    captain    of    my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broadened  on  the  borders  of  the 
dark  265 

Ere  I  saw  her  who  clasped  in  her  last 
trance 
Her  murdered  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 
Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France; 

Or  her  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 
Who  kneeling  with  one  arm  about  her 
king,  270 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden 

ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 

sleep  275 

To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.    With  what 

dull  pain 
Compassed,   how   eagerly  I   sought  to 

strike 
Into    that    wondrous    track    of    dreams 


again ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 


280 


As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been 
blest, 
Desiring   what    is   mingled    with   past 
years, 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  expressed 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears; 


Because  all  words,  though  culled  with 
choicest  art,  285 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


YOU  ASK  ME,  WHY,  THOUGH  ILL 
AT  EASE 

You  ask  me,  why,  though  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas. 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till,  5 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown,  10 

Where  Freedom  slowly  broadens  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent; 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But,  by  degrees  to  fullness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought  15 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute,  20 

Though  power  should  make  from  land  to 
land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Though  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  fill  and  choke  with  golden  sand — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth,     25 
Wild  wind!  I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


MORTE  D 'ARTHUR 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  Lord, 


580 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


King   Arthur:   then,   because   his   wound 
was  deep,  5 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one     n 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 
a  sleep  16 

They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls  20 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Though  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be, 
be;  24 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride;  for  thou  remember- 

est  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake,  30 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
Holding   the   sword — and   how    I    rowed 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known.  35 
But  now  delay  not;  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere;1 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly2  bring 
me  word." 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 
thus,  40 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  through  the 

helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 

1  sea,  lake.  2  quickly. 


Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word." 
So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he 

stepped  45 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,   chill,   with   flakes   of   foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 50 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There   drew   he   forth   the   brand   Ex- 
calibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran 

forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the 

hilt:  55 

For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth  work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he 

stood, 
This   way   and    that   dividing   the   swift 

mind,  60 

In  act  to  throw;  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That   whistled   stiff   and   dry   about   the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King.  65 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 

"Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I 

gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen,  or  what  hast 

heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 

"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds,  70 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and 

pale: 
"Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy 

name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight;         75 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 


TENNYSON 


58i 


As  thou  art  lief1  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word."  81 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 

Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere, 
Counting    the    dewy    pebbles,    fixed    in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt,  85 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud: 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should    thus    be    lost    forever   from    the 

earth,  90 

Which   might  have  pleased   the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were 

done? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  dis- 
obey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself?     96 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he 

does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt?  but  were  this 

kept,  100 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms, 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought   by   the   lonely   maiden   of   the 

Lake; 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps  105 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after- 
time 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence; 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were 

lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  con- 
ceit, no 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    breathing 

heavily  : 

1  loved. 


"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen,  or  what  hast 

heard?" 
And    answer   made    the    bold    Sir    Bedi- 
vere: 115 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in 

wrath: 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!  Woe  is  me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king,  121 

Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bowed  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou 

art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all,     125 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence;  130 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 

And,    leaping    down    the    ridges    lightly, 

plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutched  the 

sword,  135 

And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.    The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled 

in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where   the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock  140 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur; 
But  ere  he  dipped  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 
dished him  145 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 
Then    spoke    King    Arthur,    drawing 

thicker  breath: 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out;  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 

seen?"  .  150 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 


582 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 
gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 

Not  though  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal 
men,  155 

So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheel- 
ing him; 

But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 
dished him  160 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere." 
And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard: 

"My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were 
gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 
weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin;  yet  I  fear  165 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 
rose, 

Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 

As  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedivere  1 70 

Remorsefully  regarded  through  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not 
words, 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one 
knee, 

O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 
hands, 

And  rising  bore  him  through  the  place  of 
tombs.  175 

But,  as  he  walked,  King  Arthur  panted 
hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 
bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.    So  sighed  the 
king, 

Muttering    and    murmuring    at    his    ear, 
"Quick,  quick' 

I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die."      180 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to 
ridge, 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he 
walked, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 


Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him,  like 

a  goad.  185 

Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as 

he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten    with   the   dint   of   armed 

heels—  190 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo!  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were 

ware  195 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — 

by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony      200 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 
Then  murmured  Arthur,  "Place  me  in 

the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those 

three  Queens  205 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
;  And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And    loosed    the    shattered    casque,    and 

chafed  his  hands, 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud,  210 

And    dropping    bitter    tears    against   his 

brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood;  for  all  his  face 

was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east; 
And  all  his  greaves1  and  cuisses2  dashed 

with  drops  215 

•  Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 

1  leg  guards.  *  thigh  guards 


TENNYSON 


583 


High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parched 

with  dust; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mixed    with    the    knightly   growth    that 

fringed  his  lips.  220 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  through  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and 

charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings.      225 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 

"Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 

Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When    every   morning   brought   a   noble 

chance,  230 

And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dis- 
solved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless,  236 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among   new   men,    strange    faces,    other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge: 
"The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new,  240 

And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure!  but 

thou,  245 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul .   More  things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me   night   and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats  250 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 


If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 
God.  255 

But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt — 
To  the  island- valley  of  Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly,  but  it  lies    261 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard- 
lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer 

sea, 
Where   I   will   heal   me   of   my   grievous 
wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail  265 

Moved  from   the  brink,  like  some   full- 
breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the 

flood 
With  swarthy  webs.    Long  stood  Sir  Bed- 
ivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 
dawn,  271 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


ULYSSES 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 
By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 
Matched  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know 

not  me.  5 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel ;  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees.    All  times  I  have  enjoyed 
Greatly,  have  suffered  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone;  on  shore,  and 

when 
Through  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vexed  the  dim  sea.    I  am  become  a  name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart  12 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known, — cities  of 

men, 


5§4 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honored  of  them 

all,—  15 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 
Gleams    that    untravelled    world,    whose 

margin  fades  20 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnished,  not  to  shine  in  use! 
As  though  to  breathe  were  life !    Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me       25 
Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself, 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire    30 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond    the    utmost    bound    of    human 

thought. 
This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil        35 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  through  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail      40 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I 

mine. 
There  lies  the  port;  the  vessel  puffs  her 

sail; 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My 

mariners,  45 

Souls  that  have  toiled,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me, — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  op- 
posed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads, — you  and  I  are 

old; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil.     50 
Death  closes  all ;  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not   unbecoming  men   that  strove  with 

Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks; 


The    long    day    wanes;    the    slow    moon 

climbs;  the  deep  55 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose 

holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths  60 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the   gulfs  will  wash  us 

down; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And   see    the   great   Achilles,    whom   we 

knew. 
Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and 

though  65 

We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old 

days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we 

are,  we  are; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 

will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as 

yet  'tis  early  morn: 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me, 

sound  upon  the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old, 

the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying 

over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  over- 
looks the  sandy  tracts,  5 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement, 

ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly 

to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising 

through  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in 

a  silver  braid.  10 


TENNYSON 


535 


Here  about  the  beach  I  wandered,  nourish- 
ing a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the 
long  result  of  time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruit- 
ful land  reposed; 

When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the 
promise  that  it  closed; 

When  I  dipped  into  the  future  far  as 
human  eye  could  see;  15 

Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 
wonder  that  would  be. — 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon 
the  robin's  breast; 

In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  him- 
self another  crest; 

In  the  spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the 

burnished  dove; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love.  20 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a 
mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 

speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 

being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 
color  and  a  light,  25 

As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 
northern  night. 

And  she  turned — her  bosom  shaken  with 

a  sudden  storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark 

of  hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing 
they  should  do  me  wrong;" 

Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?" 
weeping,  "I  have  loved  thee  long."  30 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned 

it  in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself 

in  golden  sands. 


Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  might; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling, 
passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we 
hear  the  copses  ring,  35 

And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with 
the  fulness  of  the  spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we 

watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the 

touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted!  O  my  Amy, 

mine  no  more! 
O    the  dreary,  dreary   moorland!  O   the 

barren,  barren  shore!  40 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than 

all  songs  have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to 

a  shrewish  tongue! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?  having 
known  me — to  decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  nar- 
rower heart  than  mine! 

Yet  it  shall  be;  thou  shalt  lower  to  his 
level  day  by  day,  45 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse 
to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is;  thou  art 

mated  with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have 

weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 

have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little 

dearer  than  his  horse.  50 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy;  think  not 

they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him,  it  is  thy  duty;  kiss  him,  take 

his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain 

is  overwrought; 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch 

him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 


5S6 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things 
to  understand —  55 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  though 
I  slew  thee  with  my  hand! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from 

the  heart's  disgrace, 
Rolled  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in 

a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 

the  strength  of  youth! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 

the  living  truth!  60 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 

honest  Nature's  rule! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened 

forehead  of  the  fool! 

Well— 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster!— 
hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved — 

Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which 
bears  but  bitter  fruit?  65 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such 
length  of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-wintered  crow  that  leads  the 
clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort?  in  division  of  the  records 

of  the  mind? . 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her, 

as  I  knew  her,  kind?  70 

I  remember  one  that  perished;  sweetly 

did  she  speak  and  move; 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 

at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her 

for  the  love  she  bore? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly;  love  is  love 

for  evermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorned  of  devils !  this  is 
truth  the  poet  sings,  75 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remem- 
bering happier  things. 


Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,] 
lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the 
rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou 

art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and 

the  shadows  rise  and  fall.  80 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  point- 
ing to  his  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows,  to  the 
tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  whis- 
pered by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the 
ringing  of  thine  ears; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 
kindness  on  thy  pain.  85 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow;  get 
thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a 

tender  voice  will  cry. 
'T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine,  a  lip  to  drain 

thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down;  my  latest 

rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,   waxen   touches,   press  me 

from  the  mother's  breast.  90 

Oh,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a 

dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his;  it  will  be 

worthy  of  the  two. 

Oh,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 

petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching 

down  a  daughter's  heart. 

"They  were  dangerous  guides,  the  feelings 
— she  herself  was  not  exempt —        95 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered" — Perish 
in  thy  self-contempt! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy !  where- 
fore should  I  care? 

I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither 
by  despair. 


TENNYSON 


587 


What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  light- 
ing upon  days  like  these? 

Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys.  100 

Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors,  all  the 

markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy;  what  is  that 

which  I  should  do? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the 

foeman's  ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in  vapor,  and 

the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the 
hurt  that  Honor  feels,  105 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling 
at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness?    I  will  turn 

that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou 

wondrous  Mother- Age! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I 

felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 

tumult  of  my  life;  no 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the 

coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted   as   a   boy   when   first   he 

leaves  his  father's  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway 

near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring 

like  a  dreary  dawn; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 
before  him  then,  115 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among 
the  throngs  of  men; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever 

reaping  something  new; 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of 

the  things  that  they  shall  do. 

For  I  dipped  into  the  future,  far  as  human 

eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be;  120 


Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  ar- 
gosies of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping 
down  with  costly  bales; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 

there  rained  a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nation's  airy  navies  grappling 

in  the  central  blue; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south  wind  rushing  warm,  125 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plung- 
ing through  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer, 
and  the  battle-flags  were  furled 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation 
of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall 
hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapped 
in  universal  law.  130 

So  I  triumphed  ere  my  passion  sweeping 

through  me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left 

me  with  the  jaundiced  eye; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things 
here  are  out  of  joint. 

Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creep- 
ing on  from  point  to  point; 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion, 
creeping  nigher,  135 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a 
slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  in- 
creasing purpose   runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened 
with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest 

of  his  youthful  joys, 
Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat 

for  ever  like  a  boy's?  140 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and 

I  linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world 

is  more  and  more. 


588 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and 

he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full   of  sad  experience,   moving   toward 

the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sound- 
ing on  the  bugle-horn,  145 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a 
target  for  their  scorn. 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on 

such  a  mouldered  string? 
I  am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to 

have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness   to  be   wroth   with  weakness! 

woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain — 
Nature     made     them     blinder     motions 

bounded  in  a  shallower  brain:       150 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  pas- 
sions, matched  with  mine, 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight  and  as 
water  unto  wine — 

Here,  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  noth- 
ing.   Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my 
life  began  to  beat, 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my 
father  evil-starred; —  155 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  self- 
ish uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to 
wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gate- 
ways of  the  day. 

Larger     constellations    burning,     mellow 

moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in 

cluster,  knots  of  Paradise.  160 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an 

European  flag, 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous   woodland, 

swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossomed  bower,  hangs 

the  heavy-fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark  purple 

spheres  of  sea. 


There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more 
than  in  this  march  of  mind,  165 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramped  no  longer  shall 
have  scope  and  breathing  space; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall 
rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,   supple-sinewed,    they   shall 

dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl 

their  lances  in  the  sun;  170 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap 
the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over 
miserable  books — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy!  but  I 

know  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than 

the  Christian  child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of 
our  glorious  gains,  175 

Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 
beast  with  lower  pains! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me 

were  sun  or  clime ! 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost 

files  of  time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should 

perish  one  by  one, 
Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 

Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon!  180 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  For- 
ward, forward  let  us  range, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down 
the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

into  the  younger  day; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of 

Cathay. 

Mother- Age, —  for  mine  I  knew  not, —  help 
me  as  when  life  begun;  185 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash 
the  lightnings,  weigh  the  sun. 


TEXXYSOX 


589 


Oh,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 

hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through 

all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell 

to  Locksley  Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now 

for  me  the  roof-tree  fall.  190 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blacken- 
ing over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its 
breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or 
hail,  or  fire  or  snow; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  sea- 
ward, and  I  go. 

BREAK,   BREAK,   BREAK 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy,  5 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill;  10 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender   grace  of  a  day  that  is 
dead  1 5 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

SONGS  from  THE  PRINCESS 

BUGLE   SONG 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
:  Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  fly- 
ing, 5 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 


O,  hark,  0,  hear!  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 

O,  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing !  1  d 

Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 

Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul,  15 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  fly- 
ing, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 


TEARS,   IDLE  TEARS 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 

mean, 
Tears   from   the   depth   of   some   divine 

despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn-fields, 
And   thinking  of   the  days   that  are  no 

more.  5 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a 
sail, 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 

That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 
verge; 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no 
more.  10 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no 

more.  15 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as   those  by  hopeless   fancy 

feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret: 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 

more!  20 


59° 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


HOME  THEY  BROUGHT  HER  WAR- 
RIOR  DEAD 

Home   they  brought  her  warrior  dead; 

She  nor  swooned  nor  uttered  cry: 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low,         5 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stepped,  10 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears —  1 5 
"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


IN  MEMORIAM  A.   H.   H. 

OBIIT  MDCCCXXXIII 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom    we,    that    have    not   seen    thy 

face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade;     5 
Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute; 
Thou  madest  Death;  and  lo,  thy  foot 

Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust; 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why,  10 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die; 

And  thou  hast  made  him:  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou. 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how;  15 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be; 

They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they.  20 


We  have  but  faith:  we  cannot  know; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness:  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more,  25 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.    We  are  fools  and  slight; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear:    30 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seemed  my  sin  in  me; 

What  seemed  my  worth  since  I  began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man,        35 
And  not  from  man,  0  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved.  40 


Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth; 
Forgive     them     where     they     fail    in  I 
truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

LXXXVT 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below         5 
Through  all  the  dewy  tasselled  wood, 
And     shadowing     down     the     horned 
flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 

The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath   1  o 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and 
Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star  15 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "Peace." 


TENNYSON 


59i 


LXXXVIII 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  through  the  budded  quicks, 

0  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 
O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate:  fierce  extremes  employ  5 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy ; 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe — 

1  cannot  all  command  the  strings;         10 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

CVI 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light: 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new,  5 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more;  10 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor; 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life,  15 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in.  20 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease;         25 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 


Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand;  30 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

cxv 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  burgeons1  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,2  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long,  5 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drowned  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale,  10 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky  15 

To  build  and  brood;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too,  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest.     20 

cxxvi 

Love  is  and  was  my  lord  and  king, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  the  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  king  and  lord,  5 

And  will  be,  though  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  the  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompassed  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place,  10 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

cxxxi 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  through  our  deeds  and  make  them 
pure, 

1  blossoms.  2  square  fields  enclosed  by  hedges. 


59- 


THE  VICTORIA  A  AGE 


That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust  5 

A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquered  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved     10 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


THE  EAGLE 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls,       5 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


From  MAUD 

XVIII 

I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 

friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wished-for  end,  5 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised 

good. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  patter- 
ing talk 

Seemed  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk, 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes 
once  more;  10 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door; 

The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she 
is  gone. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  de- 
ceased. 

0,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon  15 

In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 
delicious  East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  though  thy  limbs  have  here 
increased, 


Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed  : 

With  honeyed  rain  and  delicate  air, 

And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 

Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my 

fate, 
And    made    my   life   a   perfumed    altar- 
flame, 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have 
spread  25 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy 

great 

Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing    the    snow-limbed    Eve    from 
whom  she  came? 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches 

sway, 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play,         31 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 
As  when  it  seemed  far  better  to  be  born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-hardened  hand 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  under- 
stand 35 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man.  40 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky, 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple 

girl?—  45 

Would  die;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may 

give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  'tis  sweet  to 

live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass ; 
It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me     50 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

Not  die;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 
wrongs. 


TENNYSON 


593 


O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking 

songs,  55 

Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  of 

death? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss, 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  loving 

kiss; 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this? 
"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself 

more  dear."  61 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 

Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay? 

And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 

Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  passed  in  bridal 
white,  65 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her 
sight, 

And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stolen 
away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies 
dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  af- 
fright! 71 

Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 
spell. 

My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 

My  own  heart's  heart,  my  ownest  own, 
farewell ; 

It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go,  75 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 
glow 

Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 
bright? 

/  have  climbed  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  be- 
low, 81 

Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart 
can  tell, 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 

That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be 
so; 

Let  all  be  well,  be  well.  85 

XXII 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown; 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone; 


And    the    woodbine    spices    are    wafted 
abroad,  5 

And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky,  10 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon; 
All    night    has    the    casement    jessamine 
stirred  15 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one, 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay.     20 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone     25 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine?        30 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood,      35 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March- wind  sighs    40 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


594 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake        45 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me;  50 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls,  55 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate,  60 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate. 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is 
near ; ' ' 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear;"  65 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed;  70 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead, 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 
BRIGADE 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blundered. 


Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die.  15 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  in  front  of  them  20 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell  25 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while  30 

All  the  world  wondered: 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke  35 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them,  40 

Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well        45 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade?  50 

O  the  wild  charge  they  made! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred!  55 

NORTHERN  FARMER 

OLD    STYLE 

Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'1 

'ere  aloan? 
Noorse?  thourt  nowt  o'  a  noorse;  whoy, 

Doctor's  abean  an'  agoan; 

1  lying. 


TENNYSON 


595 


Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale,  but  I 

beant  a  fool; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin'  to 

break  my  rule. 

Doctors,    they  knaws   nowt,  fur  a   says 

what's  nawways  true;  5 

Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things 

that  a  do. 
I've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I 

bean  ere, 
An'  I've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight 

for  foorty  year. 

Parson's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin' 

ere  o'  my  bed. 
"  The  Amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,1 

my  friend,"  a  said,  10 

An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an'  's  toithe  were 

due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'urn,  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.    I  reckons  I  'annot  sa 

mooch  to  larn. 
But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy 

Marris's  barne.2 
Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire 

an'  choorch  an'  staate,  15 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin 

the  raate.3 

An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to's  choorch  afoor 

moy  Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'eard  'urn  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a 

buzzard-clock4  ower  my  'ead, 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I 

thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said, 

an'  I  coom'd  awaay.  20 

Bessy  Marris's  barne!  tha  knaws  she  laaid 

it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad 

un,  shea. 
'Siver,5  I  kep  'urn,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass,  tha 

mun  understond; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says 
it  easy  an'  freea:  25 

"The  Amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen, 
my  friend,"  says  'ea. 

3  tax. 


1  himself. 
4  cockchafer. 


2  bairn,  child. 
5  howsoever. 


I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun 

said  it  in  'aaste ; 
But  'e  reaads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I 

'a  stubb'd6  Thurnaby  waaste. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass?  naw, 

naw,  tha  was  not  born  then; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle7  in  it,  I  often  'eard 

'um  mysen;  30 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,8  fur  I  'eard 

'um  about  an'  about, 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an' 

raaved9  an'  rembled10  'um  out. 

Reaper's  it  wur;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer 

a-laaid  of  'is  faace 
Down    i'    the    woild    'enemies11    afoor    I 

coom'd  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toaner12  'ed   shot 

'um  as  dead  as  a  naail.  35 

Noiiks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize13 — 

but  git  ma  my  aale. 

Dubbut    loook    at    the    waaste;     theer 

warn't  not  feead  for  a  cow; 
Nowt  at  all   but  bracken  an'  fuzz,14  an' 

loook  at  it  now — 
Warn't  worth  nowt   a  haacre,  an'   now 

theer's  lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor  yows15  upon  it,  an'  some  on  it 

down  i'  seead.  40 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to 

'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year16  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd 

plow  thruff  it  an'  all, 
If  Godamoighty  an'  parson   'ud  nobbut 

let  ma  aloan, — 
Mea,    wi'     haate    hoonderd    haacre    o' 

Squoire's,  an  lond  o'  my  oan. 

Do  Godamoighty  knaw  what  a's  doing  a- 

taakin'  o'  mea?  45 

I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an  yonder 

a  pea; 
An'  Squoire  u'll  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a'  dear, 

a'  dear! 
And    I    'a    managed    for    Squoire    coom 

Michaelmas  thutty  year. 


6  cleared. 

7  bogle,  ghost. 

8  bittern. 

9  tore  up. 

10  routed  out. 

11  anemones. 

12  one  or  the  other 

13  the  assizes. 

14  furze. 

15  ewes. 

16  this  year. 

596 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a 

'aapoth1  o'  sense, 
Or  a   mowt   a'    taaen   young   Robins — a 

niver  mended  a  fence;  50 

But  Godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an' 

taake  ma  now, 
Wi'  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby 

hoalms2  to  plow! 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seeas 

ma  a  passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen,  naw  doubt,  "What  a  man 

a  bea  sewerloy!" 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire 

sin'  fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'All;  55 

I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done 

moy  duty  boy  hall. 

Squoire'si'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons 

'ull  'a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot 

muddles3  ma  quoit; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea  thot  a  weant  niver  give 

it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver 

rembles  the  stoans.  60 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap 

wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'4  an'  maazin'5  the  blessed  fealds 

wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team. 
Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife 

they  says  is  sweet, 
But  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I 

couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn 

bring  ma  the  aale?  65 

Doctor's  a  'toattler,6  lass,  an  a's  hallus  i' 

the  owd  taale; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  floy ; 
Git  ma  my  aale,  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun 

doy  I  mun  doy. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas, 

the  hills  and  the  plains — 
Are  not  these,  0  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him 

who  reigns? 


halfpennyworth, 
buzzing. 


2  river-flats. 
5  amazing. 


3  perplexes. 

*  a  "  tee-totaller. 


Is  not  the  Vision  He,  though  He  be  not 

that  which  He  seems? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do 

we  not  live  in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of 
body  and  limb,  5 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy 
division  from  Him? 

Dark  is   the  world   to  thee;   thyself  art 

the  reason  why; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,   that  hast 

power  to  feel  "I  am  I "? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee;  and  thou 

fulfillest  thy  doom, 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled 

splendor  and  gloom.  10 

Speak  to  Him,  thou,  for  He  hears,  and 
Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet — 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer 
than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise;  O  Soul,  and  let 

us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is 

yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some:  no  God  at  all,  says 
the  fool;  15 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight 
staff  bent  in  a  pool; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the 

eye  of  man  cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — 

were  it  not  He? 


FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,   root  and  all,   in   my 

hand, 
Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in 

all,  5 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


TENNYSON 


597 


THE  REVENGE 

A  BALLAD  OF   THE   FLEET 


At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  fluttered  bird,  came 

flying  from  far  away: 
"Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea!  we  have 

sighted  fifty-three!  " 
Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard:  "  'Fore 

God,  I  am  no  coward; 
But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships 

are  out  of  gear,  5 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must 

fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line;  can  we  fight 

with  fifty-three?" 

ii 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:  "I 
know  you  are  no  coward ; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with 
them  again. 

But  I've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are 
lying  sick  ashore.  10 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left 
them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devil- 
doms of  Spain." 

in 

So  Lord  Howard  passed  away  with  five 
ships  of  war  that  day, 

Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent 
summer  heaven; 

But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick 
men  from  the  land  15 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 

Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 

And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  be- 
low: 

For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 

And  they  blessed  him  in  their  pain,  that 
they  were  not  left  to  Spain,  20 

To  the  thumb-screw  and  the  stake,  for  the 
glory  of  the  Lord. 

IV 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work 

the  ship  and  to  fight, 
And  he  sailed  away  from  Flores  till  the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the 

weather  bow. 


"  Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly?  25 

Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 

For  to  fight  is  but  to  die! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time 
this  sun  be  set." 

And  Sir  Richard  said  again:  "We  be  all 
good  English  men. 

Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  chil- 
dren of  the  devil ,  30 

For  I  never  turned  my  back  upon  Don  or 
devil  yet." 

v 
Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laughed,  and  we 

roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the 

heart  of  the  foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and 

her  ninety  sick  below; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half 

to  the  left  were  seen,  35 

And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  through  the 

long  sea-lane  between. 

VI 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  looked  down 

from  their  decks  and  laughed, 
Thousands  of  their  seamen  made  mock  at 

the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delayed 
By  their  mountain-like  San  Philip  that, 

of  fifteen  hundred  tons,  40 

And  up-shadowing  high  above  us  with  her 

yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we 

stayed. 

VII 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung 

above  us  like  a  cloud 
Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud,  45 

Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 
And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon 

the  starboard  lay, 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them 

all. 

vin 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  be- 
thought herself  and  went,  50 

Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had 
left  her  ill  content; 


598 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 
they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 

For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 
pikes  and  musqueteers, 

And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a 
dog  that  shakes  his  ears  54 

When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

IX 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 
came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 

But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of 
the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their 
high-built  galleons  came, 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with 
her  battle- thunder  and  flame: 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew 
back  with  her  dead  and  her  shame.    60 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shat- 
tered, and  so  could  fight  no  more — 

God  of  battles,  was  ever  a  battle  like  this 
in  the  world  before? 

x 

For  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 
Though  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short 

summer  night  was  gone,  65 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  dressed  he  had 

left  the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing 

it  suddenly  dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the 

side  and  the  head, 
And  he  said,  "Fight  on!  fight  on!" 

XI 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 

smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea,  70 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides 

lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for 

they  feared  that  we  still  could  sting, 
So  they  watched  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we,  75 

Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 

slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maimed  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the 

desperate  strife: 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold, 


And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 

and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent;  80 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying 

over  the  side; 
But    Sir    Richard    cried    in    his    English 

pride: 
"We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day 

and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men!        85 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die — does  it  matter  when? 
Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink 

her,  split  her  in  twain! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the 

hands  of  Spain!"  90 

XII 

And  the  gunner  said,  "Ay,  ay,"  but  the 

seamen  made  reply: 
"We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if 

we  yield,  to  let  us  go; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike 

another  blow."  95 

And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 

XIII 

And   the   stately   Spanish   men   to   their 

flagship  bore  him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir 

Richard  caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 

their  courtly  foreign  grace; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried: 
"I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a 

valiant  man  and  true;  101 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 

bound  to  do. 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Gren- 

ville  die!" 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

XIV 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been 

so  valiant  and  true,  105 

And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 

Spain  so  cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and 

his  English  few; 
Was  he  devil  or  man?    He  was  devil  for 

aught  they  knew, 


TENNYSON 


599 


But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down 

into  the  deep, 
And    they   manned   the   Revenge   with  a 

swarthier  alien  crew,  no 

And  away  she  sailed  with  her  loss  and 

longed  for  her  own; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruined  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan, 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great 

gale  blew, 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by 

an  earthquake  grew,  115 

Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails 

and  their  masts  and  their  flags, 
And  the  wThole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on 

the  shot-shattered  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the  little  Revenge  herself  went  down 

by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

RIZPAH 


17- 


Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over 

land  and  sea — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "O  mother, 

come  out  to  me!" 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he 

knows  that  I  cannot  go? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 

the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

11 
We  should  be  seen,  my  dear;  they  would 

spy  us  out  of  the  town.  5 

The  loud  black  nights   for  us,  and  the 

storm  rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am 

led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I 

find  myself  drenched  with  the  rain. 

in 

Anything    fallen   again?    nay — what   was 

there  left  to  fall? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  numbered 

the  bones,  I  have  hidden  them  all.  10 
What  am  I  saying?  and  what  are  you?  do 

you  come  as  a  spy? 
Falls?  what  falls?  who  knows?    As  the  tree 

falls  so  must  it  lie. 


iv 

Who  let  her  in?  how  long  has  she  been? 

you — what  have  you  heard? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet?  you  never  have 

spoken  a  word. 
O — to  pray  with  me — yes — a  lady — none 

of  their  spies —  15 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 

and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 


Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what 

should  you  know  of  the  night, 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the 

bitter  frost  and  the  fright? 
I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gathered  my  baby  together — and 

now  you  may  go  your  way.  20 

vi 
Nay — for  it's  kind  of  you,  madam,  to  sit 

by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 

only  an  hour  of  life. 
I  kissed  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 

went  out  to  die. 
"They  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  and  he 

never  has  told  me  a  he. 
I  whipped  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once 

when  he  was  but  a  child —  25 

"The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said; 

he  was  always  so  wild — 
And  idle — and  couldn't  be  idle — my  Willy 

— he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  soldier, 

he  would  have  been  one  of  his  best. 

VII 
But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and 

they  never  would  let  him  be  good; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail, 

and  he  swore  that  he  would;  30 

And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse, 

and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — "I'll  none 

of  it,"  said  my  son. 

VIII 
I  came  into  court  to  the  judge  and  the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth — but  they  killed   him, 

they  killed  him  for  robbing  the  mail. 


6oo 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


They  hanged  him  in  chains  for  a  show — 

we  had  always  borne  a  good  name — 35 
To  be  hanged  for  a  thief — and  then  put 

away — isn't  that  enough  shame? 
Dust  to  dust — low  down — let  us  hide!  but 

they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare 

at   him,   passing   by. 
God  'ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and 

horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who 

killed  him  and  hanged  him  there.  40 

IX 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.    I  had  bid 

him  my  last  good-bye; 
They  had  fastened  the  door  of  his  cell. 

"O  mother!  "  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't  get  back  though  I  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say, 
And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.    The  jailer 

forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that  cry  of 
my  boy  that  was  dead,  45 

They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up:  they 
fastened  me  down  on  my  bed, 

"Mother,  0  mother!" — he  called  in  the 
dark  to  me  year  after  year — 

They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — 
you  know  that  I  couldn't  but  hear; 

And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 

They  let  me  abroad  again — but  the  crea- 
tures had  worked  their  will.  50 

xr 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my 

bone  was  left — 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft? — 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  sucked  me, 

the  bones  that  had  laughed  and  had 

cried — 
Theirs?    O,  no!  they  are  mine — not  theirs 

— they  had  moved  in  my  side. 

XII 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones?  I 
kissed  'em,  I  buried  'em  all —  55 

I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by 
the  churchyard  wall. 


My  Willy  'ill  rise  up  whole  when  the 
trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound, 

But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid 
him  in  holy  ground. 

XIII 

They  would  scratch  him  up — they  would 

hang  him  again  on  the  cursed  tree. 
Sin?    0,  yes,  we  are  sinners,  I  know — let 

all  that  be,  60 

And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's 

goodwill  toward  men — 
"Full    of    compassion    and    mercy,    the 

Lord" — let  me  hear  it  again; 
"Full   of   compassion   and   mercy — long- 
suffering."     Yes,  0,  yes! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — 

the  Savior  lives  but  to  bless. 
He  '11  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst,  65 

And  the  first  may  be  last — I  have  heard 

it  in  church — and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering — 0,  long-suffering — yes,  as  the 

Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind 

and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 

XIV 

Heard,  have  you?  what?  they  have  told 

you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it?  are  they  his  mother? 

are  you  of  his  kin?  70 

Heard!  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the 

storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and  the 

sea  that  'ill  moan  like  a  man? 

xv 

Election,  Election,  and  Reprobation — it's 

all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall 

not  find  him  in  hell. 
For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the 

Lord  has  looked  into  my  care,         75 
And  He  means  me  I'm  sure  to  be  happy 

with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

XVI 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire — 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my 

boy  be  gone  to  the  fire? 


TENNYSON 


60 1 


I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go, 
you  may  leave  me  alone — 

You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are 
just  as  hard  as  a  stone.  80 

XVII 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  think  that 
you  mean  to  be  kind, 

But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 
Willy's  voice  in  the  wind — 

The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — he  used 
but  to  call  in  the  dark, 

And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church 
and  not  from  the   gibbet — for  hark! 

Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is 
coming — shaking  the  walls —  85 

Willy — the  moon  's  in  a  cloud Good- 
night.   I  am  going.    He  calls. 


BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the 
soul  of  a  man, 
And  the  man  said,  "Am  I  your  debtor?" 
And  the  Lord — "Not  yet:  but  make  it  as 
clean  as  you  can, 
And  then  I  will  let  you  a  better." 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul 

uncertain  or  a  fable,  5 

Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while 

the  sun  of  morning  shines, 

I,  the  finer  brute  rejoicing  in  my  hounds, 

and  in  my  stable, 

Youth  and  health,  and  birth  and  wealth, 

and  choice  of  women  and  of  wines? 

11 

What  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old  Age, 
save  breaking  my  bones  on  the  rack? 
Would  I  had  passed  in  the  morning  that 
looks  so  bright  from  afar!  10 

Old  Age 

Done  for  thee?  starved  the  wild  beast  that 
was  linked  with  thee  eighty  years  back. 

Less  weight  now  for  the  ladder  of  heaven 
that  hangs  on  a  star. 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  though  some- 
what finer  than  their  own, 
I  am  heir,  and  this  my  kingdom.    Shall 
the  royal  voice  be  mute? 
No,  but  if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to  dra^ 
me  from  the  throne,  15 

Hold  the  sceptre,  Human  Soul,  and  rule 
thy  province  of  the  brute. 

11 

I  have  climbed  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and 

I  gazed  at  a  field  in  the  Past, 
Where  I  sank  with  the  body  at  times  in 

the  sloughs  of  a  low  desire, 
But  I  hear  no  yelp  of  the  beast,  and  the 

Man  is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life  with 

a  glimpse  of  a  height  that  is  higher.  20 


MERLIN  AND   THE   GLEAM 

1 
O  young  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 
You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 
/  am  Merlin, 
And  I  am  dying, 
/  am  Merlin 
Who  follow  The  Gleam. 


Mighty  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  sunrise 
Sleeping,  and  woke  me 
And  learned  me  Magic! 
Great  the  Master, 
And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 
In  early  summers, 
Over  the  mountain, 
On  human  faces, 
And  all  around  me, 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  The  Gleam. 


is 


in 


Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven  who 

crossed  it, 
A  barbarous  people,  25 

Blind  to  the  magic, 


6o2 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  deaf  to  the  melody, 

Snarled  at  and  cursed  me. 

A  demon  vexed  me, 

The  light  retreated,  30 

The  landskip1  darkened, 

The  melody  deadened, 

The  Master  whispered 

"Follow  The  Gleam." 

IV 

Then  to  the  melody,  35 

Over  a  wilderness 

Gliding,  and  glancing  at 

Elf  of  the  woodland, 

Gnome  of  the  cavern, 

Griffin  and  Giant,  40 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 

In  desolate  hollows, 

And  wraiths  of  the  mountain, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water,  45 

Or  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents, 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 


Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level,  50 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river, 

Silvery  willow, 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Horses  and  oxen,  55 

Innocent  maidens, 

Garrulous  children, 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner, 

And  rough-ruddy  faces  60 

Of  lowly  labor, 

Slided  The  Gleam. — 

VI 

Then,  with  a  melody 

Stronger  and  statelier, 

Led  me  at  length  65 

To  the  city  and  palace 

Of  Arthur  the  king; 

Touched  at  the  golden 

Cross  of  the  churches, 

Flashed  on  the  Tournament          70 

Flickered  and  bickered 

From  helmet  to  helmet, 

1  landscape. 


And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 


75 


VII 


Clouds  and  darkness 
Closed  upon  Camelot; 
Arthur  had  vanished 
I  knew  not  whither, 
The  king  who  loved  me,  80 

And  cannot  die; 
For  out  of  the  darkness 
Silent  and  slowly 

The  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a  win- 
try glimmer 
On  icy  fallow  85 

And  faded  forest, 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow, 
And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the  glimmer,  90 

And  slowly  moving  again  to  a  melody 
Yearningly  tender, 
Fell  on  the  shadow, 
No  longer  a  shadow, 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam.  95 

VIII 

And  broader  and  brighter 

The  Gleam  flying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  through  the  world; 

And  slower  and  fainter,  100 

Old  and  weary, 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city,  105 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom; 

And  so  to  the  land's  no 

Last  limit  I  came — 

And  can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing, 

For  through  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty,  nS 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam.  120 


BROWNING 


603 


IX 

Not  of  the  sunlight, 

Not  of  the  moonlight, 

Not  of  the  starlight! 

O  young  Mariner, 

Down  to  the  haven,  125 

Call  your  companions, 

Launch  your  vessel, 

And  crowd  your  canvas, 

And,  ere  it  vanishes 

Over  the  margin,  130 

After  it,  follow  it, 

Follow  The  Gleam. 


CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep,     5 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When    that   which    drew    from    out    the 
boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark!  10 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time 
and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face  15 

When  I  have  crossed  the  bar. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  (1812-1889) 

SONG  from  PIPPA  PASSES 

The  year's  at  the  spring 
And  day's  at  the  morn; 
Morning's  at  seven; 
The  hillside's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn; 
God's  in  his  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world! 


CAVALIER  TUNES 

I.    MARCHING   ALONG 

Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 
And,  pressing1  a   troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk 

droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong,     5 
Great-hearted    gentlemen,     singing    this 

song. 

God   for   King   Charles!   Pym   and   such 

carles2 
To   the   Devil    that   prompts    'em    their 

treasonous  paries!3 
Cavaliers,  up!    Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take,  nor 
sup,  10 

Till  you're — 

Chorus. — Marching   along,   fifty-score 
strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  sing- 
ing this  song! 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry, 

as  well! 
England,  good  cheer !    Rupert  is  near !      1 5 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 
Cho. — Marching       along,       fifty-score 
strong, 
Great-hearted    gentlemen,    singing 
this  song? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles!    Pym  and 

his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent 
carles!  20 

Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the 
fight, 
Cho. — March    we    along,     fifty-score 
strong, 
Great-hearted    gentlemen,    singing 
this  song! 

n.   GIVE  A   ROUSE 

King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right 

now? 
King  Charles,  and  who  's  ripe  for  fight 

now? 
Give  a  rouse;  here's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 


pressing  into  service. 

3  parleyings,  debates. 


:  churls,  knaves. 


604 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since?  5 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since? 
Who  found  me  in1  wine  you  drank  once? 
Cho. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him 
right  now? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for 
fight  now?  10 

Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  de- 
spite now, 
King  Charles! 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 

By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him? 

For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else,      1 5 

While  Noll's2  damned  troopers  shot  him? 

Cho. — King  Charles,  and  who'll  do  him 

right  now? 

King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for 

fight  now? 
Give  a  rouse:  here's,  in  hell's  de- 
spite now, 
King  Charles!  20 

III.    BOOT  AND   SADDLE 

Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray. 
Cho. — Boot,  saddle,  to  horse  and  away! 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd  say; 

Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen  and 

pray  6 

"God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the 

lay — 

Cho. — Boot,    saddle,    to    horse,    and 

away!" 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads' 
array:  10 

Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this,  by 
my  fay, 
Cho. — Boot,    saddle,    to    horse,    and 
away!" 

Who?     My  wife  Gertrude;  that,  honest 

and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering, 

"Nay! 
I've  better  counsellors ;  what  counsel  they? 
Cho. — Boot,    saddle,    to    horse,    and 


away 


16 


1  supplied  me  with. 


2  Oliver  Cromwell's. 


THE  LOST  LEADER 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft 
us, 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out 
silver,  5 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed: 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  serv- 
ice! 
Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had 
been  proud! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him, 
honored  him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye,  10 
Learned  his  great  language,   caught  his 
clear  accents, 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 
Burns,    Shelley,    were    with    us, — they 
watch  from  their  graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  free- 
men, 15 
— He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the 
slaves! 

We  shall  march  prospering, — not  through 
his  presence; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his 
quiescence, 
Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade 
aspire;  20 

Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost 
soul  more, 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  foot- 
path untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for 
angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult 
to  God! 
Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come 
back  to  us!  25 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and 
pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of 
twilight, 
Never  glad   confident  morning   again! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — 
strike  gallantly, 
Menace   our  heart  ere  we  master  his 
own;  30 


BROWNING 


605 


Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  j  With    resolute    shoulders,    each    butting 


and  wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the 
throne! 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS   FROM   GHENT  TO  AIX 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all 

three; 
"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the 

gate-bolts  undrew; 
"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 

through; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank 

to  rest,  5 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the 

great  pace 
Neck   by   neck,    stride   by   stride,   never 

changing  our  place; 
I    turned   in    my    saddle   and    made    its 

girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the 

pique1  right,  10 

Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker 

the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas    moonset    at    starting;    but    while 

we  drew  near 
Lokeren,    the    cocks    crew    and    twilight 

dawned  clear; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out 

to  see;  15 

At  Duffeld,   'twas  morning  as   plain  as 

could  be; 
'  And    from    Mecheln    church-steeple    we 

heard  the  half -chime, 
j  So  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there 

is  time!  " 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
1  And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black 
every  one,  20 

j  To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  gallop- 
ing past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at 
last, 

1  peak,  pommel. 


away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its 
spray: 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp 

ear  bent  back  25 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out 

on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,— ever 

that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master, 

askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which 

aye  and  anon  29 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By   Hasselt,    Dirck    groaned;    and    cried 

Joris,  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's 

not  in  her. 
We'll  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard 

the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and 

staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the 

flank,  35 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered 

and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in 

the  sky; 
The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless 

laugh, 
'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright 

stubble  like  chaff;  40 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang 

white, 
And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in 

sight!" 

"How  they'll  greet  us!" — and  all   in  a 

moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 

stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the 

whole  weight  45 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix 

from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood 

to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets' 

rim. 


6o6 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Then    I    cast    loose    my    buffcoat,    each 

holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt 

and  all,  50 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted 

his  ear, 
Called    my    Roland    his    pet-name,    my 

horse  without  peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,   laughed  and   sang, 

any  noise,  bad  or  good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped 

and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is — friends  flocking 

round  55 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on 

the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland 

of  mine, 
As   I   poured  down   his  throat   our   last 

measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common 

consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought 

good  news  from  Ghent.  60 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT 

The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow,      5 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match,         10 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  its  joys 

and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each! 


PARTING  AT  MORNING 

Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's 

rim: 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


SOLILOQUY      OF      THE      SPANISH 
CLOISTER 

Gr-r-r — there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence! 

Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you! 
What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims —  6 

Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together: 

Salve  tibi!    I  must  hear  10 

Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year : 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop:  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What's  the  Latin  name  for  "  parsley  "?       15 

What's   the   Greek   name   for   Swine's 
Snout? 

Whew!  We'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself,  20 

Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  'tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps — 
Marked  with  L  for  our  initial! 

(He-he!  There  his  lily  snaps!) 

Saint,  forsooth!  While  brown  Dolores     25 

Squats  outside  the   Convent  bank 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horse-hairs, 

— Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow,  30 

Bright  as  'twere  a  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show!) 


When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 

Oh,  those  melons!  If  he's  able 
We're  to  have  a  feast!  so  nice! 

One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 
All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 


35 


40 


BROWNING 


607 


How  go  on  your  flowers?  None  double?     45 
Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 

Strange! — And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble 
Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly! 

There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails  50 

Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails: 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying         55 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee! 

Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe:        60 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't? 

Or,  there's  Satan!  one  might  venture     65 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of!  Hy,Zy,Hine  ...  70 
'St,  there's  Vespers!    Plena  gratid, 

Ave,  Virgo!  Gr-r-r — you  swine! 


HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April  's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush- 
wood sheaf  5 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard 
bough 

In  England — now! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 

And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the 

swallows!  10 

Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the 

hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms    and    dewdrops — at    the    bent 

spray's  edge — 


That's  the  wise  thrush;  he  sings  each  song 
twice  over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  re- 
capture 1 5 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture! 

And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with 
hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 

The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 

— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon- 
flower!  20 


HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  THE  SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the 

Northwest  died  away; 
Sunset  ran,  one  glorious  blood-red,  reeking 

into  Cadiz  Bay; 
Bluish  'mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face 

Trafalgar  lay; 
In  the  dimmest  Northeast  distance  dawned 

Gibraltar  grand  and  gray; 
"  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me:  how 

can  I  help  England?  " — say,  5 

Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to 

God  to  praise  and  pray, 
While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent 

over  Africa. 


SAUL 


Said  Abner,  "At  last  thou  art  come!    Ere 

I  tell,  ere  thou  speak, 
Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well!"     Then  I 

wished  it,  and  did  kiss  his  cheek. 
And  he:  " Since  the  King,  O  my  friend,  for 

thy  countenance  sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we;  nor 

until  from  his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the 

King  liveth  yet,  5 

Shall  our  lip  wTith  the  honey  be  bright,  with 

the  water  be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a 

space  of  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants, 

of  prayer  nor  of  praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have 

ended  their  strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  mon- 
arch sinks  back  upon  life.  10 


oo8 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


ii 

"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved! 
God's  child  with  his  dew 

On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies 
still  living  and  blue 

Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp- 
strings,  as  if  no  wild  heat 

Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert!" 


in 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and 
rose  on  my  feet,  15 

And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder. 
The  tent  was  unlooped ; 

I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and 
under  I  stooped; 

Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass- 
patch,  all  withered  and  gone, 

That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I 
groped  my  way  on 

Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open. 
Then  once  more  I  prayed,  20 

And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered, 
and  was  not  afraid 

But  spoke,  "Here  is  David,  thy  servant!" 
And  no  voice  replied. 

At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  black- 
ness; but  soon  I  descried 

A  something  more  black  than  the  black- 
ness— the  vast,  the  upright 

Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion; 
and  slow  into  sight  25 

Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and 
blackest  of  all. 

Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the 
tent  roof,  showed  Saul. 


IV 


both 


He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop, 
arms  stretched  out  wide 

On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  center, 
that  goes  to  each  side; 

He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there 
as,  caught  in  his  pangs  30 

And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent 
all  heavily  hangs, 

Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  de- 
liverance come 

With  the  spring-time, — so  agonized  Saul, 
drear  and  stark,  blind  and  dumb. 


Then  I  tuned  my  harp, — took  off  the  lilies 

we  twine  round  its  chords 
Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noon- 
tide— those  sunbeams  like  swords!   35 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep 

know,  as,  one  after  one, 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till 

folding  be  done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes, 

for  lo,  they  have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water 

within  the  stream's  bed; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as 

star  follows  star  40 

Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so 

blue  and  so  far! 


VI 

— Then  the  tune,  for  which  quails  on  the 

cornland  will  each  leave  his  mate 
To  fly  after  the  player;  then,  what  makes 

the  crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another; 

and  then,  what  has  weight 
To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside 

his  sand-house —  45 

There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder, 

half  bird  and  half  mouse! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them 

our  love  and  our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children, 

one  family  here. 


VTI 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers, 
their  wine-song,  when  hand 

Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good 
friendship,  and  great  hearts  expand  50 

And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's 
life. — And  then,  the  last  song 

When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  jour- 
ney— "Bear,  bear  him  along 

With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead 
flowerets!    Are  balm-seeds  not  here 

To  console  us?  The  land  has  none  left 
such  as  he  on  the  bier.  54 

Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my 
brother!" — And  then,  the  glad  chaunt 

Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young 
maidens,  next,  she  whom  we  vaunt 


BROWNING 


609 


As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling. 
— And  then,  the  great  march 

Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him 
and  buttress  an  arch 

Naught  can  break;  who  shall  harm  them, 
our  friends? — Then,  the  chorus  in- 
toned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory 
enthroned.  60 

But  I  stopped  here:  for  here  in  the  dark- 
ness Saul  groaned. 

VIII 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such 
silence,  and  listened  apart; 

And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shud- 
dered: and  sparkles  gan  dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban, 
at  once  with  a  start, 

All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies 
courageous  at  heart.  65 

So  the  head:  but  the  body  still  moved  not, 
still  hung  there  erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pur- 
sued it  unchecked, 

As  I  sang: — 


IX 


No 


"Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor! 

spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor 

sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping 

from  rock  up  to  rock,  70 

The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the 

fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the 

hunt  of  the  bear, 
And   the   sultriness   showing   the   lion   is 

couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over 

with  gold  dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher, 

the  full  draft  of  wine,  75 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel 

where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling 

so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living! 

how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses 

forever  in  j6y ! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy 

father,  whose  sword  thou  didst  guard 


When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the 
armies,  for  glorious  reward?  81 

Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy 
mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 

The  low  song  of  the  nearly-departed,  and 
hear  her  faint  tongue 

Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness, 
'Let  one  more  attest 

I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a 
lif etime,  and  all  was  for  best? '         85 

Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in 
strong  triumph,  not  much,  but  the 
rest. 

And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  con- 
test, the  working  whence  grew 

Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape- 
bundles,  the  spirit  strained  true: 

And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boy- 
hood of  wonder  and  hope, 

Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future 
beyond  the  eye's  scope, —  go 

Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch;  a 
people  is  thine; 

And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly, 
on  one  head  combine ! 

On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength, 
love  and  rage  (like  the  throe 

That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor 
and  lets  the  gold  go), 

High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it, 
fame  crowning  them, — all  95 

Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  crea- 
ture—King  Saul!" 


And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — heart, 

hand,  harp  and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow, 

each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — 

as  when,  dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service, 

strains  through  its  array,  100 

And    upsoareth    the    cherubim-chariot — 

"Saul!"  cried  I,  and  stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow. 

Then  Saul,  who  hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  center, 

was  struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  sum- 
mons goes  right  to  the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand 

her,  that  held  (he  alone,  105 


6io 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and 
flowers)  on  a  broad  bust  of  stone 

A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breast- 
plate,— leaves  grasp  of  the  sheet? 

Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunder- 
ously down  to  his  feet, 

And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but 
alive  yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeath- 
ings  of  ages  untold —  no 

Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  bat- 
tles, each  furrow  and  scar 

Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the 
tempest — all  hail,  there  they  are! 

— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure, 
again  hold  the  nest 

Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young 
to  the  green  on  his  crest 

For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer. 
One  long  shudder  thrilled  115 

All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then 
sank  and  was  stilled 

At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me, 
released  and  aware. 

What  was  gone,  what  remained?  All  to 
traverse  'twixt  hope  and  despair; 

Death  was  past,  life  not  come:  so  he 
waited.     Awhile   his  right  hand 

Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes  left  too 
vacant,  forthwith  to  remand         120 

To  their  place  what  new  objects  should 
enter:  't  was  Saul  as  before. 

I  looked  up,  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes, 
nor  was  hurt  any  more 

Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye 
watch  from  the  shore, 

At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — a 
sun's   slow  decline 

Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence, 
o'erlap  and  entwine  125 

Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  in- 
tensely; so,  arm  folded  arm 

O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

XI 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 

(For  a  while  there  was  trouble  within  me,) 
what  next  should  I  urge 

To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored 
him? — Song  filled  to  the  verge 

His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  press- 
ing all  that  it  yields  130 

Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the 
beauty:  beyond,  on  what  fields, 


Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to 

brighten  the  eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend 

them  the  cup  they  put  by? 
He  saith,  "It  is  good;"  still  he  drinks  not: 

he  lets  me  praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

XII 

Then  fancies  grew  rife  135 

Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture, 

when  round  me  the  sheep 
Fed    in    silence — above,    the    one    eagle 

wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the 

world  that  might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip 

'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky: 
And  I  laughed — "Since  my  days  are  or- 
dained to  be  passed  with  my  flocks,  140 
Let  me  people,  at  least  with  my  fancies,  the 

plains  and  the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and 

image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions 

I  hardly  shall  know! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right 

uses,  the  courage  that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men 

strive  for."    And  now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague   thought   came  again;   I   grew 

surer;  so  once  more  the  string        146 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as 

thus — 

XIII 

"Yea,  my  King," 

I  began — "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting 
mere  comforts  that  spring 

From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common 
by  man  and  by  brute: 

In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life, 
in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit.  150 

Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree, 
— how  its  stem  trembled  first 

Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's 
antler;  then  safely  outburst 

The  fan-branches  all  round;  and  thou 
mindest  when  these  too,  in  turn 

Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed 
perfect:  yet  more  was  to  learn, 

E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm- 
fruit.    Our  dates  shall  we  slight,     155 

When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sor- 
row? or  care  for  the  plight 


BROWNING 


611 


Of   the   palm's    self   whose    slow   growth 

produced  them?   Not   so!  stem  and 

branch 
Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place, 

while  the  palm  wine  shall  stanch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.    I 

pour  thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for! 

the  spirit  be  thine!  160 

By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee, 

thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,    than  at  first  when  incon- 

scious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  run- 
ning! Each  deed  thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world; 

until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds 

spoil  him,  though  tempests  efface,  165 
Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced 

not,  must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — 

so,  each  ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long 

over,  shall  thrill 
Thy    whole   people,    the    countless,    with 

ardor,  till  they  too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons;  who  in  turn,  fill 

the  South  and  the  North  1 70 

With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ 

of.    Carouse  in  the  past ! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit;  thou 

diest  at  last: 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the 

rose  at  her  height, 
So  with  man — so  his  power  and  his  beauty 

for  ever  take  flight. 
No!  Again  a  long  draft  of  my  soul- wine! 

Look  forth  o'er  the  years!  175 

Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  ac- 
tual; begin  with  the  seer's! 
Is  Saul  dead?    In  the  depth  of  the  vale 

make  his  tomb — bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four- 
square, till  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King 

slumbers:     whose     fame    would    ye 

know? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where 

the  record  shall  go  180 

In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe, — 

Such  was  Saul,  so  he  did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the 

populace  chid, — 


For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised 
there !  Which  fault  to  amend, 

In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar, 
whereon  they  shall  spend 

(See,  in  tablets  't  is  level  before  them)  their 
praise,  and  record  185 

With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, 
— the  statesman's  great  word 

Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  com- 
ment.   The  river's  a-wave 

With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each 
other  when  prophet- winds  rave: 

So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their 
due  and  their  part 

In  thy  being!  Then,  first  of  the  mighty, 
thank  God  that  thou  art! "  190 

xiv 

And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  O  Thou 
who  didst  grant  me  that  day, 

And  before  it  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy 
help  to  essay, 

Carry  on,  and  complete  an  adventure, — 
my  shield  and  my  sword 

In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant, 
thy  word  was  my  word, — 

Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit 
of  human  endeavor  195 

And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought 
could,  gazed  hopeless  as  ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — 
till,  mighty  to  save, 

Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  dis- 
tance— God's  throne  from  man's 
grave! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — my 
voice  to  my  heart 

Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  mar- 
vels last  night  I  took  part,  200 

As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments, 
alone  with  my  sheep, 

And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish 
like  sleep! 

For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while 
Hebron  upheaves 

The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his 
shoulder,  and  Kidron  retrieves 

Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sun- 
shine. 205 

xv 

I  say  then, — my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch, 
and,  ever  more  strong, 


6l2 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him — 

he  slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly. 

The  right  hand  replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure, 

adjusted  the  swathes 
Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat 

that  his  countenance  bathes,         210 
He  wipes  off  with  the  robe;  and  he  girds 

now  his  loins  as  of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price, 

with  the  clasp  set  before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere 

error  had  bent 
The  brow  from  the  daily  communion;  and 

still,   though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you, 

the  same,  God  did  choose,  215 

To    receive    what    a    man    may    waste, 

desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  till, 

stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments, 

he  leaned  there  awhile, 
And  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round 

the  tent-prop,  to  raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack — 

till  I  touched  on  the  praise  220 

I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the 

man  patient  there; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward. 

Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just 

above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around 

me,  like  oak  roots  which  please 
To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.    I 

looked  up  to  know  225 

If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace : 

he  spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he 

laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will, 

on  my  brow:  through  my  hair 
The  large  fingers   were  pushed,   and  he 

bent  back  my  head,  with  kind  power — 
All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as 

men  do  a  flower.  230 

Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes 

that  scrutinized  mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him! 

but  where  was  the  sign? 
I  yearned — "  Could  I  help  thee,  my  father, 

inventing  a  bliss, 


I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both 
the  future  and  this; 

I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as 
good,  ages  hence,  235 

As  this  moment, — had  love  but  the  war- 
rant love's  heart  to  dispense!" 

XVI 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.  No  harp 
more — no    song    more!    outbroke — 


XVII 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation: 

I  saw  and  I  spoke: 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose, 

received  in  my  brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  hand- 
work— returned  him  again  240 
His    creation's    approval    or    censure:    I 

spoke  as  I  saw, 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — 

all's  love,  yet  all's  law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me. 

Each  faculty  tasked 
To   perceive   him  has   gained   an   abyss, 

where  a  dewdrop  was  asked. 
Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels 

at  Wisdom  laid  bare.  245 

Have  I  forethought?  how  purblind,  how 

blank,  to  the  Infinite  Care! 
Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image 

success? 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no 

more  and  no  less, 
In  the  king  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me, 

and  God  is  seen  God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in 

the  soul  and  the  clod.  250 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me, 

I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bend- 
ing upraises  it  too) 
The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect 

to  God's  all-complete, 
As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb 

to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience, 

this  deity  known,  255 

I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province, 

some  gift  of  my  own. 
There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard 

to  hoodwink, 


BROWNING 


61 


I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance  (I  laugh 

as  I  think) 
Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it, 

wot  ye,  I  worst 
E'en   the   Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold,  I 

could  love  if  I  durst!  260 

But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man 

may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love: 

I  abstain  for  love's  sake. 
— What,  my  soul?  see  thus  far  and  no 

farther?  when  doors  great  and  small, 
Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch, 

should  the  hundredth  appal? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust 

in  the  greatest  of  all?  265 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's 

ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete 

with  it?    Here,  the  parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  Creator, — 

the  end,  what  Began? 
Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning 

do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him, 

who  yet  alone  can?  270 

Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the 

bare  will,  much  less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of, 

the  marvelous  dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with? 

to  make  such  a  soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for 

insphering  the  whole? 
And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my 

warm  tears  attest),  275 

These  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and 

give  one  more,  the  best? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him, 

maintain  at  the  height 
This  perfection, — succeed  with  life's  day- 
spring,  death's  minute  of  night? 
Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch 

Saul  the  mistake, 
Saul  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, 

— and  bid  him  awake  280 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  pre- 
lude, to  find  himself  set 
Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, 

— -a  new  harmony  yet 
To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended — 

who  knows? — or  endure! 
The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of 

the  rest  to  make  sure; 


By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning 
intensified  bliss,  285 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose, 
by  the  struggles  in  this. 


XVIII 

"I  believe  it!  'Tis  thou,  God,  that  givest, 

'tis  I  who  receive: 
In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my 

power  to  believe. 
All's  one  gift:  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover, 

as  prompt  to  my  prayer 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open 

these  arms  to  the  air.  290 

From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and 

nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth: 
/  will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me!  Why 

am  I  not  loth 
To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too? 

Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance? 

What  stops  my  despair? 
This; — 'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  ex- 
alts him,  but  what  man  Would  do! 
See  the  King — I  would  help  him  but  can- 
not, the  wishes  fall  through.  296 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow, 

grow  poor  to  enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I 

would — knowing  which, 
I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh, 

speak  through  me  now! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love?  So 

wouldst  thou — so  wilt  thou!  300 

So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffa- 

blest,  uttermost  crown— 
And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor 

leave  up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in!  It 

is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation 

joins  issue  with  death! 
As  thy  Love  is  discovered  almighty,  al- 
mighty be  proved  305 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of 

being  Beloved! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most;  the 

strongest  shall  stand  the  most  weak. 
'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry 

for!  my  flesh,  that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead!  I  seek  and  I  find  it.    0 

Saul,  it  shall  be 


614 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;  a 
Man  like  to  me,  310 

Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  for  ever; 
a  Hand  like  this  hand 

Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to 
thee!  See  the  Christ  stand!" 

XIX 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way 

home  in  the  night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to 

left  and  to  right, 
Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the 

alive,  the  aware:  315 

I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly, 

as  strugglingly  there, 
As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  fam- 
ished for  news — 
Life  or  death.    The  whole  earth  was  awak- 
ened, hell  loosed  with  her  crews; 
And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,   i 

and  tingled  and  shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  pain  of  pent  knowl-  j 

edge:  but  I  fainted  not,  320 

For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and 

supported,  suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet, 

and  holy  behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the 

earth  sank  to  rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had 

withered  from  earth — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  : 

day's  tender  birth;  325 

In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the 

gray  of  the  hills; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath;  in 

the  sudden  wind-thrills; 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  off, 

each  with  eye  sidling  still, 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread; 

in  the  birds  stiff  and  chill 
That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them, 

made  stupid  with  awe:  330 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent, — 

he  felt  the  new  law. 
The    same    stared   in    the    white    humid 

faces  upturned  by  the  flowers; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar 

and  moved  the  vine-bowers: 
And    the   little   brooks    witnessing    mur- 
mured, persistent  and  low, 
With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices 

— "E'en  so,  it  is  so!"  335 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 

Where  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening 
smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle   homeward   through   the   twilight, 
stray  or  stop  5 

As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay 

(So  they  say), 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since  10 

Held    his    court    in,    gathered    councils, 
wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now, — the  country  does  not  even  boast  a 
tree, 
As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain 
rills  15 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to  (else  they 
run 
Into  one), 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot 
its  spires 
Up  like  fires  20 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor 
be  pressed, 
Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of 
grass  25 

Never  was! 
Such    a    carpet    as,    this    summer-time, 
o'erspreads 
And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 
Stock  or  stone —  30 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy 
and  woe 
Long  ago; 
Lust   of   glory   pricked   their  hearts   up, 
dread  of  shame 
Struck  them  tame; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the 
gold  35 

Bought  and  sold. 


BROWNING 


Oi5 


Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains. 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 
Overscored,  40 

While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of 
blossom  winks 
Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in 
ancient  time 
Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots 
traced  45 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his 
dames 
Viewed  the  games. 

And    I    know — while     thus     the     quiet- 
colored  eve 
Smiles  to  leave  50 

To   their  folding,  all  our  many   tinkling 
fleece 
In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished 
gray 
Melt  away — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow 
hair  55 

Waits  me  there 
In    the    turret    whence    the    charioteers 
caught  soul 
For  the  goal, 
When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks 
now,  breathless,  dumb 
Till  I  come.  60 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples, 
all  the  glades' 
Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,1  bridges,  aqueducts, — and 
then,  65 

All  the  men ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she 
will  stand, 
Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first 
embrace 
Of  my  face,  70 

Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and 
speech 
Each  on  each. 


In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters 
forth 
South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar 
high  75 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full 
force- 
Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart!  oh  blood  that  freezes,   blood 
that  burns! 
Earth's  returns  80 

For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and 
sin! 
Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and 
the  rest! 
Love  is  best. 


MEMORABILIA 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again? 
How  strange  it  seems  and  new! 

But  you  were  living  before  that,  5 

And  also  you  are  living  after; 

And  the  memory  I  started  at — 
My  starting  moves  your  laughter! 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 

And   a   certain   use   in    the    world   no 

doubt,  10 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about: 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle- f eather !         15 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS 

Ferrara 

That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 
wrall 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:  Fra  Pandolf's 

hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 


6i6 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?  I 

said  S 

"Fra  Pandoif "  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers   like  you    that    pictured   coun- 
tenance, 
The    depth    and    passion    of    its    earnest 

glance, 
But   to  myself  they  turned   (since  none 

puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I)  10 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask   me,   if 

they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not 

the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir,  'twas 

not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that 

spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps  15 
Fra  Pandoif  chanced  to  say,  "Her  mantle 

laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "  Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along   her   throat:" 

such  stuff 
Was   courtesy,    she   thought,   and  cause 

enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made 

glad, 
Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  every- 
where. 24 
Sir,  'twas  all  one!  My  favor  at  her  breast, 
The    dropping    of    the   daylight    in    the 

West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white 

mule 
She    rode    with    round    the    terrace— all 

and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving 

speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — 

good!  but  thanked 
Somehow — I   know   not  how — as   if  she 

ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With   anybody's   gift.     Who'd   stoop   to 

blame 
This    sort   of    trifling?      Even    had    you 

skill  35 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make 

your  will 


Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just 

this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  ex- 
cuse, 
— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and 

I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh,  sir,  she  smiled,  no 

doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed 

without 
Much  the  same  smile?  This  grew;  I  gave 
commands;    *  45 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.    There 

she  stands 
As  if  alive.    Will 't  please  you  rise?    We'll 

meet 
The  company  below  then.     I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munifi- 
cence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence     50 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though    his    fair    daughter's    self,    as    Z 

avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll  go 
Together    down,    sir.      Notice    Neptune, 

though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity,     55 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze 
for  me! 


IN  A  GONDOLA 

lie  sings 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears 
part; 
The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer    to   Venice'   streets   to   leave   one 
space  5 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its 
dwelling  place. 

She  speaks 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 

My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 

Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord,         ic 

In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way: 


BROWXING 


617 


"This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 

She  bids  me  wear;  which"  (say  again) 

"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing  15 

A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 

Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

And    yet    once    more    say  ...  no    word 

more ! 
Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same,  20 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame, —  25 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds ! 

What's  left  but — all  of  me  to  take? 

I  am  the  Three's:  prevent  them,  slake    30 

Your  thirst!  'Tis  said,  the  Arab  sage, 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce1 

And  leave  but  ashes:  so,  sweet  mage, 

Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use        35 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage ! 

He  sings 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing  40 

To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride: 

Past  we  glide! 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast?  45 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried: 

Past  we  glide! 

She  sings 

The  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe  50 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst.       55 

1  crucible. 


The  bee's  kiss,  now! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 


60 


He  sings 

What  are  we  two? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can 
pursue,  65 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe; 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 

The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  im- 
bibe 

Thv  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  forever !   And 


now, 


As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou ! 


70 


Say  again,  what  we  are? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray  75 

Than    my   pale   one   announce    there    is 

withering  away 
Some  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  forever!  And 

now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou ! 

He  muses 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest? 

The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast?       80 

To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 

Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows  just 

Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 

An    inch    from    Death's    black    fingers, 

thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must;       85 
Which  life  were  best  on  summer  eves?  . 

He  speaks,  musing 

Lie  back;  could  thought  of  mine  improve 

you? 
From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 
A  wing;  from  this,  another  wing; 
Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you! 
Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend    91 
Wiih  V3ur  flesh,  but  I  intend 
They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 


6i8 


THE  VICTORIA  A  AGE 


Broader,  into  burning  gold, 
Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold         95 
Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 
As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 
Defiance  from  you  to  the  world! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real!  100 

And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart! 
Thanks !  Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art ! 

Still  he  muses 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader?    While  there's  cast        105 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  passed 
His  stylet1  through  my  back ;  I  reel ; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  I  feel? 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves     112 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And  .  .  .  on  thy  breast  I  sink !  115 

She  replies,  musing 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow- 
deep, 

As  I  do:  thus:  were  death  so  unlike  sleep, 

Caught  this  way?  Death's  to  fear  from 
flame  or  steel, 

Or  poison  doubtless;  but  from  water — 
feel! 

Go  find  the  bottom!  Would  you  stay  me? 
There!  120 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon- 
grass 

To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 

I  flung  away:  since  you  have  praised  my 
hair, 

'Tis  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

He  speaks 

Row  home?  must  we  row  home?  Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front's  demurely       126 

Over  the  Giudecca  piled; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 

All's  the  set  face  of  a  child :  130 

But  behind  it,  where's  a  trace 

1  stiletto. 


Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way  135 

O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 

Below  them.    Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you —  140 

To  catch  your  lory2  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds, 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach  145 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 

That   quick   the   round  smooth   cord   of 

gold, 
This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled,  150 
Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 
The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 
When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 
To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 
Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain  155 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain 
As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 
Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 
Than  mine !  What  should  your  chamber  do? 
— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache  161 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 
At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 
Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you  164 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 
These  objects,  and,  while  day  lasts,  weave 
Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 
That  dumb  they  look:  your  harp,  believe, 
With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 
Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself         1 70 
Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 
Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 
Make  murmur  wheresoe'er  they  graze, 
As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 
Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on  175 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 
Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 
And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 
Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 
As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph3  1S0 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 
And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell! 


'-'  parrot. 


3  spring. 


BROWNING 


619 


And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 

To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend ! 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise,     185 

You'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 

Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 

To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke ! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 

Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen  190 

You'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 

Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser1 — 

As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 

And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 

On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys  195 

Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 

What  litter  now  the  board  employs 

Whereon  he  signed  a  document 

That  got  him  murdered!    Each  enjoys 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break      200 

The  sport  up,  so,  indeed  must  make 

More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 

Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 

That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets,  205 

Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 

My  Zanze!  If  the  ribbon's  black, 

The  Three  are  watching:  keep  away! 

Your  gondola — let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water- weeds  about  210 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair ! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 

As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper;  safe  are 

we.  215 

Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me? 
Resume  your  past,  self  of  a  month  ago ! 
Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 
The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 
Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my 

hand  220 

More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to 

land, 
And  say,  "All  thanks,  Siora!" — 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips  to  lips!  Yet  once  more,  ere  we 

part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine 

thou  art!  224 

[He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 

'Sir. 


He  speaks 

It   was  ordained  to  be   so,  sweet! — and 

best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy 

breast. 
Still  kiss  me!  Care  not  for  the  cowards! 

Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt!  The  Three,  I  do  not 

scorn 
To    death,    because    they    never    lived: 

but  I  230 

Have  lived  indeed,  and  so — (yet  one  more 

kiss) — can  die! 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL 

SHORTLY   AFTER    THE   REVIVAL   OF   LEARN- 
ING  IN   EUROPE 

Let  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,1  the  vulgar 
thorpes  2 

Each  in  its  tether 
Sleeping  safe  on  the  bosom  of  the  plain,  5 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow: 
Look   out   if   yonder   be   not   day   again 

Rimming  the  rock-row ! 
That's    the   appropriate    country;    there, 
men's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser,  10 

Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd  and 
crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top,     15 

Crowded  with  culture! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels; 

Clouds  overcome  3  it ; 
No!  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling    its    summit.  20 

Thither  our  path  lies;  wind  we  up  the 
heights; 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's; 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each 
head,  25 

'Ware  the  beholders! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead, 

Borne   on   our   shoulders. 


small  farm  enclosures. 

3  overshadow,  conceal. 


2  villages. 


620 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Sleep,    crop    and    herd!    sleep,    darkling 
thorpe  and  croft, 
Safe  from  the  weather!  30 

He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and 
throat, 
Lyric  Apollo! 
Long  he  lived  nameless:  how  should  Spring 
take   note  35 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet 
anon! 
My  dance  is  finished"?  40 

No,   that's   the  world's  way:    (keep   the 
mountain-side, 
Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with 
pride 
Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with 
the  world  45 

Bent  on  escaping: 
"What's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou 
keepest  furled? 
Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard 
and  sage,— 
Give!" — -So,   he  gowned  him,         50 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its 
last  page: 
Learned,  we  found  him. 
Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes 
like  lead, 
Accents   uncertain: 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have 
said,  55 

"Up  with  the  curtain!" 
This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes 
next? 
Patience  a  moment! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed 
text, 
Still  there's  the  comment.  60 

Let  me  know  all!  Prate  not  of  most  or 
least, 
Painful  or  easy! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up  the 
feast, 
Ay,   nor   feel   queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live,     65 
When  he  had  learned  it, 


When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to 
give! 
Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts — 
Fancy  the  fabric  l   70 

Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire 
from    quartz, 
Ere  mortar  dab  brick! 

(Here's  the  town-gate  reached:  there's  the 
market-place 
Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace  75 

(Hearten    our   chorus !) 
That   before    living    he'd    learn    how    to 
live — 
No  end  to  learning: 
Earn   the   means   first — God   surely   will 
contrive 
Use  for  our  earning.  80 

Others    mistrust    and    say,    "But    time 
escapes: 
Live  now  or  never!" 
He  said,  "What's  time?    Leave  Now  for 
dogs  and  apes! 
Man  has  Forever." 
Back  to  his  book  then:  deeper  drooped 
his  head:  85 

Calculus  l   racked   him: 
Leaden   before,   his   eyes   grew   dross   of 
lead: 
Tussis  2  attacked   him. 
"Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest!" — not 
he! 
(Caution  redoubled,  90 

Step   two  abreast,   the  way   winds   nar- 
rowly!) 
Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He      (soul-hydroptic 3  *  with     a     sacred 
thirst)  05 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 
Bad  is  our  bargain!  100 

Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throw  on 
God, 
(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 
Perfect  the  earthen? 

1  gall  stones.  2  a  cough. 

3  thirsty,  as  in  the  disease  of  dropsy. 


BROWNING 


621 


Did    not    he    magnify    the    mind,    show- 
clear  105 
Just  what  it  all  meant? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do 
here, 
Paid   by   instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's 
success 
Found,  or  earth's  failure:                 no 
"Wilt   thou   trust   death   or   not?"     He 
answered    "Yes! 
Hence  with  life's  pale  lure! " 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it: 
This  high  man,  wTith  a  great  thing  to  pur- 
sue, 115 
Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man   goes   on   adding  one  to 
one, 
His   hundred's   soon   hit: 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit.  120 

That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need 
the   next, 
Let  the  world  mind  him! 
This,   throws  himself  on   God,   and   un- 
perplexed 
Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,   with  the  throttling  hands  of  death 
at  strife,  125 

Ground  he  at  grammar; 
Still,  through  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech 
were  rife: 
While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hotis  business — let  it  be! — 
Properly  based  Oun —  130 

Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead1  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper 
place: 
Hail  to  your  purlieus,2 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race,  135 

Swallows  and  curlews! 
Here's  the  top-peak;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there: 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 
Bury  this  man  there?  140 

Here — here's    his    place,    where    meteors 
shoot,  clouds  form, 
Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go!  Let  joy  break  with 
the  storm, 
Peace  let  the  dew  send! 

1  paralyzed.  2  haunts. 


Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects:  145 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world 
suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB 
AT  SAINT  PR  AXED 'S  CHURCH 

ROME,    15 — 

Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity! 
Draw  round  my  bed:  is  Anselm  keeping 

back? 
Nephews — sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I  know 

not!  Well- 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother 

once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was!  5 
What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  be- 
side, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves. 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's 

a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I  lie  10 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night, 

I  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     Peace,  peace 

seems  all. 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for 

peace; 
And    so,   about    this    tomb    of    mine.    I 

fought  15 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche, 

ye  know: 
— Old  Gandolf  cozened3  me,  despite  my 

care; 
Shrewd   was   that   snatch   from   out   the 

corner  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the 

same! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but 

thence  20 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent 

seats, 
And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk: 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there,     25 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

J  cheated. 


022 


THE  VICTORIA  A  AGE 


With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two 

and  two, 
The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm 

stands: 
Peach-blossom  marble  all,   the  rare,  the 

ripe  29 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 
— Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him!  True 

peach, 
Rosy  and  flawless:  how  I  earned  the  prize! 
Draw    close:    that    conflagration    of    my 

church 
— What    then?    So    much    was    saved    if 

aught  were  missed!  35 

My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death?     Go 

dig . 
The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil- 
press  stood, 
Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 
And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know  not, 

I!  .  .  . 
Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft,  40 
And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail,1 
Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue    as    a    vein    o'er    the    Madonna's 

breast  .  .  . 
Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas, 
all,  45 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 
So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my 

knees, 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his 

hands 
Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and 
burst!  50 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years: 
Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 
Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons?  Black — 
'Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant!  How 

else 
Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  be- 
neath? 55 
The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 
Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and 

perchance 
Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 
The  Savior  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan  60 
Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  gar- 
ment off, 

1  basket  woven  of  rushes. 


And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I 
know 

Ye  mark  me  not!  What  do  they  whisper 
thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?  Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp      65 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  traver- 
tine2 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuck- 
les at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then! 

'Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I 
grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas!  70 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the 
world — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to 
pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manu- 
scripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly 
limbs?  75 

— That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every 
word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second 
line — 

Tully,  my  masters?  Ulpian  serves  his 
need! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  cen- 
turies, 80 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day 
long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and 
taste 

Good,  strong,  thick,  stupefying  incense- 
smoke  ! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night,  85 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as 
stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,3 
drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's- 
work :  90 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange 
thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my 
ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

2  a  cheap  limestone.  3  pall. 


BROUXIXG 


62' 


And   this  life   too,   popes,   cardinals  and 

priests, 
Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking 

eyes,  96 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 
And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  dis- 
creet, 
— Aha,  elucescebat  quoth  our  friend? 
No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best!  100 
Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 
All  lapis,  all,  sons!  Else  I  give  the  Pope 
My  villas!  Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 
Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 
They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my 

soul,  105 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished 

frieze, 
Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my 

vase 
With  grapes,  and  add  a  visor  and  a  Term, 
And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 
That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus 

down,  no 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 
Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     There,  leave 

me,  there! 
For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 
To  death — ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it! 

Stone —  115 

Gritstone,   a-crumble!     Clammy  squares 

which  sweat 
As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing 

through — 
And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world! 
Well,  go!  I  bless  ye.  Fewer  tapers  there, 
But  in  a  row:  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 
— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants,  121 
And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church 

for  peace, 
That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 
Old    Gandolf — at    me,    from    his    onion- 
stone, 
As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was!  125 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

CALLED   "THE   FAULTLESS   PAINTER" 

But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 

No,  my  Lucrezia;  bear  with  me  for  once: 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your 

heart? 


I'll   work   then   for  your  friend's   friend, 

never    fear,  5 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too,  his  own 

price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it?  ten- 
derly? 
Oh,    I'll    content    him, — but    to-morrow, 

Love!  10 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 
This   evening   more    than   usual,   and   it 

seems 
As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me 

sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in 

mine 
And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole,  15 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.  Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,   how  you  shall  be  glad  for 

this !  20 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And   mine   the   man's   bared   breast   she 

curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you 

must  serve 
For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require: 
It  saves  a  model.    So !  keep  looking  so —  25 
My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds ! 
— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect 

ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there!  oh,  so  sweet — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his,  30 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 
While  she  looks — no  one's:  very  dear,  no 

less. 
You  smile?  why,  there's  my  picture  ready 

made, 
There's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony ! 
A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike  36 

■ — You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in 

me 
(That's  gone  you  know), — but  I,  at  every 

point; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all 

toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole.  40 

There's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel- 
top; 


624 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


That  length  of   convent-wall  across   the 

way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  in- 
side; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden;  days 

decrease, 
And   autumn    grows,   autumn   in   every- 
thing. 45 
Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A  twilight-piece.    Love,  we  are  in  God's 

hand. 
How  strange  now  looks  the  life  he  makes 

us  lead;  so 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are! 
I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 
This    chamber    for    example — turn    your 

head — 
All  that's  behind  us!  You  don't  under- 
stand 
Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art,  55 
But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people 

speak : 
And  that  cartoon, 

door 
— It  is  the   thing, 

should  be — 
Behold  Madonna! — I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know,  60 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 
Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 
Who  listened   to   the  Legate's   talk  last 

week,  65 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in 

France. 
At  any  rate,  'tis  easy,  all  of  it! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's  long 

past: 
I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives, 
— Dream?   strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to 

do,  70 

And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty 

such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this 

town, 
Who   strive — you   don't   know   how   the 

others  strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — 
Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone 

says,  76 


the  second  from  the 


Love!  so  such   thing 


(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much 

less! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I  am  judged. 
TThere  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped- 

up  brain,  80 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to 

prompt 
This    low-pulsed    forthright    craftsman's 

hand  of  mine. 
Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  them- 
selves, I  know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's  shut 

to  me, 
Enter   and   take   their   place   there  sure 

enough,  85 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell 

the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit 

here. 
1  The    sudden   blood  of   these   men!  at  a 

word — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it 

boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself,  and  to  myself,  90 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's 

blame 
Or  their  praise  either.    Somebody  remarks 
Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 
His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?  or  else, 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of 

that?  95 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  moun- 
tain care? 
Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his 

grasp, 
Or  what's  a  heaven   for?   All   is   silver- 
gray, 
Placid    and    perfect    with    my    art:    the 

worse ! 
I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might 

gain,  100 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 
Our    head    would    have    o'erlooked    the 

world!"    No  doubt. 
Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago.  105 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 
Pouring  his  soul,   with  kings  and  popes 

to  see, 
Reaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish 
*      him, 


BROWNING 


62; 


Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives 

way;  no 

That    arm    is    wrongly    put — -and    there 

again — 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines, 
Its  body,  so  to  speak:  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  under- 
stand. 
Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it:  115 
But   all    the   play,    the   insight   and   the 

stretch — 
Out  of   me,   out  of   me!  And  wherefore 

out? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me 

soul, 
We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you! 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I 

think —  120 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 
But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect 

brow, 
And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect 

mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a 

bird 
The    fowler's   pipe,    and    follows    to    the 

snare —  125 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought 

a  mind! 
Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth  there 

urged 
"God  and  the  glory!  never  care  for  gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo!  130 
Rafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!  " 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it  seems : 
Perhaps  not.    All  is  as  God  overrules. 
Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's 

self; 
The   rest   avail    not.     Why    do    I    need 

you?  135 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will 

not; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive: 
Yet  the  will's  somewhat — somewhat,  too, 

the  power — 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the 

end,  140 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak 

the  truth. 


I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all 

day,  145 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 
But  they  speak  sometimes;  I  must  bear  it 

all. 
Well  may  they  speak!  That  Francis,  that 

first  time, 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontaine- 

bleau!  150 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the 

ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden 

look, — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made 

the  smile,  155 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my 

neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his 

eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of 

souls  160 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those 

hearts, — 
And,  best,  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  be- 
yond, 
This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my 

work, 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward!  164 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 
And    had   you    not   grown    restless  .  ,.  . 

but  I  know — 
'Tis  done  and  past;  'twas  right,  my  in- 
stinct said; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should 

tempt 
Out  of  his  grange  whose  four  walls  make 

his  world.  170 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your 

heart. 
The    triumph    was — to    reach    and    stay 

there;  since 
I   reached   it   ere   the   triumph,   what  is 

lost? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your 

hair's  gold,  17s 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine ! 
"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 


626 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife" — 
Men  will  excuse  me.  I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence;   clearer 

grows  i  Si 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 
To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these 

years  ...  185 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his 

thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
"Friend,    there's    a    certain    sorry    little 

scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,   none 

cares  how,  190 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and 

kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of 

yours!" 
To    Rafael's! — And    indeed    the    arm    is 


yet,    only    you    to 


wrong. 

I    hardly    dare  . 

see,  195 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line 
should  go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do     you     forget     already     words     like 
those?),  200 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost, — 

Is,    whether    you're — not    grateful — but 
more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile  in- 
deed! 

This   hour   has   been   an   hour!   Another 
smile? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 

I   should   work   better,   do  you   compre- 
hend? 206 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you 
more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there's  a  star; 

MorelLo's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the 
wall, 

The   cue-owls   speak   the   name   we   call 
them  by.  210 

Come  from  the  window,  Love, — come  in, 
at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 


We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.    God  is  just. 
King    Francis    may    forgive    me;    oft   at 

nights, 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired 

out,  215 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from 

brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright 

gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you 

go? 
That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 
Must  see  you — you,  and  not  with  me? 

Those  loans?  221 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled 

for  that? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to 

spend? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a 

heart 
Are  left  me,  work's  my  ware,  and  what's 

it  worth?  225 

I'll  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 
The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 
Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in 

France, 
One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's 

face,  230 

Not  yours  this  time!  I  want  you  at  my 

side 
To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 
Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 
Will  you?  To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 
I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor,  235 
Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there, 

there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 
If  he   demurs;   the  whole   should   prove 

enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.    Be- 
side, 
What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care  about, 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff!  241 
Love,  does  that  please  you?  Ah,  but  what 

does  he, 
The  Cousin!  what  does  he  to  please  you 

more? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less.  245 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis! — it  is  true 


BROWNING 


627 


I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  com- 
plied, 

And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all 
is  said.  249 

My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 

Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 

How  one  gets  rich !  Let  each  one  bear  his 
lot. 

They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor 
they  died: 

And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 

And  not  been  paid  profusely.  Some  good 
son  255 

Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him 
try! 

No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a 
balance.     Yes, 

You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to- 
night. 

This  must  suffice  me  here.  What  would 
one  have? 

In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more 
chance —  260 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 

For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 

To  cover— the  three  first  without  a  wife, 

While  I  have  mine!  So — still  they  over- 
come 265 

Because  there's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I 
choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle!  Go,  my  Love. 


PROSPICE 

Fear  death?  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  de- 
note 
I  am  nearing   the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the 
storm,  5 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where   he   stands,   the   Arch   Fear   in   a 
visible  form, 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit 
attained, 
And  the  barriers  fall,  10 

Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon 
be  gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 


I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my 
eyes,  and  forbore,  15 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like 
my  peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad 
life's  arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold.  20 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to 
the  brave, 
The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices 
that  rave, 
Shall  dwindle,   shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace 
out  of  pain,  25 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee 
again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest! 


ABT  VOGLER 

AFTER  HE  HAS   BEEN   EXTEMPORIZING 

UPON   THE   MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 

.      OF   HIS   INVENTION  . 

/        u  /  '  "       I 

Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  man- 
ifold  music   I   build,     ,  f 
Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys 
to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a 
touch,    as    when    Solomon    willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of 
demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and 
of  aim,  5 
Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven- 
high,   hell-deep   removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named 
the  ineffable  Name, 
And    pile    him    a    palace    straight,    to 
pleasure  the  princess  he  loved! 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful 

building  of   mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed 

and  importuned  to  raise!  10 

Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would 

dispart  now  and  now  combine, 


628 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten 

their    master    his    praise! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind 

plunge    down    to    hell, 
Burrow    awhile    and    build,    broad   on 

the   roots   of   things, 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having 

based  me  my  palace  well,  15 

Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the 

nether  springs. 

And  another  would   mount  and  march, 
like  the  excellent  minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd 
but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampired1   walls  of  gold  as 
transparent  as  glass, 
Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place 
to   the   rest:  20 

For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner 
tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a 
festal  night — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome 
from  space  to  spire) 
Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and 
the  pride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 

In  sight?    Not  half!  for  it  seemed,  it  was 
certain,  to  match  man's  birth,  25 
Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an 
impulse  as  I; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down, 
made  effort  to  reach  the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my 
passion,  to  scale  the  sky: 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar 
and   dwelt   with   mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found  and 
fixed  its   wandering   star;  30 

Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze:  and  they 
did  not  pale  nor  pine, 
For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there 
was  no  more  near  nor  far. 

Nay   more;    for   there   wanted   not   who 
walked  in  the  glare  and  glow, 
Presences  plain  in  the  place;  or,  fresh 
from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier 
wind  should  blow,  35 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house 
to  their  liking  at  last; 

1  furnished  with  ramparts. 


Or  else   the  wonderful   Dead  who  have 

passed  through  the  body  and  gone, 

But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in 

an  old  world  worth  their  new: 

What  never  had  been,  was  now;  what  was, 

as  it  shall  be  anon; 

And   what   is, — shall    I    say,    matched 

both?  for  I  was  made  perfect  too.  40 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds 
to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its 
wish  flowed  visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me!     For  think, 
had  I  painted  the  whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor 
the  process  so  wonder- worth: 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — 
still  effect  proceeds  from  cause,    45 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye 
hear  how  the  tale  is  told; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obe- 
dience to  laws, 
Painter    and    poet    are   proud    in    the 
artist-list  enrolled: — 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of 
the  will  that  can, 
Existent   behind   all   laws,    that   made 
them  and,  lo,  they  are!  50 

And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift 
be  allowed  to  man 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not 
a  fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of  our  scale  in 
itself  is  naught: 
It  is  everywhere  in   the  world — loud, 
soft,  and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use!  I  mix  it  with  two  in 
my  thought:  55 

And  there!  Ye  have  heard  and  seen: 
consider  and  bow  the  head! 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music 
I  reared; 
Gone!   and   the  good   tears   start,   the 
praises  that  come  too  slow; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can 
say  that  he  feared, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the 
gone  thing  was  to  go.  60 

Never  to  be  again!     But  many  more  of 
the  kind 
As  good,  nay,  better  perchance:  is  this 
your  comfort  to  me? 


BROWNING 


629 


To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling 
with  my  mind 
To   the   same,    same   self,    same   love, 
same  God:  ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee, 
the  ineffable  Name?  65 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not 
made  with  hands! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who 
art  ever  the  same? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart 
that  thy  power  expands? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good!  What 
was,  shall  live  as  before; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence 
implying  sound;  70 

What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for 
evil,  so  much  good  more; 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;  in  the 
heaven  a  perfect  round. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed 
of  good  shall  exist; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;  no  beauty, 
nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  sur- 
vives for  the  melodist  75 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception 
of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic 
for  earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose 
itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and 
the  bard; 
Enough  that  he  heard  it  once:  we  shall 
hear  it  by  and  by.  80 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  tri- 
umph's evidence 
For  the  fullness  of  the  days?     Have 
we  withered  or  agonized? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but 
that  singing  might  issue  thence? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that 
harmony  should  be  prized? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow 
to  clear,  85 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme 
of   the   weal   and  woe: 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers 
in  the  ear; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome:  'tis 
we    musicians    know. 


Well,  it  is  earth  with  me;  silence  resumes 
her  reign: 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly 
acquiesce.  90 

Give  me  the  keys.    I  feel  for  the  common 
chord  again, 
Sliding,  by  semitones  till  I  sink  to  the 
minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on 
alien  ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled 
from  into  the  deep; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for 
my  resting-place  is  found,  95 

The  C  Major  of  this  life:  so,  now  I  will 
try  to  sleep. 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA 

Grow  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was 

made: 
Our  times  are  in  his  hand 
Who  saith,  "A  whole  I  planned,  5 

Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all, 

nor  be  afraid!" 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed,  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which   lily  leave   and   then  as  best   re- 
call?" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars,  10 

It  yearned,  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends, 
transcends  them  all!" 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark!  15 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a 
spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed  20 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast; 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men; 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?  Frets  doubt 
the  maw-crammed  beast? 


630 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Rejoice  we  are  allied  25 

To   that  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive! 
A  spark  disturbs  our  clod; 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  his  tribes  that  take,  I 
must  believe.  30 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but 

go! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain;  35 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;  dare,  never 

grudge  the  throe! 

For   thence,— a   paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  be,  40 

And  was  not,  comforts  me: 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would 
not  sink  i'  the  scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose   spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs 

want  play?  45 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its 

lone  way? 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use: 
I  own  the  Past  profuse  50 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once,   "How 
good  to  live  and  learn?" 

Not  once  beat,  "Praise  be  thine!  55 

I  see  the  whole  design, 
I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too ; 
Perfect  I  call  thy  plan: 
Thanks  that  I  was  a  man ! 
Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what 
thou  shalt  do!"  60 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for 
rest: 


Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold  65 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as 
we  did  best! 

Let  us  not  always  say, 

"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon 

the  whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings,  70 

Let  us  cry,  "All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now, 

than  flesh  helps  soul!" 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its 

term:  75 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved1 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though 

in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone  80 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and 

new: 
Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to 

indue.2 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try  85 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 
And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know, 
being  old.  90 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 

The  deed  off,   calls  the  glory  from  the 

gray: 
A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest,  qs 

Take   it   and    try   its    worth:    here    dies 

another  day." 

So,  still  within  this  life, 
Though   lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at 
last, 

1  proved.  2  put  on. 


BROWNING 


631 


"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main,  100 

That  acquiescence  vain: 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved 
the  Past." 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to- 
day: 105 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the 
tool's  true  play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth,     no 

Toward   making,   than   repose  on  aught 

found  made: 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age:  wait  death 

nor  be  afraid! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right  115 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand 

thine  own, 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let 

thee  feel  alone.  120 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced   to   each   his   station   in    the 

Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained,  125 

Right?  Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give 

us  peace  at  last! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  re- 
ceive; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes  130 

Match  me:  we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  and  I  that:  whom  shall 
my  soul  believe? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 
Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the 
price;  135 


O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found    straightway   to   its   mind,    could 
value  in  a  trice: 

But  all  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb,  140 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled 
the  man's  amount: 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed  145 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and 

escaped ; 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the 

pitcher  shaped.  150 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor!  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our 

clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round,  155 

"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past 

gone,  seize  to-day!" 

Fool!  All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth   changes,   but   thy   soul   and   God 

stand  sure: 
What  entered  into  thee,  160 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 
Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter 

and  clay  endure. 

He  fixed  thee  'mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This    Present,    thou,    forsooth,    wouldst 

fain  arrest:  165 

Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently 

impressed. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves, 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves  17a 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and 
press? 


632 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


What  though,  about  thy  rim, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow    out,    in    graver    mood,    obey    the 
sterner  stress? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up!  175 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trum- 
pet's peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  Master's  lips  aglow! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what 
needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel?     180 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men; 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was 

worst, 
Did  I — to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife,  185 

Bound  dizzily — mistake  my  end,  to  slake 

thy  thirst: 

So,  take  and  use  thy  work, 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings 
past  the  aim! 

My  times  be  in  thy  hand!  190 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  com- 
plete the  same! 


EPILOGUE   TO   ASOLANDO 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time, 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 
Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools 

think,  imprisoned — 
Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom 
you  loved  so, — ■ 

— Pity  me?  5 

Oh,  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mis- 
taken ! 
What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 
With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the 

unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I 
drivel 

— Being — who?  10 


One    who    never    turned    his    back    but 
marched  breast  forward, 
Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamed,  though  right  were  worsted, 

wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight 
better, 

Sleep  to  wake.  15 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's 
work-time 
Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer! 
Bid   him   forward,   breast   and   back   as 

either  should  be, 
"Strive  and  thrive!"  cry  "Speed, — fight 
on,  fare  ever 

There  as  here!"  20 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 
(1806-1861) 

SONNETS   FROM  THE 
PORTUGUESE 


I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished- 

for  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 
And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue,  5 
I  saw  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The    sweet,    sad    years,    the   melancholy 

years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had 

flung 
A  shadow  across  me.    Straightway  I  was 

'ware, 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by 

the  hair;  n 

And   a   voice   said   in   mastery   while   I 

strove, 
"  Guess  now  who  holds  thee?  "— "  Death ! " 

I  said.    But  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang:  "Not  Death,  but 

Love." 

VII 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I 

think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy 

soul 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


t>2>2> 


Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me  as  they  stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought 

to  sink,  S 

Was  caught  up  into  love  and  taught  the 

whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.    The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to  drink, 
And  praise  its  sweetness,  Sweet,  with  thee 

anear. 
The    names    of    country,    heaven,    are 

changed  away  10 

For  where  thou  art  or  shalt  be,  there  or 

here; 
And    this — this    lute    and    song — loved 

yesterday, 
(The  singing  angels  know)  are  only  dear 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what 

they  say. 

XIV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.  Do  not  say, 
"  I  love  her  for  her  smile — her  look — her 

way 
Of  speaking  gently, — for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes 

brought  5 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day;" — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved, 

may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love, 

so  wrought, 
May  be  unwrought  so.    Neither  love  me 

for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks 

dry:  10 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy    comfort    long,    and    lose    thy    love 

thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou    may'st    love    on    through    love's 

eternity. 

XXVI 

I  lived  with  visions  for  my  company, 
Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 
And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought 

to  know 
A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to  me. 
But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 
Of  this  world's  dust — -their  lutes  did  silent 

grow,  6 

And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  below 


Their  vanishing  eyes.     Then  thou  didst 

come — to  be, 
Beloved,  what  they  seemed.    Their  shining 

fronts, 
Their  songs,  their  splendors  (better,  yet 

the  same,  10 

As  river  water,  hallowed  into  fonts) 
Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 
My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants — 
Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best  dreams 

to  shame. 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee?    Let  me  count  the 

ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of 

sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  Ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's  5 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle- 
light. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I   love   thee  purely,   as   they  turn   from 

Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith.  10 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with 

the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life! — and,  if  God 

choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  0  my 
brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against 
their  mothers, 
And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The    young    lambs    are   bleating   in    the 
meadows,  5 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the 
nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the 
shadows, 
The  young  flowers  are  blowing  to- 
ward the  west — 


634 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


But   the  young,   young   children,  O  my 
brothers, 
They  are  weeping  bitterly!  10 

They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the 
others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in 
the  sorrow 
Why  their  tears  are  falling  so? 
The    old    man    may    weep    for    his    to- 
morrow 1 5 
Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago; 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 
The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost:  20 
But   the  young,   young  children,   O   my 
brothers, 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their 
mothers, 
In  our  happy  Fatherland? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces,  25 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws  and 
presses 
Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy; 
"Your   old   earth,"    they   say,    "is   very 
dreary; 
Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "are  very 
weak;  30 

Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 
Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek: 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 
children, 
For  the  outside  earth  is  cold, 
And   we   young   ones   stand  without,   in 
our  bewildering,  35 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old. 
True,"  say  the  children,  "it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time: 
Little  Alice  died  last  year,  her  grave  is 
shapen 
Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime.1  40 

"  We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take 
her: 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the 
close  clay! 

'  frost. 


From   the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none 
will  wake  her 
Crying,  'Get  up,  little  Alice!  it  is  day.' 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and 
shower,  45 

With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 
cries; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should 
not  know  her, 
For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing 
in  her  eyes: 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and 
stilled  in 
The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime.         50 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  chil- 
dren, 
"That  we  die  before  our  time." 

Alas,  alas,  the  children!  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have: 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away 
from  breaking,  55 

With    a    cerement    from    the   grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from 
the  city, 
Sing    out,    children,    as    the    little 
thrushes  do; 
Pluck    your    handfuls    of    the    meadow- 
cowslips  pretty, 
Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  your  fingers  let 
them  through!  60 

But  they  answer,  "Are  your  cowslips  of 
the  meadows 
Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal- 
shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine! 

"For    oh,"    say    the    children,    "we    are 
weary,  65 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap; 
If   we  cared   for  any  meadows,   it  were 
merely 
To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 
We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go;  70 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  droop- 
ing, 
The   reddest   flower   would   look   as 
pale  as  snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground; 

Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron  75 

In   the  factories,   round  and  round. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


635 


"For,   all  day,  the   wheels   are  droning, 
turning; 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, 
Till  our  hearts  turn  our  heads,  with  pulses 
burning, 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places:  80 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window,  blank 
and  reeling, 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown 
the  wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 
ceiling: 
All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we 
with  all. 
And  all  day  the  iron   wheels  are  dron- 
ing: 85 
And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'O  ye  wheels,'    (breaking  out  in  a  mad 
moaning) 
'Stop!  be  silent  for  to-day!'" 

Ay,  be  silent!    Let  them  hear  each  other 
breathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth!  90 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a 
fresh  wreathing 
Of   their   tender  human  youth! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  re- 
veals: 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against 
the  notion  95 

That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you, 
O  wheels! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 
Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is 
calling  sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark.         100 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my 
brothers, 
To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray; 
So  the  blessed  One  who  blesseth  all  the 
others, 
Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They   answer,    "Who    is    God    that    He 
should  hear  us,  105 

While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels 
is  stirred? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 
near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not 
a  word. 


And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their 
resounding) 
Strangers  speaking  at  the  door:     no 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 
Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more? 

"Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  re- 
member; 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'Our    Father,'    looking    upward    in    the 
chamber,  115 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know  no  other  words,   except  'Our 
Father,' 
And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of 
angels'  song, 
God   may  pluck   them  with   the   silence 
sweet  to  gather, 
And  hold  both  within  His  right  hand 
which  is  strong.  120 

'Our  Father!'    If  He  heard  us,  He  would 
surely 
(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,   smiling   down   the   steep    world 
very  purely, 
'Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

"But    no!"    say    the    children,    weeping 
faster,  125 

"He  is  speechless  as  a  stone: 
And  they  tell  us,   of   His  image  is  the 
master 
Who   commands   us   to   work   on. 
Go     to!"    say     the     children, — "Up    in 
Heaven, 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are 
all  we  find:  130 

Do  not  mock  us;  grief  has  made  us  un- 
believing: 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have 
made  us  blind." 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and 
disproving, 
0  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach? 
For    God's   possible    is    taught    by    His 
world's  loving,  135 

And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before 
you! 
They  are  weary  ere  they  run; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor 
the  glory 
Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun:     140 


636 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its 
wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without 
its  calm; 
And  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christ- 
dom, 
Are  martyrs,  by   the  pang  without 
the  palm: 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretriev- 
ingly  145 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot 
reap, — 
Are    orphans   of    the    earthly    love    and 
heavenly. 
Let  them  weep!  let  them  weep! 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces, 
And  their  look  is  dread  to  see,     150 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 
places, 
With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 
''How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long,  O  cruel 
nation, 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world, 
on  a  child's  heart, — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpita- 
tion, 155 
And   tread   onward  to  your   throne 
amid  the  mart? 
Our    blood    splashes    upward,    O    gold- 
heaper, 
And  your  purple  shows  your  path! 
But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses 
deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath.  "160 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 

Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 

Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a 
goat, 

And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat  5 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river? 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river; 

The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran 

And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay,         10 

And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 


High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god 
can  15 

With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient 

reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!),         20 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a 
man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

"This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god 
Pan  25 

(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river), 
"The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 
reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river.        30 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon- 

%  35 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan 

To  laugh,  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man:  39 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain — 

For  the  reed  which  grows  never  more  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  of  the  river. 


EDWARD  FITZGERALD   (1809-1883) 
RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


Wake!     For  the  Sun,  who  scatter'd  into 

flight 
The  Stars  before  him  from  the  Field  of 

Night,  _ 
Drives   Night   along   with   them   from 

Heav'n,  and  strikes 
The  Sultan's  Turret  with  a  Shaft  of  Light. 


FITZGERALD 


637 


Before   the   phantom   of   False   morning 
died,  5 

Methought  a  Voice  within   the  Tavern 
cried, 
"When    all    the    Temple    is    prepared 
within, 

Why  nods  the  drowsy  Worshipper  out- 
side?" 

in 
And,  as  the  Cock  crew,  those  who  stood 

before 

The   Tavern    shouted — "Open    then    the 

Door!  10 

You  know  how  little  while  we  have  to 

stay, 

And,  once  departed,  may  return  no  more." 

IV 

Now  the  New  Year  reviving  old  Desires, 
The  thoughtful  Soul  to  Solitude  retires, 
Where  the  White  Hand  of  Moses  on 
the  Bough  15 

Puts  out,  and  Jesus  from  the  Ground  sus- 
pires. 

v 

Iram  indeed  is  gone  with  all  his  Rose, 
And  Jamshyd's  Sev'n-ring'd  Cup  where 
no  one  knows; 
But  still  a  Ruby  kindles  in  the  Vine, 
And  many  a  Garden  by  the  Water  blows. 20 

VI 

And  David's  lips  are  lockt;  but  in  divine 
High-piping  Pehlevi,  with  "Wine!  Wine! 

Wine! 
Red  Wine!" — the  Nightingale  cries  to 

the  Rose 
That  sallow  cheek  of  hers  to  incarnadine. 

VII 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,   and  in   the  fire  of 

Spring  25 

Your  Winter-garment  of  Repentance  fling: 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

VIII 

Whether  at  Naishapur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter 
run,  3° 


The  Wine  of  Life  keeps  oozing  drop  by 
drop, 
The  Leaves  of  Life  keep  falling  one  by  one. 

DC 

Each  Morn  a  thousand  Roses  brings,  you 
say; 

Yes,  but  where  leaves  the  Rose  of  Yester- 
day? 
And    this    first    Summer    month    that 
brings  the  Rose  35 

Shall  take  Jamshyd  and  Kaikobad  away. 


Well,  let  it  take  them!    What  have  we  to 

do 
With  Kaikobad  the  Great,  or  Kaikhosru? 
Let  Zal  and  Rustum  bluster  as  they 

will, 
Or  Hatim  call  to  Supper — heed  not  you.  40 


XI 

With  me  along  the  strip  of  Herbage  strown 
That   just   divides   the   desert   from   the 

sown, 
Where   name  of   Slave  and   Sultan   is 

forgot — 
And   Peace   to   Mahmud   on   his   golden 

Throne! 

XII 

A  Book  of  Verses  underneath  the  Bough,  45 
A  Jug  of  Wine,  a  Loaf  of  Bread — and 
Thou 
Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
Oh,  Wilderness  were  Paradise  enow! 

XIII 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  This  World;  and 

some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come;  50 
Ah,  take  the  Cash,  and  let  the  Credit 

Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum ! 

xiv 

Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us — "Lo, 

Laughing,"  she  says,  "into  the  world  I 

blow, 

At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  Purse  55 

Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden 

throw." 


638 


TEE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


xv 
And   those   who   husbanded   the   Golden 

Grain, 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like 
Rain, 
Alike    to   no   such   aureate   Earth   are 
turn'd 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 60 

XVI 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts 

upon 
Turns  Ashes — or  it  prospers;  and  anon, 
Like    Snow    upon    the    Desert's   dusty 

Face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two — was  gone. 

XVII 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai1     65 
Whose  Portals  are  alternate  Night  and 

Day, 
How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  destin'd  Hour,  and  went  his 

way. 

XVIII 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 
The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and 

drank  deep:  70 

And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter — the 

Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  but  cannot  break 

his  Sleep. 

XIX 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar 

bled; 
That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  her  Lap  from  some  once  lovely 

Head.  76 

xx 

And  this  reviving  Herb  whose  tender 
Green 

Fledges  the  River-Lip  on  which  we  lean — 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly!  for  who  knows 

From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  un- 
seen !  80 

XXI 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  Regrets  and  future  Fears: 

1  inn. 


To-morrow! — Why,  To-morrow  I  may 
be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  thousand 
Years. 

XXII 

For  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  the 
best  85 

That  from  his  Vintage  rolling  Time  hath 
prest, 
Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  two 
before, 

And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 

XXIII 

And  we  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new 

bloom,  90 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch 

of  Earth 
Descend — ourselves  to  make  a  couch — for 

whom? 

XXIV 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may 

spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust  to  lie,  95 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — 

sans  End! 

XXV 

Alike  for  those  who  for  To-day  prepare, 
And  those  that  after  some  To-morrow 

stare, 
A  Muezzin  from  the  Tower  of  Darkness 

cries, 
"Fools!  your  Reward  is  neither  Here  nor 

There."  100 

XXVI 

Why,  all  the  Saints  and  Sages  who  dis- 

cuss'd 
Of  the  Two  Worlds  so  wisely — they  are 

thrust 
Like  foolish  Prophets  forth;  their  Words 

to  Scorn 
Are  scatter'd,  and  their  Mouths  are  stopt 

with  Dust. 

XXVII 

Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argu- 
ment 106 
About  it  and  about:  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  where  in  I 
went. 


FITZGERALD 


639 


XXVIII 

With  them  the  seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow, 
And  with  mine  own  hand  wrought  to  make 

it  grow;  no 

And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I 

reap'd — 
"I  came  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go." 

XXIX 

Into  this  Universe,  and  Why  not  knowing 

Nor  Whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing; 

And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 

I  know  not  Whither,  willy-nilly,  blowing. 

XXX 

WThat,  without  asking,  hither  hurried 
Whence?  1 1 7 

And,    without    asking,    Whither    hurried 
hence? 
Oh,  many  a  Cup  of  this  forbidden  Wine 

Must  drown  the  memory  of  that  insolence ! 

XXXI 

Up  from  Earth's  Centre  through  the 
Seventh  Gate  121 

I  rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturn  sate, 
And  many  a  Knot  unravell'd  by  the 
Road; 

But  not  the  Master-knot  of  Human  Fate. 

XXXII 

There  was  the  Door  to  which  I  found  no 
Key;  _  125 

There  was  the  Veil  through  which  I  might 
not  see: 
Some  little  talk  awhile  of  Me  and  Thee 

There  was — and  then  no  more  of  Thee 
and  Me. 

xxxhi 

Earth  could  not  answer;  nor  the  Seas  that 

mourn 
In  flowing  Purple,  of  their  Lord  forlorn;  130 
Nor  rolling  Heaven,  with  all  his  Signs 

reveal  'd 
And  hidden  by  the  sleeve  of  Night  and 

Morn. 

xxxiv 

Then  of  the  Thee  in  Me  who  works  be- 
hind 
The  Veil,  I  lifted  up  my  hands  to  find 


A   Lamp   amid   the   Darkness;    and    I 
heard,  i3S 

As    from    Without — "The    Me    within 
Thee  blind!" 

xxxv 

Then  to  the  Lip  of  this  poor  earthen  Urn 

I  lean'd,  the  Secret  of  my  Life  to  learn: 

And  Lip  to  Lip  it  murmur 'd — "While 

you  live, 

Drink! — for,  once  dead,  you  never  shall 

return."  140 

xxxvi 
I  think  the  Vessel,  that  with  fugitive 
Articulation  answer'd,  once  did  live, 
And  drink;  and  Ah!  the  passive  Lip  I 
kiss'd, 
How  many  Kisses  might  it  take — and  give! 

xxxvn 

For  I  remember  stopping  by  the  way     145 
To  watch  a  Potter  thumping  his  wet  Clay: 

And  with  its  all-obliterated  Tongue 
It  murmur'd — "Gently,  Brother,  gently, 
pray!" 

XXXVIII 

And  has  not  such  a  Story  from  of  Old 
Down  Man's  successive  generations  roll'd 
Of  such  a  clod  of  saturated  Earth       151 
Cast  by  the  Maker  into  Human  mould? 

XXXIX 

And  not  a  drop  that  from  our  Cups  we 

throw 
For  Earth  to  drink  of,  but  may  steal  below 
To  quench  the  fire  of  Anguish  in  some 

Eye  155 

There  hidden — far  beneath,  and  long  ago. 

XL 

As  then  the  Tulip  for  her  morning  sup 
Of  Heav'nly  Vintage  from  the  soil  looks 

up, 
Do  you  devoutly  do  the  like,  till  Heav'n 
To    Earth    invert    you — like    an    empty 

Cup.  160 

XLI 

Perplext  no  more  with  Human  or  Divine, 
To-morrow's  tangle  to  the  winds  resign, 
And  lose  your  fingers  in  the  tresses  of 
The  Cypress-slender  Minister  of  Wine. 


640 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


XLII 

And  if  the  Wine  you  drink,  the  Lip  you 
press,  165 

End  in  what  All  begins  and  ends  in — Yes; 
Think  then  you  are  To-day  what 
Yesterday 

You  were — To-morrow  you  shall  not  be 
less. 

XLIII 

So  when  the  Angel  of  the  darker  Drink 
At    last   shall    find    you    by    the    river- 
brink,  170 
And,  offering  his  Cup,  invite  your  Soul 
Forth  to  your  Lips  to  quaff — you  shall  not 
shrink. 

XLIV 

Why,  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  Dust  aside, 
And  naked  on  the  Air  of  Heaven  ride, 
Were  't  not  a  Shame — were  't  not  a 
Shame  for  him  175 

In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide? 

XLV 

'Tis  but  a  Tent  where  takes  his  one  day's 

rest 
A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest; 

The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash1 
Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  Guest. 

XL  VI 

And  fear  not  lest  Existence  closing 
your  181 

Account,  and  mine,  should  know  the  like 
no  more; 
The  Eternal  Saki2  from  that  Bowl  has 
pour'd 

Millions  of  Bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour. 

XL  VII 

When  You  and  I  behind  the  Veil  are 
past,  185 

Oh,  but  the  long,  long  while  the  World 
shall  last 
Which  of  our  Coming  and  Departure 
heeds 

As  the  Sea's  self  should  heed  a  pebble-cast. 

XLVIII 

A  Moment's  Halt — a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  Well  amid  the  Waste — ■ 


1  attendant. 


2  wine-bearer. 


And  Lo! — the  phantom   Caravan  has 
reach'd  191 

The  Nothing  it  set  out  from — Oh,  make 
haste ! 

XLIX 

Would  you  that  spangle  of  Existence  spend 

About  the  secret — quick  about  it,  Friend ! 

A  Hair  perhaps  divides  the  False  and 

True —  195 

And  upon  what,  prithee,  does  life  depend? 


A  Hair  perhaps  divides  the  False  and  True; 
Yes;  and  a  single  Alii3  were  the  clue — 
Could  you  but  find  it — to  the  Treasure- 
house, 
And  perad venture  to  The  Master  too;  200 

LI 

Whose  secret  Presence,  through  Creation's 

veins 
Running     Quicksilver-like     eludes     your 
pains ; 
Taking  all  shapes  from  Mah  to  Mahi ; 4 
and 
They  change  and  perish  all — but  He  re- 
mains; 

LET 

A  moment  guess'd — then  back  behind  the 
Fold  205 

Immerst  of  Darkness  round  the  Drama 
roll'd 
Which,  for  the  Pastime  of  Eternity, 

He  doth  Himself  contrive,  enact,  behold. 

LILT 

But  if  in  vain,  down  on  the  stubborn  floor 
Of  Earth,  and  up  to  Heav'n's  unopening 

Door,  210 

You  gaze  To-day,  while  You  are  You — ■ 

how  then 
To-morrow,  when  You  shall  be  You  no 

more? 

Lrv 

Waste  not  your  Hour,  nor  in  the  vain  pur- 
suit 
Of  This  and  That  endeavor  and  dispute; 

Better  be  jocund  with  the  fruitful  Grape 

Than     sadden     after     none,     or     bitter, 

Fruit.  216 


3  the  letter  A. 


1  from  fish  to  moon. 


FITZGERALD 


641 


LV 

You  know,  my  Friends,  with  what  a  brave 

Carouse 
I  made  a  Second  Marriage  in  my  house; 
Divorced  old  barren  Reason  from  my 

Bed, 
And  took  the  Daughter  of  the  Vine  to 

Spouse.  220 

LVI 

For  "Is"  and  "Is-not"  though  with  Rule 

and  Line, 
And  "Up-and-down"  by  Logic  I  define, 

Of  all  that  one  should  care  to  fathom,  I 
Was  never  deep  in  anything  but — Wine. 

LVII 

Ah,  but  my  Computations,  People  say,  225 

Reduced  the  Year  to  better  reckoning? — 

Nay, 

'Twas  only  striking  from  the  Calendar 

Unborn  To-morrow,  and  dead  Yesterday. 

LVIII 

And  lately,  by  the  Tavern  Door  agape, 
Came  shining  through  the  Dusk  an  Angel 

Shape  230 

Bearing  a  Vessel  on  his  Shoulder;  and 

He  bid  me  taste  of  it;  and  't  was — the 

Grape! 

LIX 

The  Grape  that  can  with  Logic  absolute 
The  Two-and-Seventy  jarring  Sects  con- 
fute: 
The    sovereign    Alchemist    that    in    a 
trice  235 

Life's  leaden  metal  into  Gold  transmute: 

LX 

The    mighty    Mahmud,    Allah-breathing 

Lord, 
That  all  the  misbelieving  and  black  Horde 
Of  Fears  and  Sorrows  that  infest  the 

Soul 
Scatters  before  him  with  his  whirlwind 

Sword.  240 

LXI 

Why,  be  this  Juice  the  growth  of  God, 

who  dare 
Blaspheme    the    twisted     tendril    as    a 

Snare? 


A  Blessing,  we  should  use  it,  should  we 
not? 
And  if  a  Curse — why,  then,  Who  set  it 
there? 

lxti 

I  must  abjure  the  Balm  of  Life,  I  must,  245 
Scared  by  some  After-reckoning  ta'en  on 

trust, 
Or  lured  with  Hope  of  some  Diviner 

Drink, 
To    fill    the    Cup — when    crumbled    into 

Dust! 

LXIII 

Oh,  threats  of  Hell  and  Hopes  of  Paradise! 
One  thing  at  least  is  certain — This  Life 

flies;  250 

One  thing  is  certain  and  the  rest  is  Lies; 

The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever 

dies. 

LXIV 

Strange,  is  it  not?  that  of  the  myriads  who 

Before  us  pass'd  the  door  of  Darkness 

through, 

Not  one  returns  to  tell  us  of  the  Road, 

Which  to  discover  we  must  travel  too.  256 

LXV 

The  Revelations  of  Devout  and  Learn'd 
Who    rose   before    us,  and    as    Prophets 

burn'd, 
Are  all  but  Stories,  which,  awoke  from 

Sleep 
They  told  their  comrades,  and  to  Sleep  re- 

turn'd.  260 

LXVI 

I  sent  my  Soul  through  the  Invisible, 
Some  letter  of  that  After-life  to  spell: 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  return 'd  to  me, 
And  answer'd  "I  Myself  am  Heav'n  and 
Hell:" 

LXVII 

Heav'n  but  the  Vision  of  fulfill'd  Desire,  265 
And  Hell  the  Shadow  from  a  Soul  on  fire, 
Cast  on  the  Darkness  into  which  Our- 
selves, 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire. 

LXVTII 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 
Of  Magic  Shadow-shapes  that  come  and 
go  270 


642 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Round  with  the  Sun-illumined  Lantern 
held 
In  Midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show; 

LXIX 

But   helpless   Pieces   of    the    Game    He 

plays 
Upon  this  Chequer-board  of  Nights  and 

Days; 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks, 

and  slays,  275 

And  one  by  one  back  in  the  Closet  lays. 

LXX 

The  Ball  no  question  makes  of  Ayes  and 

Noes, 
But  Here  or  There  as  strikes  the  Player 

goes; 
And  He  that  toss'd  you  down  into  the 

Field, 
He  knows  about  it  all — he  knows — HE 

knows!  280 

LXXI 

The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having 

writ, 
Moves  on:  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 

LXXII 

And  that  inverted  Bowl  they  call  the 
Sky,  285 

Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and 
die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  77  for  help — for 
It 

As  impotently  moves  as  you  or  I. 

LXXIII 

With  Earth's  first  Clay  They  did  the  Last 

Man  knead, 
And  there  of  the  Last  Harvest  sow'd  the 

Seed:  290 

And    the    first    Morning    of    Creation 

wrote 
What  the  Last  Dawn  of  Reckoning  shall 

read. 

LXXIV 

Yesterday  This  Day's  Madness  did  pre- 
pare; 

To-morrow's  Silence,  Triumph,  or  De- 
spair: 


Drink!  for  you  know  not  whence  you 
came,  nor  why:  295 

Drink!  for  you  know  not  why  you  go,  nor 
where. 

LXXV 

I  tell  you  this — When,  started  from  the 

Goal, 
Over  the  flaming  shoulders  of  the  Foal 
Of  Heav'n  Parwin  and  Mushtari1  they 

flung, 
In    my   predestined    Plot    of    Dust    and 

Soul  300 

LXXVI 

The  Vine  had  struck  a  fibre:  which  about 
If  clings  my  Being — let  the  Dervish  flout; 
Of  my  Base  metal  may  be  filed  a  Key, 
That  shall  unlock  the  Door  he  howls  with- 
out. 

Lxxvn 
And  this  I  know:  whether  the  one  True 
Light  305 

Kindle  to  Love,  or  Wrath-consume  me 
quite, 
One    Flash   of    It   within    the   Tavern 
caught 
Better  than  in  the  Temple  lost  outright. 

LXXVIII 

What !  out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A    conscious    Something    to    resent    the 
yoke  310 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties,  if  broke! 

LXXIX 

What!  from  his  helpless  Creature  be  re- 
paid 

Pure  Gold  for  what  he  lent  him  dross- 
allay'd — 
Sue  for  a  Debt  we  never  did  contract,  315 

And  cannot  answer — Oh,  the  sorry  trade! 

LXXX 

Oh  Thou,  who  didst  with  pitfall  and  with 

gin 
Beset  the  Road  I  was  to  wander  in, 
Thou  wilt  not  with  Predestined  Evil 

round 
Enmesh,  and    then    impute   my   Fall    to 

Sin!  320 

1  The  Pleiads  and  Jupiter. 


FITZGERALD 


643 


LXXXI 

Oh  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst 

make, 
And  ev'n  with  Paradise  devise  the  Snake: 
For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of 

Man 
Is   blacken'd — Man's   forgiveness   give — 

and  take! 


LXXXII 

As   under   cover  of   departing   Day    325 

Slunk    hunger-stricken    Ramazan    away, 

Once  more  within  the  Potter's  house 

alone 

I  stood,  surrounded  by  the  Shapes  of  Clay. 

LXXXIII 

Shapes  of  all  Sorts  and  Sizes,  great  and 

small, 
That  stood  along  the  floor  and  by  the 

wall;  330 

And  some  loquacious  Vessels  were;  and 

some 
Listen'd  perhaps,  but  never  talk'd  at  all. 

LXXXIV 

Said  one  among   them — "Surely  not  in 

vain 
My  substance  of  the  common  Earth  was 

ta'en 
And    to    this    Figure    moulded,  to   be 

broke,  335 

Or    trampled    back    to    shapeless    Earth 

again." 

LXXXV 

Then  said  a  Second — "Ne'er  a  peevish 

Boy 
Would   break   the  Bowl  from  which   he 

drank  in  joy; 
And  He  that  with  his  hand  the  Vessel 

made 
Will  surely  not  in  after  Wrath  destroy."  340 

LXXXVI 

After  a  momentary  silence  spake 
Some  Vessel  of  a  more  ungainly  Make: 
"They  sneer  at  me  for  leaning  all  awry: 
What!  did  the  Hand  then  of  the  Potter 
shake?" 


LXXXVII 

Whereat  some  of  the  loquacious  Lot —  345 
I  think  a  Sufi  pipkin — waxing  hot — 
"All  this  of  Pot  and  Potter— Tell  me 

then, 
Who  is  the  Potter,   pray,  and  who  the 

Pot?  " 

LXXXVIH 

"Why,"  said  another,  "Some  there  are 

who  tell 
Of  one  who  threatens  he  will  toss  to  Hell  350 
The  luckless  Pots  he  marr'd  in  making — 

Pish! 
He 's  a  Good  Fellow,  and 't  will  all  be  well." 

LXXXIX 

"Well,"  murmur'd  one,  "Let  whoso  make 

or  buy, 
My  Clay  with  long  Oblivion  is  gone  dry: 
But  fill  me  with  the  old  familiar  Juice,  355 
Methinks  I  might  recover  by  and  by." 

xc 

So  while   the  Vessels  one  by  one  were 

speaking, 
The  little  Moon  look'd  in  that  all  were 

seeking : 
And    then    they    jogg'd     each    other, 

"Brother!  Brother! 
Now   for   the   Porter's   shoulder-knot   a- 

creaking!"  360 


XCI 
Ah,  with  the  Grape  my  fading  Life  pro- 
vide, 
And  wash  the  Body  whence  the  Life  has 
died, 
And  lay  me,  shrouded  in  the  living  Leaf, 
By  some  not  unfrequented  Garden-side. 

xcn 

That  ev'n  my  buried  Ashes  such  a  snare  365 
Of  Vintage  shall  fling  up  into  the  Air 
As  not  a  True-believer  passing  by 
But  shall  be  overtaken  unaware. 

XCIII 

Indeed  the  Idols  I  have  loved  so  long 
Have  done  my  credit  in  this  World  much 
wrong:  370 


644 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Have  drown 'd  my  Glory  in  a  shallow 
Cup, 
And  sold  my  Reputation  for  a  Song. 

xciv 

Indeed,  indeed,  Repentance  oft  before 

I  swore — but  was  I  sober  when  I  swore? 

And  then  and  then  came  Spring,  and 

Rose-in-hand  37s 

My  thread-bare  Penitence  apieces  tore. 

xcv 

And  much  as  Wine  has  play'd  the  Infidel, 

And  robb'd  me  of  my  Robe  of  Honor — 

Well, 

I  wonder  often  what  the  Vintners  buy 

One  half  so  precious  as  the  stuff  they  sell.  380 

XCVI 

Yet  Ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with 

the  Rose! 
That  Youth's   sweet-scented   manuscript 

should  close! 
The  Nightingale  that  in  the  branches 

sang, 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who 

knows ! 

XCV1I 

Would  but  the  Desert  of  the  Fountain 
yield  385 

One  glimpse — if   dimly,   yet   indeed,   re- 
veal'd, 
To  which  the  fainting  Traveller  might 
spring, 

As  springs  the  trampled  herbage  of  the 
field. 

XCVIII 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too 

late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  Roll  of  Fate,  390 
And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate! 

XCIX 

Ah  Love!  could  you  and  I  with  Him  con- 
spire 

To   grasp   this   sorry  Scheme   of   Things 
Entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits — and 
then  305 

Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  desire! 


Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again — 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in 


vain! 


400 


ci 


And  when  like  her,  oh  Saki,  you  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  Star-scatter'd  on  the 

Grass, 
And  in  your  joyous  errand  reach  the 

spot 
Where  I  made  One — turn  down  an  empty 

Glass! 

TAMAM1 


THOMAS   CARLYLE    (1795-1881) 

From  SARTOR  RESARTUS 

Book  III,  Chapter  8 

NATURAL   STJPERNATURALISM 

It  is  in  his  stupendous  Section,  headed 
Natural  Super  naturalism,  that  the  Pro- 
fessor first  becomes  a  Seer;  and,  after  long 
effort,  such  as  we  have  witnessed,  finally 
subdues  under  his  feet  the  refractory 
Clothes-Philosophy,  and  takes  victorious 
possession  thereof.  Phantasms  enough  he 
has  had  to  struggle  with;  "Cloth- webs 
and  Cob-webs,"  of  Imperial  Mantles, 
Superannuated  Symbols,  and  what  [to 
not;  yet  still  did  he  courageously  pierce 
through.  Nay,  worst  of  all,  two  quite 
mysterious,  world  embracing  Phantasms, 
Time  and  Space,  have  ever  hovered 
round  him,  perplexing  and  bewildering; 
but  with  these  also  he  now  resolutely 
grapples,  these  also  he  victoriously  rends 
asunder.  In  a  word,  he  has  looked  fixedly 
on  Existence,  till,  one  after  the  other,  its 
earthly  hulls  and  garnitures  have  all  [20 
melted  away;  and  now,  to  his  rapt  vision, 
the  interior  celestial  Holy  of  Holies  lies 
disclosed. 

.  .  .  This  stupendous  Section  we,  after 
long  painful  meditation,  have  found  not 
to  be  unintelligible;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, to   grow    clear,  nay   radiant,  and 

1  the  end. 


CARLYLE 


645 


all-illuminating.  Let  the  reader,  turning 
on  it  what  utmost  force  of  speculative 
intellect  is  in  him,  do  his  part;  as  we,  [30 
by  judicious  selection  and  adjustment, 
shall  study  to  do  ours: 

"Deep  has  been,  and  is,  the  significance 
of  Miracles,"  thus  quietly  begins  the  Pro- 
fessor; "far  deeper  perhaps  than  we 
imagine.  Meanwhile,  the  question  of 
questions  were:  What  specially  is  a  Mir- 
acle? To  that  Dutch  King  of  Siam,  an 
icicle  had  been  a  miracle;  whoso  had 
carried  with  him  an  air-pump  and  [40 
vial  of  vitriolic  ether,  might  have  worked 
a  miracle.  To  my  Horse,  again,  who  un- 
happily is  still  more  unscientific,  do  not 
I  work  a  miracle,  and  magical  'Open 
sesame!''  every  time  I  please  to  pay 
twopence  and  open  for  him  an  impas- 
sable Schlagbaum,  or  shut  Turnpike? 

'"But  is  not  a  real  Miracle  simply  a 
violation  of  the  Laws  of  Nature?'  ask 
several.  Whom  I  answer  by  this  [50 
new  question:  what  are  the  Laws  of 
Nature?  To  me  perhaps  the  rising  of  one 
from  the  dead  were  no  violation  of  these 
Laws,  but  a  confirmation;  were  some  far 
deeper  Law,  now  first  penetrated  into, 
and  by  Spiritual  Force,  even  as  the  rest 
have  all  been,  brought  to  bear  on  us  with 
its  Material  Force. 


'"But  is  it  not  the  deepest  Law  of  Na- 
ture that  she  be  constant?'  cries  an  [60 
illuminated  class:  'Is  not  the  Machine  of 
the  Universe  fixed  to  move  by  unalter- 
able rules?'  Probable  enough,  good 
friends:  nay,  I,  too,  must  believe  that 
the  God,  whom  ancient  inspired  men 
assert  to  be  'without  variableness  or 
shadow  of  turning,'  does  indeed  never 
change;  that  Nature,  that  the  Universe, 
which  no  one  whom  it  so  pleases  can  be 
prevented  from  calling  a  Machine,  [70 
does  move  by  the  most  unalterable  rules. 
And  now  of  you  too  I  make  the  old  in- 
quiry: What  those  same  unalterable 
rules,  forming  the  complete  Statute-Book 
of  Nature,  may  possibly  be? 

"They  stand  written  in  our  Works  of 
Science,  say  you;  in  the  accumulated 
records  of  man's  Experience? — Was  man 
with  his  Experience  present  at  the  Crea- 


tion, then,  to  see  how  it  all  went  on?  [80 
Have  any  deepest  scientific  individuals 
yet  dived  down  to  the  foundations  of  the 
Universe,  and  gauged  everything  there? 
Did  the  Maker  take  them  into  His  coun- 
sel; that  they  read  His  ground-plan  of 
the  incomprehensible  All;  and  can  say, 
This  stands  marked  therein,  and  no  more 
than  this?  Alas!  not  in  anywise!  These 
scientific  individuals  have  been  nowhere 
but  where  we  also  are ;  have  seen  some  [90 
handbreadths  deeper  than  we  see  into  the 
Deep  that  is  infinite,  without  bottom  as 
without  shore. 


"System  of  Nature!  To  the  wisest 
man,  wide  as  is  his  vision,  Nature  remains 
of  quite  infinite  depth,  of  quite  infinite 
expansion;  and  all  Experience  thereof 
limits  itself  to  some  few  computed  cen- 
turies, and  measured  square-miles.  The 
course  of  Nature's  phases,  on  this  our  [100 
little  fraction  of  a  Planet,  is  partially 
known  to  us:  but  who  knows  what  deeper 
courses  these  depend  on;  what  infinitely 
larger  Cycle  (of  causes)  our  little  Epi- 
cycle revolves  on?  To  the  Minnow  every 
cranny  and  pebble,  and  quality  and  acci- 
dent, of  its  little  native  Creek  may  have 
become  familiar:  but  does  the  Minnow 
understand  the  Ocean  Tides  and  periodic 
Currents,  the  Trade- winds,  and  Mon-  [no 
soons,  and  Moon's  Eclipses, — by  all  which 
the  condition  of  its  little  Creek  is  regulated, 
and  may,  from  time  to  time  (wwmiracu- 
lously  enough),  be  quite  overset  and  re- 
versed? Such  a  minnow  is  Man;  his 
Creek  this  Planet  Earth;  his  Ocean  the 
immeasurable  All;  his  Monsoons  and 
periodic  Currents  the  mysterious  Course 
of  Providence  through  ^Eons  of  ^Eons. 

"We  speak  of  the  Volume  of  Na-  [120 
ture:  and  truly  a  Volume  it  is, — whose 
Author  and  Writer  is  God.  To  read  it! 
Dost  thou,  does  man,  so  much  as  well 
know  the  Alphabet  thereof?  .  .  . 

"Innumerable  are  the  illusions  and 
legerdemain-tricks  of  Custom:  but  of  all 
these  perhaps  the  cleverest  is  her  knack 
of  persuading  us  that  the  Miraculous, 
by  simple  repetition,  ceases  to  be  Mir- 
aculous. True,  it  is  by.  this  means  [130 
we  live;  for  man  must  work  as  well  as 


646 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


wonder:  and  herein  is  Custom  so  far  a 
kind  nurse,  guiding  him  to  his  true  benefit. 
But  she  is  a  fond  foolish  nurse,  or  rather 
we  are  false  foolish  nurslings,  when,  in 
our  resting  and  reflecting  hours,  we  pro- 
long the  same  deception.  .  .  . 

"But  deepest  of  all  illusory  Appear- 
ances, for  hiding  Wonder,  as  for  many 
other  ends,  are  your  two  grand  funda-  [140 
mental  world-enveloping  Appearances, 
Space  and  Time.  These,  as  spun  and 
woven  for  us  from  before  Birth  itself,  to 
clothe  our  celestial  Me  for  dwelling  here, 
and  yet  to  blind  it, — lie  all-embracing,  as 
the  universal  canvas,  or  warp  and  woof, 
whereby  all  minor  Illusions,  in  this  Phan- 
tasm Existence,  weave  and  paint  them- 
selves. In  vain,  while  here  on  Earth, 
shall  you  endeavor  to  strip  them  off;  [150 
you  can,  at  best,  but  rend  them  asunder 
for  moments,  and  look  through. 

"Fortunatus  had  a  wishing  Hat,  which 
when  he  put  on,  and  wished  himself  Any- 
where, behold  he  was  There.  By  this 
means  had  Fortunatus  triumphed  over 
Space,  he  had  annihilated  Space;  for  him 
there  was  no  Where,  but  all  was  Here. 
Were  a  Hatter  to  establish  himself,  in  the 
Wahngasse  of  Weissnichtwo,  and  [160 
make  felts  of  this  sort  for  all  mankind, 
what  a  world  we  should  have  of  it!  Still 
stranger,  should,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  another  Hatter  establish  him- 
self; and,  as  his  fellow-craftsman  made 
Space-annihilating  Hats,  make  Time- 
annihilating!  Of  both  would  I  purchase, 
were  it  with  my  last  groschen,  but  chiefly 
of  this  latter.  To  clap-on  your  felt,  and, 
simply  by  wishing  that  you  were  [170 
Anywhere,  straightway  to  be  There!  Next 
to  clap-on  your  other  felt,  and  simply 
by  wishing  that  you  were  Anywhen, 
straightway  to  be  Then!  This  were  in- 
deed the  grander:  shooting  at  will  from 
the  Fire-Creation  of  the  World  to  its 
Fire-Consummation ;  here  historically  pres- 
ent in  the  First  Century,  conversing  face 
to  face  with  Paul  and  Seneca;  there 
prophetically  in  the  Thirty -first,  con-  [180 
versing  also  face  to  face  with  other  Pauls 
and  Senecas,  who  as  yet  stand  hidden  in 
the  depth  of  that  late  Time! 

"Or  thinkest  thou,  it  were  impossible, 
unimaginable?     Is  the  Past  annihilated, 


then,  or  only  past;  is  the  Future  non- 
extant  or  only  future?  Those  mystic 
faculties  of  thine,  Memory  and  Hope, 
already  answer:  already  through  those 
mystic  avenues,  thou  the  Earth-  [190 
blinded  summonest  both  Past  and  Future, 
and  communest  with  them,  though  as 
yet  darkly,  and  with  mute  beckonings. 
The  curtains  of  Yesterday  drop  down, 
the  curtains  of  To-morrow  roll  up;  but 
Yesterday  and  To-morrow  both  are. 
Pierce  through  the  Time-Element,  glance 
into  the  Eternal.  Believe  what  thou 
findest  written  in  the  sanctuaries  of 
Man's  Soul,  even  as  all  Thinkers,  in  all  [200 
ages,  have  devoutly  read  it  there:  that 
Time  and  Space  are  not  God,  but  crea- 
tions of  God;  that  with  God  as  it  is  a 
universal  Here,  so  is  it  an  everlasting 
Now. 

"And  seest  thou  therein  any  glimpse  of 
Immortality? — O  Heaven!  Is  the  white 
Tomb  of  our  Loved  One,  who  died  from 
our  arms,  and  had  to  be  left  behind  us 
there,  which  rises  in  the  distance,  like  [210 
a  pale,  mournfully  receding  Milestone,  to 
tell  how  many  toilsome  uncheered  miles 
we  have  journeyed  on  alone, — but  a  pale 
spectral  Illusion!  Is  the  lost  Friend  still 
mysteriously  Here,  even  as  we  are  Here 
mysteriously  with  God! — Know  of  a 
truth  that  only  the  Time-shadows  have 
perished,  or  are  perishable;  that  the  real 
Being  of  whatever  was,  and  whatever  is, 
and  whatever  will  be,  is  even  now  and  [220 
forever.  This,  should  it  unhappily  seem 
new,  thou  mayst  ponder  at  thy  leisure; 
for  the  next  twenty  years,  or  the  next 
twenty  centuries:  believe  it  thou  must; 
understand  it  thou  canst  not. 

"That  the  Thought-forms,  Space  and 
Time,  wherein,  once  for  all,  we  are  sent 
into  this  Earth  to  live,  should  condition 
and  determine  our  whole  Practical  reason- 
ings, conceptions,  and  imagings  or  [230 
imaginings, — seems  altogether  fit,  just, 
and  unavoidable.  But  that  they  should, 
furthermore,  usurp  such  sway  over  pure 
spiritual  Meditation,  and  blind  us  to 
the  wonder  everywhere  lying  close  on 
us,  seems  nowise  so.  Admit  Space  and 
Time  to  their  due  rank  as  Forms  of 
Thought;  nay,  even,  if  thou  wilt,  to  their 
quite  undue  rank  of  Realities:  and  con- 


CARLYLE 


647 


sider,  then,  with  thyself  how  their  [240 
thin  disguises  hide  from  us  the  brightest 
God-effulgences!  Thus,  were  it  not  mirac- 
ulous, could  I  stretch  forth  my  hand  and 
clutch  the  Sun?  Yet  thou  seest  me  daily 
stretch  forth  my  hand,  and  therewith 
clutch  many  a  thing,  and  swing  it  hither 
and  thither.  Art  thou  a  grown  baby, 
then,  to  fancy  that  the  Miracle  lies  in 
miles  of  distance,  or  in  pounds  avoir- 
dupois of  weight;  and  not  to  see  that  [250 
the  true  inexplicable  God-revealing  Mir- 
acle lies  in  this,  that  I  can  stretch  forth 
my  hand  at  all;  that  I  have  free  Force  to 
clutch  aught  therewith?  Innumerable 
other  of  this  sort  are  the  deceptions,  and 
wonder-hiding  stupefactions,  which  Space 
practices  on  us. 

"Still  worse  is  i^  with  regard  to  Time. 
Your  grand  anti-magician,  and  universal 
wonder-hider,  is  this  same  lying  Time.  [260 
Had  we  but  the  Time-annihilating  Hat, 
to  put  on  for  once  only,  we  should  see 
ourselves  in  a  World  of  Miracles,  wherein 
all  fabled  or  authentic  Thaumaturgy, 
and  feats  of  Magic,  were  outdone.  But 
unhappily  we  have  not  such  a  Hat;  and 
man,  poor  fool  that  he  is,  can  seldom  and 
scantily  help  himself  without  one. 

"Were  it  not  wonderful,  for  instance, 
had  Orpheus,  or  Amphion,  built  the  [270 
walls  of  Thebes  by  the  mere  sound  of  his 
Lyre?  Yet  tell  me,  Who  built  these  walls 
of  Weissnichtwo;  summoning  out  all  the 
sandstone  rocks,  to  dance  along  from  the 
Stein-bruch  (now  a  huge  Troglodyte  Chasm, 
with  frightful  green-mantled  pools);  and 
shape  themselves  into  Doric  and  Ionic 
pillars,  squared  ashlar  houses,  and  noble 
streets?  Was  it  not  the  still  higher 
Orpheus,  or  Orpheuses,  who,  in  past  [280 
centuries,  by  the  divine  Music  of  Wisdom, 
succeeded  in  civilizing  man?  Our  highest 
Orpheus  walked  in  Judea,  eighteen  hun- 
dred years  ago:  his  sphere-melody,  flowing 
in  wild  native  tones,  took  captive  the 
ravished  souls  of  men;  and,  being  of  a  truth 
sphere-melody,  still  flows  and  sounds, 
though  now  with  thousandfold  accomplish- 
ments, and  rich  symphonies,  through  all  our 
hearts;  and  modulates,  and  divinely  [290 
leads  them.  Is  that  a  wonder,  which  hap- 
pens in  two  hours;  and  does  it  cease  to  be 
wonderful    if    happening  in   two  million? 


Not  only  was  Thebes  built  by  the  music  of 
an  Orpheus;  but  without  the  music  of  some 
inspired  Orpheus  was  no  city  ever  built, 
no  work  that  man  glories  in  ever  done. 

"Sweep  away  the  Illusion  of  Time; 
glance,  if  thou  have  eyes,  from  the  near 
moving-cause  to  its  far-distant  Mover:  [300 
The  stroke  that  came  transmitted  through 
a  whole  galaxy  of  elastic  balls,  was  it 
less  a  stroke  than  if  the  last  ball  only 
had  been  struck,  and  sent  flying?  Oh, 
could  I  (with  the  Time-annihilating  Hat) 
transport  thee  direct  from  the  Beginnings 
to  the  Endings,  how  were  thy  eyesight 
unsealed,  and  thy  heart  set  flaming  in 
the  Light-sea  of  celestial  wonder!  Then 
sawest  thou  that  this  fair  Universe,  [310 
were  it  in  the  meanest  province  thereof, 
is  in  very  deed  the  star-domed  City  of 
God;  that  through  every  star,  through 
every  grass-blade,  and  most  through  every 
Living  Soul,  the  glory  of  a  present  God 
still  beams.  But  Nature,  which  is  the 
Time- vesture  of  God,  and  reveals  Him 
to  the  wise,  hides  Him  from  the  foolish. 

"Again,  could  anything  be  more  mirac- 
ulous than  an  actual  authentic  Ghost?  [320 
The  English  Johnson  longed,  all  his  life, 
to  see  one;  but  could  not,  though  he  went 
to  Cock  Lane,  and  thence  to  the  church- 
vaults,  and  tapped  on  coffins.  Foolish 
Doctor!  Did  he  never,  with  the  mind's 
eye  as  well  as  with  the  body's,  look  round 
him  into  that  full  tide  of  human  Life  he 
so  loved;  did  he  never  so  much  as  look 
into  Himself?  The  good  Doctor  was  a 
Ghost,  as  actual  and  authentic  as  [330 
heart  could  wish;  well-nigh  a  million  of 
Ghosts  were  travelling  the  streets  by  his 
side.  Once  more  I  say,  sweep  away  the 
illusion  of  Time;  compress  the  threescore 
years  into  three  minutes:  what  else  was 
he,  what  else  are  we?  Are  we  not  Spirits, 
that  are  shaped  into  a  body,  into  an  Ap- 
pearance; and  that  fade  away  again  into 
air,  and  Invisibility?  This  is  no  meta- 
phor, it  is  a  simple  scientific  fact;  we  [340 
start  out  of  Nothingness,  take  figure,  and 
are  Apparitions;  round  us,  as  round  the 
veriest  spectre,  is  Eternity;  and  to  Eter- 
nity minutes  are  as  years  and  aeons.  Come 
there  not  tones  of  Love  and  Faith,  as 
from  celestial  harp-strings,  like  the  Song 
of  beatified  Souls?    And  again,  do  not  we 


648 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


squeak  and  gibber  (in  our  discordant, 
screech-owlish  debatings  and  recriminat- 
ings);  and  glide  bodeful  and  feeble,  [350 
and  fearful;  or  uproar  (poltern),  and  revel 
in  our  mad  Dance  of  the  Dead, — till  the 
scent  of  the  morning-air  summons  us  to 
our  still  Home;  and  dreamy  Night  be- 
comes awake  and  Day?  Where  now  is 
Alexander  of  Macedon:  does  the  steel 
Host,  that  yelled  in  fierce  battle-shouts, 
at  Issus  and  Arbela,  remain  behind  him; 
or  have  they  all  vanished  utterly,  even  as 
perturbed  Goblins  must?  Napoleon  [360 
too,  and  his  Moscow  Retreats  and  Auster- 
litz  Campaigns !  Was  it  all  other  than  the 
veriest  Spectre-hunt;  which  has  now, 
with  its  howling  tumult  that  made  night 
hideous,  flitted  away? — Ghosts!  There 
are  nigh  a  thousand  million  walking  the 
Earth  openly  at  noontide;  some  half- 
hundred  have  vanished  from  it,  some 
half-hundred  have  arisen  in  it,  ere  thy 
watch  ticks  once.  [370 

"O  Heaven,  it  is  mysterious,  it  is 
awful  to  consider  that  we  not  only  carry 
each  a  future  Ghost  within  him;  but  are, 
in  very  deed,  Ghosts!  These  Limbs, 
whence  had  we  them;  this  stormy  Force; 
this  life-blood  with  its  burning  Passion? 
They  are  dust  and  shadow;  a  Shadow- 
system  gathered  round  our  Me;  wherein 
through  some  moments  or  years,  the 
Divine  Essence  is  to  be  revealed  in  the  [380 
Flesh.  That  warrior  on  his  strong  war- 
horse,  fire  flashes  through  his  eyes;  force 
dwells  in  his  arm  and  heart;  but  warrior 
and  war-horse  are  a  vision;  a  revealed 
Force,  nothing  more.  Stately  they  tread 
the  Earth,  as  if  it  were  a  firm  substance: 
fool!  the  Earth  is  but  a  film;  it  cracks  in 
twain,  and  warrior  and  war-horse  sink 
beyond  plummet's  sounding.  Plummet's? 
Fantasy  herself  will  not  follow  them.  [390 
A  little  while  ago  they  were  not;  a  little 
while  and  they  are  not,  their  very  ashes 
are  not. 

"So  has  it  been  from  the  beginning,  so 
will  it  be  to  the  end.  Generation  after 
generation  takes  to  itself  the  Form  of  a 
Body;  and  forth-issuing  from  Cimmerian 
Night,  on  Heaven's  mission  appears. 
What  Force  and  Fire  is  in  each  he  ex- 
pends: one  grinding  in  the  mill  of  In-  [400 
dustry;    one    hunter-like    climbing    the 


giddy  Alpine  heights  of  Science;  one 
madly  dashed  in  pieces  on  the  rocks  of 
Strife,  in  war  with  his  fellow: — and  then 
the  Heaven-sent  is  recalled;  his  earthly 
Vesture  falls  away,  and  soon  even  to 
Sense  becomes  a  Vanished  Shadow.  Thus, 
like  some  wild-flaming,  wild-thundering 
train  of  Heaven's  Artillery,  does  this 
mysterious  Mankind  thunder  and  [410 
flame,  in  long-drawn,  quick-succeeding 
grandeur,  through  the  unknown  Deep. 
Thus,  like  a  God-created,  fire-breathing 
Spirit-host,  we  emerge  from  the  Inane; 
haste  stormfully  across  the  astonished 
Earth;  then  plunge  again  into  the  Inane. 
Earth's  mountains  are  levelled,  and  her 
seas  filled  up,  in  our  passage:  can  the 
Earth,  which  is  but  dead  and  a  vision, 
resist  Spirits  which  have  reality  and  [420 
are  alive?  On  the  hardest  adamant  some 
footprint  of  us  is  stamped-in;  the  last 
Rear  of  the  host  will  read  traces  of  the 
earliest  Van.  But  whence? — O  Heaven, 
whither?  Sense  knows  not;  Faith  knows 
not;  only  that  it  is  through  Mystery  to 
Mystery,  from  God  and  to  God. 

'  We  are  such  stuff 
As  Dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little 
Life  [430 

Is  rounded  with  a  sleep!'" 


From  PAST  AND  PRESENT 

Book  III,  Chapter  XI 

Labor 

For  there  is  a  perennial  nobleness,  and 
even  sacredness,  in  Work.  Were  he 
never  so  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high 
calling,  there  is  always  hope  in  a  man  that 
actually  and  earnestly  works:  in  Idleness 
alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Work, 
never  so  Mammonish,  mean,  is  in  com- 
munication with  Nature;  the  real  desire 
to  get  Work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more 
and  more  to  truth,  to  Nature's  ap-  [10 
pointments  and  regulations,  which  are 
truth. 

The  latest  Gospel  in  this  world  is, 
Know  thy  work  and  do  it.  "Know  thy- 
self": long  enough  has  that  poor  "self" 
of  thine  tormented  thee;  thou  wilt  never 


v  ru 


CARLYLE 


649 


get  to  "know"  it,  I  believe!  Think  it 
not  thy  business,  this  of  knowing  thyself; 
thou  art  an  unknowable  individual:  know 
what  thou  canst  work  at;  and  work  [20 
at  it,  like  a  Hercules!  That  will  be  thy 
better  plan. 

It  has  been  written,  "an  endless  sig- 
nificance lies  in  Work";  a  man  perfects 
himself  by  working.  Foul  jungles  are 
cleared  away,  fair  seedfields  rise  instead, 
and  stately  cities;  and  withal  the  man 
himself  first  ceases  to  be  a  jungle  and  foul 
unwholesome  desert  thereby.  Consider 
how,  even  in  the  meanest  sorts  of  [30 
Labor,  the  whole  soul  of  a  man  is  com- 
posed into  a  kind  of  real  harmony,  the 
instant  he  sets  himself  to  work!  Doubt, 
Desire,  Sorrow,  Remorse,  Indignation, 
Despair  itself,  all  these  like  hell-dogs  lie 
beleaguering  the  soul  of  the  poor  day- 
worker  as  of  every  man:  but  he  bends 
himself  with  free  valor  against  his  task, 
and  all  these  are  stilled,  all  these  shrink 
murmuring  far  off  into  their  caves.  [40 
The  man  is  now  a  man.  The  blessed 
glow  of  Labor  in  him,  is  it  not  as  purifying 
fire,  wherein  all  poison  is  burnt  up,  and 
of  sour  smoke  itself  there  is  made  bright 
blessed  flame! 

Destiny,  on  the  whole,  has  no  other 
way  of  cultivating  us.  A  formless  Chaos, 
once  set  it  revolving,  grows  round  and 
ever  rounder;  ranges  itself,  by  mere  force 
of  gravity,  into  strata,  spherical  [50 
courses;  is  no  longer  a  Chaos,  but  a  round 
compacted  World.  What  would  become 
of  the  Earth,  did  she  cease  to  revolve? 
In  the  poor  old  Earth,  so  long  as  she  re- 
volves, all  inequalities,  irregularities  dis- 
perse themselves;  all  irregularities  are 
incessantly  becoming  regular.  Hast  thou 
looked  on  the  Potter's  wheel, — one  of  the 
venerablest  objects;  old  as  the  Prophet 
Ezekiel  and  far  older?  Rude  lumps  of  [60 
clay,  how  they  spin  themselves  up,  by 
mere  quick  whirling,  into  beautiful  cir- 
cular dishes.  And  fancy  the  most  assidu- 
ous Potter,  but  without  his  wheel;  re- 
duced to  make  dishes,  or  rather  amor- 
phous botches,  by  mere  kneading  and 
;  baking!  Even  such  a  Potter  were  Des- 
>  tiny,  with  a  human  soul  that  would  rest 
1  and  lie  at  ease,  that  would  not  work 
1  and  spin !    Of  an  idle  unrevolving  man  [70 


the  kindest  Destiny,  like  the  most  assid- 
uous Potter  without  wheel,  can  bake  and 
knead  nothing  other  than  a  botch;  let  her 
spend  on  him  what  expensive  coloring, 
what  gilding  and  enamelling  she  will,  he 
is  but  a  botch.  Not  a  dish;  no,  a  bulg- 
ing, kneaded,  crooked,  shambling,  squint- 
cornered,  amorphous  botch, — a  mere  en- 
amelled vessel  of  dishonor!  Let  the  idle 
think  of  this.  [80 

Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work; 
let  him  ask  no  other  blessedness.  He 
has  a  work,  a  life-purpose;  he  has  found 
it,  and  will  follow  it!  How,  as  a  free- 
flowing  channel,  dug  and  torn  by  noble 
force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of 
one's  existence,  like  an  ever-deepening 
river  there,  it  runs  and  flows; — draining- 
off  the  sour  festering  water,  gradually 
from  the  root  of  the  remotest  grass-  [90 
blade;  making,  instead  of  pestilential 
swamp,  a  green  fruitful  meadow  with  its 
clear-flowing  stream.  How  blessed  for  the 
meadow  itself,  let  the  stream  and  its  value  . 
be  great  or  small!  Labor  is  Life;  from  the  J 
inmost  heart  of  the  Worker  rises  his  god- 
given  Force,  the  sacred  celestial  Life- 
essence  breathed  into  him  by  Almighty 
God;  from  his  inmost  heart  awakens  him 
to  all  nobleness, — to  all  knowledge,  [100 
"self-knowledge"  and  much  else,  so  soon 
as  Work  fitly  begins.  Knowledge?  The 
knowledge  that  will  hold  good  in  working, 
cleave  thou  to  that;  for  Nature  herself 
accredits  that,  says  Yea  to  that.  Properly 
thou  hast  no  other  knowledge  but  what 
thou  hast  got  by  working:  the  rest  is  yet 
all  a  hypothesis  of  knowledge;  a  thing  to 
be  argued  of  in  schools,  a  thing  floating  in 
the  clouds,  in  endless  logic- vortices,  [no 
till  we  try  it  and  fix  it.  "Doubt,  of  what- 
ever kind,  can  be  ended  by  Action  alone." 

And  again,  hast  thou  valued  Patience, 
Courage,  Perseverance,  Openness  to  light; 
readiness  to  own  thyself  mistaken,  to 
do  better  next  time?  All  these,  all  vir- 
tues, in  wrestling  with  the  dim  brute 
Powers  of  Fact,  in  ordering  of  thy  fel- 
lows in  such  wrestle,  there  and  elsewhere 
not  at  all,  thou  wilt  continually  learn.  [120 
Set  down  a  brave  Sir  Christopher  in  the 
middle  of  black  ruined  Stone-heaps,  of 
foolish  unarchitectural  Bishops,  red-tape 


650 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Officials;  idle  Nell-Gwyn  Defenders  of 
the  Faith;  and  see  whether  he  will  ever 
raise  a  Paul's  Cathedral  out  of  all  that, 
yea  or  no!  Rough,  rude,  contradictory 
are  all  things  and  persons,  from  the  mu- 
tinous masons  and  Irish  hodmen,  up  to 
the  idle  Nell-Gwyn  Defenders,  to  blus-  [130 
tering  red-tape  Officials,  foolish  unarchitec- 
tural  Bishops.  All  these  things  and  per- 
sons are  there  not  for  Christopher's  sake 
and  his  Cathedral's;  they  are  there  for 
their  own  sake  mainly!  Christopher  will 
have  to  conquer  and  constrain  all  these, — 
if  he  be  able.  All  these  are  against  him. 
Equitable  Nature  herself,  who  carries  her 
mathematics  and  architectonics  not  on 
the  face  of  her,  but  deep  in  the  hidden  [140 
heart  of  her, — Nature  herself  is  but  par- 
tially for  him;  will  be  wholly  against  him, 
if  he  constrain  her  not!  His  very  money, 
where  is  it  to  come  from?  The  pious 
munificence  of  England  lies  far-scattered, 
distant,  unable  to  speak,  and  say,  "I  am 
here"; — must  be  spoken  to  before  it  can 
speak.  Pious  munificence,  and  all  help, 
is  so  silent,  invisible  like  the  gods;  im- 
pediment, contradictions  manifold,  [150 
are  so  loud  and  near!  O  brave  Sir  Chris- 
topher, trust  thou  in  those  notwithstand- 
ing, and  front  all  these;  understand  all 
these;  by  valiant  patience,  noble  effort, 
insight,  by  man's  strength,  vanquish  and 
compel  all  these, — and,  on  the  whole, 
strike  down  victoriously  the  last  topstone 
of  that  Paul's  Edifice;  thy  monument  for 
certain  centuries,  the  stamp  "Great 
Man"  impressed  very  legibly  on  [160 
Portland-stone  there! — 

Yes,  all  manner  of  help,  and  pious  re- 
sponse from  Men  or  Nature,  is  always 
what  we  call  silent;  cannot  speak  or  come 
to  light,  till  it  be  seen,  till  it  be  spoken 
to.  Every  noble  work  is  at  first  "im- 
possible." In  very  truth,  for  every  noble 
work  the  possibilities  will  lie  diffused 
through  Immensity;  inarticulate,  undis- 
coverable  except  to  faith.  Like  [170 
Gideon  thou  shalt  spread  out  thy  fleece 
at  the  door  of  thy  tent;  see  whether  under 
the  wide  arch  of  Heaven  there  be  any 
bounteous  moisture,  or  none.  Thy  heart 
and  life-purpose  shall  be  as  a  miraculous 
Gideon's  fleece,  spread  out  in  silent  appeal 
to  Heaven:  and  from  the  kind  Immensi- 


ties, what  from  the  poor  unkind  Localities 
and  town  and  country  Parishes  there 
never  could,  blessed  dew-moisture  to  [180 
suffice  thee  shall  have  fallen! 

Work  is  of  a  religious  nature: — work 
is  of  a  brave  nature;  which  it  is  the  aim 
of  all  religion  to  be.  All  work  of  man 
is  as  the  swimmer's:  a  waste  ocean  threat- 
ens to  devour  him;  if  he  front  it  not 
bravely,  it  will  keep  its  word.  By  inces- 
sant wise  defiance  of  it,  lusty  rebuke  and 
buffet  of  it,  behold  how  it  loyally  sup- 
ports him,  bears  him  as  its  conqueror  [190 
along.  "It  is  so,"  says  Goethe,  "with  all 
things  that  man  undertakes  in  this  world." 

Brave  Sea-captain,  Norse  Sea-king, — 
Columbus,  my  hero,  royalest  Sea-king  of 
all!  it  is  no  friendly  environment  this  of 
thine,  in  the  waste  deep  waters;  around 
thee  mutinous  discouraged  souls,  behind 
thee  disgrace  and  ruin,  before  thee  the 
unpenetrated  veil  of  Night.  Brother, 
these  wild  water-mountains,  bound-  [200 
ing  from  their  deep  bases  (ten  miles  deep, 
I  am  told),  are  not  entirely  there  on  thy 
behalf!  Meseems  they  have  other  work 
than  floating  thee  forward: — and  the 
huge  Winds,  that  sweep  from  Ursa  Major 
to  the  Tropics,  and  Equators,  dancing 
their  giant-waltz  through  the  kingdoms 
of  Chaos  and  Immensity,  they  care  little 
about  filling  rightly  or  filling  wrongly  the 
small  shoulder-of-mutton  sails  in  this  [210 
cockle-skiff  of  thine !  Thou  art  not  among 
articulate-speaking  friends,  my  brother; 
thou  art  among  immeasurable  dumb 
monsters,  tumbling,  howling  wide  as  the 
world  here.  Secret,  far  off,  invisible  to 
all  hearts  but  thine,  there  lies  a  help  in 
them:  see  how  thou  wilt  get  at  that. 
Patiently  thou  wilt  wait  till  the  mad 
Southwester  spend  itself,  saving  thyself 
by  dextrous  science  of  defence,  the  [220 
while:  valiantly,  with  swift  decision,  wilt 
thou  strike  in,  when  the  favoring  East, 
the  Possible,  springs  up.  Mutiny  of  men 
thou  wilt  sternly  repress;  weakness,  de- 
spondency, thou  wilt  cheerily  encourage: 
thou  wilt  swallow  down  complaint,  un- 
reason, wreariness,  weakness  of  others  and 
thyself; — how  much  wilt  thou  swallow 
down!  There  shall  be  a  depth  of  Silence 
in  thee,  deeper  than  this  Sea,  which  is  [230 
but  ten  miles  deep:  a  Silence  unsoundable; 


CARLYLE 


651 


known  to  God  only.  Thou  shalt  be  a 
Great  Man.  Yes,  my  World-Soldier, 
thou  of  the  World  Marine-service, — thou 
wilt  have  to  be  greater  than  this  tumultu- 
ous unmeasured  World  here  round  thee 
is;  thou,  in  thy  strong  soul,  as  with 
wrestler's  arms,  shalt  embrace  it,  harness 
it  down;  and  make  it  bear  thee  on, — to 
new  Americas,  or  whither  God  wills!  [240 

Chapter  XII 
Reward 

"Religion,"  I  said;  for,  properly  speak- 
ing, all  true  Work  is  Religion:  and  what- 
soever Religion  is  not  Work  may  go  and 
dwell  among  the  Brahmins,  Antinomians, 
Spinning  Dervishes,  or  where  it  will; 
with  me  it  shall  have  no  harbor.  Ad- 
mirable was  that  of  the  old  Monks, 
u  Lab  or  are  est  Or  are,  Work  is  Worship." 

Older  than  all  preached  Gospels  was 
this  unpreached,  inarticulate,  but  in-  [10 
eradicable,  forever-enduring  Gospel :  Work, 
and  therein  have  wellbeing.  Man,  Son 
of  Earth  and  of  Heaven,  lies  there  not, 
in  the  innermost  heart  of  thee,  a  Spirit 
of  active  Method,  a  Force  for  Work; — 
and  burns  like  a  painfully-smoldering  fire, 
giving  thee  no  rest  till  thou  unfold  it,  till 
thou  write  it  down  in  beneficent  Facts 
around  thee !  What  is  immethodic,  waste, 
thou  shalt  make  methodic,  regulated,  [20 
arable;  obedient  and  productive  to  thee. 
Wheresoever  thou  findest  Disorder,  there 
is  thy  eternal  enemy;  attack  him  swiftly, 
subdue  him;  make  Order  of  him,  the 
subject  not  of  Chaos,  but  of  Intelligence, 
Divinity,  and  Thee!  The  thistle  that 
grows  in  thy  path,  dig  it  out,  that  a 
blade  of  useful  grass,  a  drop  of  nourishing 
milk,  may  grow  there  instead.  The  waste 
cotton-shrub,  gather  its  waste  white  [30 
down,  spin  it,  weave  it;  that,  in  place  of 
idle  Utter,  there  may  be  folded  webs,  and 
the  naked  skin  of  man  be  covered. 

But  above  all,  where  thou  findest  Igno- 
rance, Stupidity,  Brute-mindedness, — yes, 
there,  with  or  without  Church-tithes  and 
Shovel-hat,  with  or  without  Talfourd- 
Mahon  copyrights,  or  were  it  with  mere 
dungeons  and  gibbets  and  crosses,  attack 
it,  I  say;  smite  it  wisely,  unweariedly,  [40 
and  rest  not  while  thou  livest  and  it  lives ; 


but  smite,  smite,  in  the  name  of  God! 
The  Highest  God,  as  I  understand  it, 
does  audibly  so  command  thee;  still  au- 
dibly, if  thou  have  ears  to  hear.  He, 
even  He,  with  his  zmspoken  voice,  aw- 
fuler  than  any  Sinai  thunders  or  syllabled 
speech  of  Whirlwinds;  for  the  Silence 
of  deep  Eternities,  of  Worlds  from  be- 
yond the  morning-stars,  does  it  not  [50 
speak  to  thee?  The  unborn  Ages;  the 
old  Graves,  with  their  long-moldering 
dust,  the  very  tears  that  wetted  it  now 
all  dry, — do  not  these  speak  to  thee,  what 
ear  hath  not  heard?  The  deep  Death- 
kingdoms,  the  Stars  in  their  never- resting 
courses,  all  Space  and  all  Time,  proclaim 
it  to  thee  in  continual  silent  admonition. 
Thou  too,  if  ever  man  should,  shalt  work 
while  it  is  called  To-day.  For  the  [60 
Night  cometh,  wherein  no  man  can  work. 
All  true  Work  is  sacred;  in  all  true 
Work,  were  it  but  true  hand-labor,  there 
is  something  of  divineness.  Labor,  wide 
as  the  Earth,  has  its  summit  in  Heaven. 
Sweat  of  the  brow;  and  up  from  that  to 
sweat  of  the  brain,  sweat  of  the  heart; 
which  includes  all  Kepler  calculations, 
Newton  meditations,  all  Sciences,  all 
spoken  Epics,  all  acted  Heroisms,  [70 
Martyrdoms, — up  to  that  "Agony  of 
bloody  sweat,"  which  all  men  have  called 
divine!  O  brother,  if  this  is  not  "wor- 
ship," then  I  say,  the  more  pity  for 
worship;  for  this  is  the  noblest  thing  yet 
discovered  under  God's  sky.  Who  art 
thou  that  complainest  of  thy  life  of  toil? 
Complain  not.  Look  up,  my  wearied 
brother;  see  thy  fellow  Workmen  there, 
in  God's  Eternity;  surviving  there,  [80 
they  alone  surviving:  sacred  Band  of  the 
Immortals,  celestial  Bodyguard  of  the 
Empire  of  Mankind.  Even  in  the  weak 
Human  Memory  they  survive  so  long, 
as  saints,  as  heroes,  as  gods;  they  alone 
surviving;  peopling,  they  alone,  the  un- 
measured solitudes  of  Time!  To  thee 
Heaven,  though  severe,  is  not  unkind; 
Heaven  is  kind, — as  a  noble  Mother;  as 
that  Spartan  Mother,  saying  while  [90 
she  gave  her  son  his  shield,  "With  it,  my 
son,  or  upon  it!"  Thou  too  shalt  return 
home  in  honor;  to  thy  far-distant  Home, 
in  honor;  doubt  it  not,— if  in  the  battle 
thou    keep    thy    shield!      Thou,    in    the 


652 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Eternities  and  deepest  Death-kingdoms, 
art  not  an  alien;  thou  everywhere  art  a 
denizen!  Complain  not;  the  very  Spar- 
tans did  not  complain. 

And  who  art  thou  that  braggest  of  [100 
thy  life  of  Idleness;  complacently  showest 
thy  bright  gilt  equipages;  sumptuous  cush- 
ions; appliances  for  folding  of  the  hands 
to  mere  sleep?  Looking  up,  looking 
down,  around,  behind  or  before,  discernest 
thou,  if  it  be  not  in  Mayfair  alone,  any 
idle  hero,  saint,  god,  or  even  devil?  Not 
a  vestige  of  one.  In  the  Heavens,  in  the 
Earth,  in  the  Waters  under  the  Earth,  is 
none  like  unto  thee.  Thou  art  an  [no 
original  figure  in  this  Creation;  a  denizen 
in  Mayfair  alone,  in  this  extraordinary 
Century  or  Half-Century  alone!  One 
monster  there  is  in  the  world:  the  idle 
man.  What  is  his  "Religion"?  That 
Nature  is  a  Phantasm,  where  cunning 
beggary  or  thievery  may  sometimes  find 
good  victual.  That  God  is  a  lie;  and 
that  Man  and  his  Life  are  a  lie. — Alas, 
alas,  who  of  us  is  there  that  can  say,  I  [120 
have  worked?  The  faithfulest  of  us  are 
unprofitable  servants;  the  faithfulest  of 
us  know  that  best.  The  faithfulest  of  us 
may  say,  with  sad  and  true  old  Samuel, 
"Much  of  my  life  has  been  trifled  away!" 
But  he  that  has,  and  except  "on  public 
occasions"  professes  to  have,  no  function 
but  that  of  going  idle  in  a  graceful  or 
graceless  manner;  and  of  begetting  sons 
to  go  idle;  and  to  address  Chief  Spin-  [130 
ners  and  Diggers,  who  at  least  are  spin- 
ning and  digging,  "Ye  scandalous  persons 
who  produce  too  much" — My  Corn-Law 
friends,  on  what  imaginary  still  richer 
Eldorados,  and  true  iron-spikes  with  law 
of  gravitation,  are  ye  rushing! 

As  to  the  Wages  of  Work  there  might 
innumerable  things  be  said;  there  will 
and  must  yet  innumerable  things  be  said 
and  spoken,  in  St.  Stephen's  and  out  [140 
of  St.  Stephen's;  and  gradually  not  a  few 
things  be  ascertained  and  written,  on 
Law-parchment,  concerning  this  very 
matter: — "Fair  day's-wages  for  a  fair 
day's-work"  is  the  most  unrefusable  de- 
mand! Money-wages  "to  the  extent  of 
keeping  your  worker  alive  that  he  may 
work  more:"  these,  unless  you  mean  to 
dismiss  him  straightway  out  of  this  world, 


are  indispensable  alike  to  the  noblest  [150 
Worker  and  to  the  least  noble! 

One  thing  only  I  will  say  here,  in 
special  reference  to  the  former  class,  the 
noble  and  noblest;  but  throwing  light  on 
all  the  other  classes  and  their  arrangements 
of  this  difficult  matter:  The  "wages"  of 
every  noble  Work  do  yet  lie  in  Heaven 
or  else  Nowhere.  Not  in  Bank-of-Eng- 
land  bills,  in  Owen's  Labor-bank,  or 
any  the  most  improved  establishment  [160 
of  banking  and  money-changing,  needest 
thou,  heroic  soul,  present  thy  account 
of  earnings.  Human  banks  and  labor- 
banks  know  thee  not;  or  know  thee  after 
generations  and  centuries  have  passed 
away,  and  thou  art  clean  gone  from 
"rewarding," — all  manner  of  bank-drafts, 
shop-tills,  and  Downing-street  Exchequers 
lying  very  invisible,  so  far  from  thee! 
Nay,  at  bottom,  dost  thou  need  any  [17c 
reward?  Was  it  thy  aim  and  life-pur- 
pose to  be  filled  with  good  things  for  thy 
heroism;  to  have  a  life  of  pomp  and  ease, 
and  be  what  men  call  "happy,"  in  this 
world,  or  in  any  other  world?  I  answer 
for  thee  deliberately,  No.  The  whole 
spiritual  secret  of  the  new  epoch  lies  in 
this,  that  thou  canst  answer  for  thyself, 
with  thy  whole  clearness  of  head  and 
heart,  deliberately,  No!  [180 

My  brother,  the  brave  man  has  to  give 
his  Life  away.  Give  it,  I  advise  thee; 
— thou  dost  not  expect  to  sell  thy  Life 
in  an  adequate  manner?  What  price,  for 
example,  would  content  thee?  The  just 
price  of  thy  Life  to  thee, — why,  God's 
entire  Creation  to  thyself,  the  whole  Uni- 
verse of  Space,  the  whole  Eternity  of 
Time,  and  what  they  hold:  that  is  the 
price  which  would  content  thee;  that,  [190 
and  if  thou  wilt  be  candid,  nothing  short 
of  that!  It  is  thy  all;  and  for  it  thou 
wouldst  have  all.  Thou  art  an  unreason- 
able mortal; — or  rather  thou  art  a  poor 
infinite  mortal,  who,  in  thy  narrow  clay- 
prison  here,  seemcst  so  unreasonable !  Thou 
wilt  never  sell  thy  Life,  or  any  part  of 
thy  Life,  in  a  satisfactory  manner.  Give 
it,  like  a  royal  heart;  let  the  price  be 
Nothing:  thou  hast  then,  in  a  certain  [200 
sense,  got  All  for  it!  The  heroic  man, — 
and  is  not  every  man,  God  be  thanked, 
a  potential  hero? — has  to  do  so,  in  all 


CARLYLE 


653 


times  and  circumstances.  In  the  most 
heroic  age,  as  in  the  most  unheroic,  he 
will  have  to  say,  as  Burns  said  proudly 
and  humbly  of  his  little  Scottish  Songs, 
little  dewdrops  of  Celestial  Melody  in  an 
age  when  so  much  was  unmelodious: 
"By  Heaven,  they  shall  either  be  in-  [210 
valuable  or  of  no  value;  I  do  not  need 
your  guineas  for  them."  It  is  an  element 
which  should,  and  must,  enter  deeply  into 
all  settlements  of  wages  here  below. 
They  never  will  be  "satisfactory"  other- 
wise; they  cannot,  O  Mammon  Gospel, 
they  never  can!  Money  for  my  little 
piece  of  work  "to  the  extent  that  will  al- 
low me  to  keep  working;"  yes,  this, — 
unless  you  mean  that  I  shall  go  my  [220 
ways  before  the  work  is  all  taken  out  of 
me:  but  as  to  "wages" — ! 

On  the  whole,  we  do  entirely  agree 
with  those  old  Monks,  Laborare  est 
Orare.  In  a  thousand  senses,  from  one 
end  of  it  to  the  other,  true  Work  is 
Worship.  He  that  works,  whatsoever 
be  his  work,  he  bodies  forth  the  form 
of  Things  Unseen;  a  small  Poet  every 
Worker  is.  The  idea,  were  it  but  of  his  [230 
poor  Delf  Platter,  how  much  more  of  his 
Epic  Poem,  is  as  yet  "seen,"  half-seen, 
only  by  himself;  to  all  others  it  is  a  thing 
unseen,  impossible;  to  Nature  herself  it 
is  a  thing  unseen,  a  thing  which  never 
hitherto  was; — very  "impossible,"  for 
it  is  as  yet  a  No- thing!  The  Unseen 
Powers  had  need  to  watch  over  such  a 
man;  he  works  in  and  for  the  Unseen. 
Alas,  if  he  look  to  the  Seen  Powers  [240 
only,  he  may  as  well  quit  the  business; 
his  No-thing  will  never  rightly  issue  as  a 
Thing,  but  as  a  Deceptivity,  a  Sham-thing, 
— which  it  had  better  not  do! 

Thy  No-thing  of  an  Intended  Poem,  O 
Poet  who  hast  looked  merely  to  reviewers, 
copyrights,  booksellers,  popularities,  be- 
hold it  has  not  yet  become  a  Thing;  for 
the  truth  is  not  in  it!  Though  printed, 
hotpressed,  reviewed,  celebrated,  sold  [250 
to  the  twentieth  edition:  what  is  all  that? 
The  Thing,  in  philosophical  uncommer- 
cial language,  is  still  a  No-thing,  mostly 
semblance  and  deception  of  the  sight; — 
benign  Oblivion  incessantly  gnawing  at  it, 
impatient  till  Chaos,  to  which  it  belongs, 
do  reabsorb  it! — 


He  who  takes  not  counsel  of  the  Un- 
seen and  Silent,  from  him  will  never  come 
real  visibility  and  speech.  Thou  [2O0 
must  descend  to  the  Mothers,  to  the  Manes, 
and  Hercules-like  long  suffer  and  labor 
there,  wouldst  thou  emerge  with  victory 
into  the  sunlight.  As  in  battle  and  the 
shock  of  war, — for  is  not  this  a  battle? — 
thou  too  shalt  fear  no  pain  or  death,  shalt 
love  no  ease  or  life;  the  voice  of  festive 
Lubberlands,  the  noise  of  greedy  Acheron, 
shall  alike  lie  silent  under  thy  victorious 
feet.  Thy  work,  like  Dante's,  shall  [270 
"make  thee  lean  for  many  years."  The 
world  and  its  wages,  its  criticisms,  coun- 
sels, helps,  impediments,  shall  be  as  a 
waste  ocean-flood;  the  chaos  through 
which  thou  art  to  swim  and  sail.  Not 
the  waste  waves  and  their  weedy  gulf- 
streams,  shalt  thou  take  for  guidance: 
thy  star  alone, — uSe  hi  segui  tua  stellar' 
Thy  star  alone,  now  clear-beaming  over 
Chaos,  nay  now  by  fits  gone  out,  dis-  [280 
astrously  eclipsed:  this  only  shalt  thou 
strive  to  follow.  O,  it  is  a  business,  as 
I  fancy,  that  of  weltering  your  way 
through  Chaos  and  the  murk  of  Hell, 
Green-eyed  dragons  watching  you,  three- 
headed  Cerberuses, — not  without  sym- 
pathy of  their  sort!  "Eccovi  V  uom  ch' 
e  stato  aW  Inferno."  For  in  fine,  as  Poet 
Dryden  says,  you  do  walk  hand  in  hand 
with  sheer  Madness,  all  the  way, —  [290 
who  is  by  no  means  pleasant  company! 
You  look  fixedly  into  Madness,  and  her  un- 
discovered, boundless,  bottomless  Night- 
empire;  that  you  may  extort  new  Wisdom 
out  of  it,  as  an  Eurydice  from  Tartarus. 
The  higher  the  Wisdom,  the  closer  was 
its  neighborhood  and  kindred  with  mere 
Insanity;  literally  so; — and  thou  wilt,  with 
a  speechless  feeling,  observe  how  highest 
Wisdom,  struggling  up  into  this  world,  [300 
has  oftentimes  carried  such  tinctures  and 
adhesions  of  Insanity  still  cleaving  to  it 
hither! 

All  Works,  each  in  their  degree,  are 
a  making  of  Madness  sane ; — truly  enough 
a  religious  operation;  which  cannot  be 
carried  on  without  religion.  You  have 
not  work  otherwise;  you  have  eye-service, 
greedy  grasping  of  wages,  swift  and  ever 
swifter  manufacture  of  semblances  [310 
to  get  hold  of  wages.     Instead  of  better 


654 


THE  VICTORIA  A  AGE 


felt-hats  to  cover  your  head,  you  have 
bigger  lath-and-plaster  hats  set  traveling 
the  streets  on  wheels.  Instead  of  heav- 
enly and  earthly  Guidance  for  the  souls 
of  men,  you  have  "Black  or  White  Sur- 
plice" Controversies,  stuffed  hair-and- 
leather  Popes; — terrestrial  Law-wards, 
Lords  and  Law-bringers,  "organizing 
Labor"  in  these  years,  by  passing  [320 
Corn-Laws.  With  all  which,  alas,  this 
distracted  Earth  is  now  full,  nigh  to 
bursting.  Semblances  most  smooth  to 
the  touch  and  eye;  most  accursed,  never- 
theless, to  body  and  soul.  Semblances, 
be  they  of  Sham-woven  Cloth  or  of 
Dilettante  Legislation,  which  are  not  real 
wool  or  substance,  but  DeviPs-dust,  ac- 
cursed of  God  and  man!  No  man  has 
worked,  or  can  work,  except  reli-  [330 
giously;  not  even  the  poor  day-laborer, 
the  weaver  of  your  coat,  the  sewer  of  your 
shoes.  All  men,  if  they  work  not  as  in  a 
Great  Taskmaster's  eye,  will  work  wrong, 
work  unhappily  for  themselves  and  you. 

Industrial  work,  still  under  bondage  to 
Mammon,  the  rational  soul  of  it  not  yet 
awakened,  is  a  tragic  spectacle.  Men  in 
the  rapidest  motion  and  self-motion;  rest- 
less, with  convulsive  energy,  as  if  [340 
driven  by  Galvanism,  as  if  possessed  by  a 
Devil;  tearing  asunder  mountains, — to 
no  purpose,  for  Mammonism  is  always 
Midas-eared!  This  is  sad,  on  the  face 
of  it.  Yet  courage:  the  beneficent  Des- 
tinies, kind  in  their  sternness,  are  appris- 
ing us  that  this  cannot  continue.  Labor 
is  not  a  devil,  even  while  encased  in 
Mammonism;  Labor  is  ever  an  imprisoned 
god,  writhing  unconsciously  or  con-  [350 
sciously  to  escape  out  of  Mammonism! 
Plugson  of  Undershot,  like  Taillefer  of 
Normandy,  wants  victory;  how  much 
happier  will  even  Plugson  be  to  have  a 
Chivalrous  victory  than  a  Choctaw  one! 
The  unredeemed  ugliness  is  that  of  a 
slothful  People.  Show  me  a  People 
energetically  busy;  heaving,  struggling, 
all  shoulders  at  the  wheel;  their  heart 
pulsing,  every  muscle  swelling,  with  [360 
man's  energy  and  will; — I  show  you  a 
People  of  whom  great  good  is  already 
predicable;  to  whom  all  manner  of  good 
is  yet  certain,  if  their  energy  endure. 
By  very  working,  they  will  learn;  they 


have,  Antaeus-like,  their  foot  on  Mother 
Fact:  how  can  they  but  learn? 

The  vulgarest  Plugson  of  a  Master- 
Worker,  who  can  command  Workers, 
and  get  work  out  of  them,  is  already  [370 
a  considerable  man.  Blessed  and  thrice- 
blessed  symptoms  I  discern  of  Master- 
Workers  who  are  not  vulgar  men;  who 
are  Nobles,  and  begin  to  feel  that  they 
must  act  as  such:  all  speed  to  these,  they 
are  England's  hope  at  present!  But  in 
this  Plugson  himself,  conscious  of  almost 
no  nobleness  whatever,  how  much  is 
there!  Not  without  man's  faculty,  in- 
sight, courage,  hard  energy,  is  this  [380 
rugged  figure.  His  words  none  of  the 
wisest;  but  his  actings  cannot  be  alto- 
gether foolish.  Think,  how  were  it, 
stoodst  thou  suddenly  in  his  shoes!  He 
has  to  command  a  thousand  men.  And 
not  imaginary  commanding;  no,  it  is  real, 
incessantly  practical.  The  evil  passions 
of  so  many  men  (with  the  Devil  in  them, 
as  in  all  of  us)  he  has  to  vanquish;  by 
manifold  force  of  speech  and  of  silence,  [390 
to  repress  or  evade.  What  a  force  of 
silence,  to  say  nothing  of  the  others,  is 
in  Plugson!  For  these  his  thousand  men 
he  has  to  provide  raw-material,  machin- 
ery, arrangement,  houseroom;  and  ever 
at  the  week's  end,  wages  by  due  sale. 
No  Civil-List,  or  Goulburn-Baring  Budg- 
et has  he  to  fall  back  upon,  for  paying 
of  his  regiment ;  he  has  to  pick  his  supplies 
from  the  confused  face  of  the  whole  [400 
Earth  and  Contemporaneous  History,  by 
his  dexterity  alone.  There  will  be  dry 
eyes  if  he  fail  to  do  it! — He  exclaims, 
at  present,  "black  in  the  face,"  near 
strangled  with  Dilettante  Legislation: 
"Let  me  have  elbow-room,  throat-room, 
and  I  will  not  fail!  No,  I  will  spin  yet, 
and  conquer  like  a  giant:  what  'sinews 
of  war'  lie  in  me,  untold  resources  to- 
wards the  Conquest  of  this  Planet,  if,  [410 
instead  of  hanging  me,  you  husband  them, 
and  help  me!" — My  indomitable  friend, 
it  is  true;  and  thou  shalt  and  must  be 
helped. 

This  is  not  a  man  I  would  kill  and 
strangle  by  Corn-Laws,  even  if  I  could! 
No,  I  would  fling  my  Corn-Laws  and 
shot-belts  to  the  Devil;  and  try  to  help 
this  man.     I  would  teach  him,  by  noble 


CARLYLE 


655 


precept  and  law-precept,  by  noble  [420 
example  most  of  all,  that  Mammonism 
was  not  the  essence  of  his  or  of  my  station 
in  God's  Universe;  but  the  adscititious 
excrescence  of  it;  the  gross,  terrene, 
godless  embodiment  of  it;  which  would 
have  to  become,  more  or  less,  a  godlike 
one.  By  noble  real  legislation,  by  true, 
noble's-work,  by  unwearied,  valiant,  and 
were  it  wageless  effort,  in  my  Parliament 
and  in  my  Parish,  I  would  aid,  con-  [430 
strain,  encourage  him  to  effect  more  or  less 
this  blessed  change.  I  should  know  that  it 
would  have  to  be  effected;  that  unless  it 
were  in  some  measure  effected,  he  and 
I  and  all  of  us,  I  first  and  soonest  of  all, 
were  doomed  to  perdition! — Effected  it 
will  be;  unless  it  were  a  Demon  that 
made  this  Universe;  which  I,  for  my  own 
part,  do  at  no  moment,  under  no  form,  in 
the  least  believe.  [440 

May  it  please  your  Serene  Highnesses, 
your  Majesties,  Lordships  and  Law- 
wardships,  the  proper  Epic  of  this  world 
is  not  now  "Arms  and  the  Man",  how 
much  less,  "Shirt-frills  and  the  Man": 
no,  it  is  now  "Tools  and  the  Man":  that, 
henceforth  to  all  time,  is  now  our  Epic; 
— and  you,  first  of  all  others,  I  think, 
were  wise  to  take  note  of  that! 


From   CROMWELL'S   LETTERS 
AND   SPEECHES 

The  Battle  or  Dunbar 

"The  Lord  General  about  four  o'clock," 
say  the  old  Pamphlets,  "went  into  the 
Town  to  take  some  refreshment,"  a  hasty 
late  dinner,  or  early  supper,  whichever 
we  may  call  it;  "and  very  soon  returned 
back," — having  written  Sir  Arthur's  Let- 
ter, I  think,  in  the  interim.  Coursing 
about  the  field,  with  enough  of  things  to 
order;  walking  at  last  with  Lambert  in 
the  Park  or  Garden  of  Brocksmouth  [10 
House,  he  discerns  that  Lesley  is  astir 
on  the  Hillside;  altering  his  position  some- 
what. That  Lesley,  in  fact,  is  coming 
wholly  down  to  the  basis  of  the  Hill,  where 
his  horse  had  been  since  sunrise:  coming 
wholly  down  to  the  edge  of  the  Brook  and 
glen,  among  the  sloping  harvest-fields 
there;  and  also  is  bringing  up  his  left 


wing  of  horse,  most  part  of  it,  towards 
his  right;  edging  himself,  "shogging,"  [20 
as  Oliver  calls  it,  his  whole  line  more  and 
more  to  the  right!  His  meaning  is,  to 
get  hold  of  Brocksmouth  House  and  the 
pass  of  the  Brook  there;  after  which  it 
will  be  free  to  him  to  attack  us  when  he 
will! — Lesley,  in  fact,  considers,  or  at  least 
the  Committee  of  Estates  and  Kirk  con- 
sider, that  Oliver  is  lost;  that,  on  the 
whole,  he  must  not  be  left  to  retreat,  but 
must  be  attacked  and  annihilated  [30 
here.  A  vague  story,  due  to  Bishop 
Burnet,  the  watery  source  of  many  such, 
still  circulates  about  the  world,  That  it 
was  the  Kirk  Committee  who  forced 
Lesley  down  against  his  will;  that  Oliver, 
at  sight  of  it,  exclaimed,  "The  Lord  hath 
delivered,"  etc.;  which  nobody  is  in  the 
least  bound  to  believe.  It  appears,  from 
other  quarters,  that  Lesley  was  advised 
or  sanctioned  in  this  attempt  by  the  [40 
Committee  of  Estates  and  Kirk,  but  also 
that  he  was  by  no  means  hard  to  advise; 
that,  in  fact,  lying  on  the  top  of  Doon 
Hill,  shelterless  in  such  weather,  was 
no  operation  to  spin  out  beyond  neces- 
sity;— and  that  if  anybody  pressed  too 
much  upon  him  with  advice  to  come  down 
and  fight,  it  was  likeliest  to  be  Royalist 
Civil  Dignitaries,  who  had  plagued  him 
with  their  cavilings  at  his  cunctations,  [50 
at  his  "secret  fellow-feeling  for  the  Sec- 
tarians and  Regicides"  ever  since  this 
war  began.  The  poor  Scotch  Clergy 
have  enough  of  their  own  to  answer  for 
in  this  business;  let  every  back  bear  the 
burden  that  belongs  to  it.  In  a  word, 
Lesley  descends,  has  been  descending  all 
day,  and  "shogs"  himself  to  the  right, — 
urged,  I  believe,  by  manifold  counsel, 
and  by  the  nature  of  the  case;  and,  [60 
what  is  equally  important  for  us,  Oliver 
sees  him,  and  sees  through  him,  in  this 
movement  of  his. 

At  the  sight  of  this  movement,  Oliver 
suggests  to  Lambert  standing  by  him, 
Does  it  not  give  us  an  advantage,  if  we, 
instead  of  him,  like  to  begin  the  attack? 
Here  is  the  Enemy's  right  wing  coming 
out  to  the  open  space,  free  to  be  attacked 
on  any  side;  and  the  main-battle,  [70 
hampered  in  narrow  sloping  ground  be- 
tween Doon  Hill  and  the  Brook,  has  no 


656 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


room  to  maneuver  or  assist:  beat  this 
right  wing  where  it  now  stands;  take  it 
in  flank  and  front  with  an  overpowering 
force, — it  is  driven  upon  its  own  main- 
battle,  the  whole  Army  is  beaten?  Lam- 
bert eagerly  assents,  "had  meant  to  say 
the  same  thing."  Monk,  who  comes  up 
at  this  moment,  likewise  assents;  as  [80 
the  other  officers  do,  when  the  case  in 
set  before  them.  It  is  the  plan  resolved 
upon  for  battle.  The  attack  shall  begin 
tomorrow  before  dawn. 

And  so  the  soldiers  stand  to  their 
arms,  or  lie  within  instant  reach  of  their 
arms,  all  night;  being  upon  an  engage- 
ment very  difficult  indeed.  The  night 
is  wild  and  wet; — 2d  of  September  means 
12th  by  our  calendar:  the  Harvest  [90 
Moon  wades  deep  among  clouds  of  sleet 
and  hail.  Whoever  has  a  heart  for 
prayer,  let  him  pray  now,  for  the  wrestle 
of  death  is  at  hand.  Pray, — and  withal 
keep  his  powder  dry!  And  be  ready 
for  extremities,  and  quit  himself  like  a 
man! — Thus  they  pass  the  night;  mak- 
ing that  Dunbar  Peninsula  and  Brock 
Rivulet  long  memorable  to  me.  We  Eng- 
lish have  some  tents;  the  Scots  have  [100 
none.  The  hoarse  sea  moans  bodeful, 
swinging  low  and  heavy  against  these 
whinstone  bays;  the  sea  and  the  tempests 
are  abroad,  all  else  asleep  but  we, — and 
there  is  One  that  rides  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind. 

Towards  three  in  the  morning  the 
Scotch  foot,  by  order  of  a  Major-General 
say  some,  extinguish  their  matches,  all 
but  two  in  a  company;  cower  under  [no 
the  corn-shocks,  seeking  some  imperfect 
shelter  and  sleep.  Be  wakeful,  ye  Eng- 
lish; watch,  and  pray,  and  keep  your 
powder  dry.  About  four  o'clock  comes 
order  to  my  pudding-headed  Yorkshire 
friend,  that  his  regiment  must  mount 
and  march  straightway;  his  and  various 
other  regiments  march,  pouring  swiftly 
to  the  left  to  Brocksmouth  House,  to 
the  Pass  over  the  Brock.  With  over-  [120 
powering  force  let  us  storm  the  Scots 
right  wing  there;  beat  that,  and  all  is 
beaten.  Major  Hodgson  riding  along, 
heard,  he  says,  "a  Cornet  praying  in  the 
night;"  a  company  of  poor  men,  I  think, 
making   worship   there,   under   the   void 


Heaven,  before  battle  joined:  Major 
Hodgson,  giving  his  charge  to  a  brother 
Officer,  turned  aside  to  listen  for  a  min- 
ute, and  worship  and  pray  along  [130 
with  them;  haply  his  last  prayer  on  this 
Earth,  as  it  might  prove  to  be.  But  no: 
this  Cornet  prayed  with  such  effusion  as 
was  wonderful;  and  imparted  strength  to 
my  Yorkshire  friend,  who  strengthened 
his  men  by  telling  them  of  it.  And  the 
Heavens,  in  their  mercy,  I  think,  have 
opened  us  a  way  of  deliverance! — The 
Moon  gleams  out,  hard  and  blue,  riding 
among  hail-clouds;  and  over  St.  Abb's  [140 
Head  a  streak  of  dawn  is  rising. 

And  now  is  the  hour  when  the  attack 
should  be,  and  no  Lambert  is  yet  here, 
he  is  ordering  the  line  far  to  the  right  yet; 
and  Oliver  occasionally,  in  Hodgson's 
hearing,  is  impatient  for  him.  The  Scots 
too,  on  this  wing,  are  awake;  thinking 
to  surprise  us;  there  is  their  trumpet 
sounding,  we  heard  it  once;  and  Lam- 
bert, who  was  to  lead  the  attack,  is  [150 
not  here.  The  Lord  General  is  im- 
patient;— behold  Lambert  at  last!  The 
trumpets  peal,  shattering  with  fierce 
clangor  Night's  silence;  the  cannons 
awaken  along  all  the  Line:  "The  Lord 
of  Hosts!  The  Lord  of  Hosts!"  On,  my 
brave  ones,  on! — 

The  dispute  "on  this  right  wing  was 
hot  and  stiff,  for  three  quarters  of  an 
hour."  Plenty  of  fire,  from  field-  [160 
pieces,  snap-hances,  matchlocks,  enter- 
tains the  Scotch  main-battle  across  the 
Brock; — poor  stiffened  men,  roused  from 
the  corn-shocks  with  their  matches  all 
out!  But  here  on  the  right,  their  horse, 
"with  lancers  in  the  front  rank,"  charge 
desperately;  drive  us  back  across  the 
hollow  of  the  Rivulet; — back  a  little; 
but  the  Lord  gives  us  courage,  and  we 
storm  home  again,  horse  and  foot,  [170 
upon  them,  with  a  shock  like  tornado 
tempests;  break  them,  beat  them,  drive 
them  all  adrift.  "Some  fled  towards 
Copperspath,  but  most  across  their  own 
foot."  Their  own  poor  foot,  whose 
matches  were  hardly  well  alight  yet! 
Poor  men,  it  was  a  terrible  awakening  for 
them:  field-pieces  and  charge  of  foot 
across  the  Brocksburn;  and  now  here  is 
their  own  horse  in  mad  panic  tramp-  [180 


RUSKIN 


657 


ling  them  to  death.  Above  three  thousand 
killed  upon  the  place:  "I  never  saw  such 
a  charge  of  foot  and  horse,"  says  one; 
nor  did  I.  Oliver  was  still  near  to  York- 
shire Hodgson  where  the  shock  succeeded ; 
Hodgson  heard  him  say,  "They  run,  I 
profess  they  run!"  And  over  St.  Abb's 
Head  and  the  German  Ocean,  just  then, 
bursts  the  first  gleam  of  the  level  Sun 
upon  us,  "and  I  heard  Nol  say,  in  [190 
the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  'Let  God 
arise,  let  His  enemies  be  scattered,'" — 
or  in  Rous's  meter — 

"Let  God  arise,  and  scattered 
Let  all  his  enemies  be; 
And  let  all  those  that  do  him  hate 
Before  his  presence  flee!" 

Even  so.  The  Scotch  Army  is  shivered 
to  utter  ruin;  rushes  in  tumultuous  wreck, 
hither,  thither;  to  Belhaven,  or,  in  [200 
their  distraction,  even  to  Dunbar;  the 
chase  goes  as  far  as  Haddington;  led  by 
Hacker.  "The  Lord  general  made  a 
halt,"  says  Hodgson,  "and  sang  the 
Hundred-and-seventeenth  Psalm,"  till  our 
horse  could  gather  for  the  chase.  Hundred- 
and-seventeenth  Psalm,  at  the  foot  of  Doon 
Hill;  there  we  uplift  it,  to  the  tune  of 
Bangor,  or  some  still  higher  score,  and 
roll  it  strong  and  great  against  the  [210 
sky: — 

"Oh  give  ye  praise  unto  the  Lord, 

All  nati-ons  that  be; 
Likewise  ye  people  all,  accord 
His  name  to  magnify! 

For  great  to-us-ward  ever  are 

His  loving-kindnesses; 
His  truth  endures  for  evermore: 

The  Lord  oh  do  ye  bless!" 

And  now,  to  the  chase  again.  [220 


JOHN   RUSKIN   (1819-1900) 

From   MODERN   PAINTERS 

Sunrise  and  Sunset  in  the  Alps 

Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some  isolated 
mountain  at  daybreak,  when  the  night 
mists  first  rise  from  off  the  plains,  and 
watch  their  white  and  lake-like  fields,  as 
they  float  in  level  bays  and  winding  gulfs 


about  the  islanded  summits  of  the  lcwer 
hills,  untouched  yet  by  more  than  dawn, 
colder  and  more  quiet  than  a  windless 
sea  under  the  moon  of  midnight;  watch 
when  the  first  sunbeam  is  sent  upon  [10 
the  silver  channels,  how  the  foam  of  their 
undulating  surface  parts  and  passes  away, 
and  down  under  their  depths  the  glittering 
city  and  green  pasture  lie  like  Atlantis, 
between  the  white  paths  of  winding  rivers ; 
the  flakes  of  light  falling  every  moment 
faster  and  broader  among  the  starry  spires, 
as  the  wreathed  surges  break  and  vanish 
above  them,  and  the  confused  crests  and 
ridges  of  the  dark  hills  shorten  their  [20 
gray  shadows  upon  the  plain.  .  .  .  Wait 
a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those 
scattered  mists  rallying  in  the  ravines, 
and  floating  up  towards  you,  along  the 
winding  valleys,  till  they  crouch  in  quiet 
masses,  iridescent  with  the  morning  light, 
upon  the  broad  breasts  of  the  higher 
hills,  whose  leagues  of  massy  undulation 
will  melt  back  and  back  into  that  robe 
of  material  light,  until  they  fade  away,  [30 
lost  in  its  lustre,  to  appear  again  above, 
in  the  serene  heaven,  like  a  wild,  bright, 
impossible  dream,  foundationless  and  in- 
accessible, their  very  bases  vanishing  in 
the  unsubstantial  and  mocking  blue  of 
the  deep  lake  below.  .  .  .  Wait  yet  a 
little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those 
mists  gather  themselves  into  white  tow- 
ers, and  stand  like  fortresses  along  the 
promontories,  massy  and  motionless,  [40 
only  piled  with  every  instant  higher  and 
higher  into  the  sky,  and  casting  longer 
shadows  athwart  the  rocks;  and  out  of 
the  pale  blue  of  the  horizon  you  will  see 
forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of  nar- 
row, dark,  pointed  vapors,  which  will 
cover  the  sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their 
gray  network,  and  take  the  light  off  the 
landscape  with  an  eclipse  which  will  stop 
the  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  mo-  [50 
tion  of  the  leaves,  together;  and  then 
you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of  black 
shadow  forming  under  them,  and  lurid 
wreaths  create  themselves,  you  know  not 
how,  along  the  shoulders  of  the  hills;  you 
never  see  them  form,  but  when  you  look 
back  to  a  place  which  was  clear  an  in- 
stant ago,  there  is  a  cloud  on  it,  hanging 
by  the  precipices,  as  a  hawk  pauses  over 


658 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


his  prey.  .  .  .  And  then  you  will  [60 
hear  the  sudden  rush  of  the  awakened 
wind,  and  you  will  see  those  watch-towers 
of  vapor  swept  away  from  their  founda- 
tions, and  waving  curtains  of  opaque  rain 
let  down  to  the  valleys,  swinging  from 
the  burdened  clouds  in  black  bending 
fringes,  or  pacing  in  pale  columns  along 
the  lake  level,  grazing  its  surface  into 
foam  as  they  go.  And  then,  as  the  sun 
sinks,  you  shall  see  the  storm  drift  for  [70 
an  instant  from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their 
broad  sides  smoking,  and  loaded  yet 
with  snow-white,  torn,  steam-like  rags  of 
capricious  vapor,  now  gone,  now  gathered 
again ;  while  the  smouldering  sun,  seeming 
not  far  away,  but  burning  like  a  red- 
hot  ball  beside  you,  and  as  if  you  could 
reach  it,  plunges  through  the  rushing 
wind  and  rolling  cloud  with  headlong 
fall,  as  if  it  meant  to  rise  no  more,  [80 
dyeing  all  the  air  about  it  with  blood.  .  .  . 
And  then  you  shall  hear  the  fainting 
tempest  die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night, 
and  you  shall  see  a  green  halo  kindling 
on  the  summit  of  the  eastern  hills,  brighter 
— brighter  yet,  till  the  large  white  circle 
of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted  up  among  the 
barred  clouds,  step  by  step,  line  by  line; 
star  after  star  she  quenches  with  her 
kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead  [90 
an  army  of  pale,  impenetrable,  fleecy 
wreaths  in  the  heaven,  to  give  light  upon 
the  earth,  which  move  together,  hand  in 
hand,  company  by  company,  troop  by 
troop,  so  measured  in  their  unity  of  mo- 
tion, that  the  whole  heaven  seems  to 
roll  with  them,  and  the  earth  to  reel 
under  them.  .  .  .  And  then  wait  yet 
for  one  hour,  until  the  east  again  becomes 
purple,  and  the  heaving  mountains,  [100 
rolling  against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves 
of  a  wild  sea,  are  drowned  one  by  one 
in  the  glory  of  its  burning;  watch  the 
white  glaciers  blaze  in  their  winding  paths 
about  the  mountains,  like  mighty  serpents 
with  scales  of  fire:  watch  the  columnar 
peaks  of  solitary  snow,  kindling  down- 
wards, chasm  by  chasm,  each  in  itself  a 
new  morning;  their  long  avalanches  cast 
down  in  keen  streams  brighter  than  [no 
the  lightning,  sending  each  his  tribute  of 
driven  snow,  like  altar-smoke,  up  to  the 
heaven;    the    rose-light    of    their    silent 


domes  flushing  that  heaven  about  them 
and  above  them,  piercing  with  purer  light 
through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud, 
casting  a  new  glory  on  every  wreath  as 
it  passes  by,  until  the  whole  heaven, 
one  scarlet  canopy,  is  interwoven  with  a 
roof  of  waving  flame,  and  tossing,  [120 
vault  beyond  vault,  as  with  the  drifted 
wings  of  many  companies  of  angels:  and 
then,  when  you  can  look  no  more  for 
gladness,  and  when  you  are  bowed  down 
with  fear  and  love  of  the  Maker  and  Doer 
of  this,  tell  me  who  has  best  delivered 
this  His  message  unto  men! 

THE    TWO    BOYHOODS 

Born  half-way  between  the  mountains 
and  the  sea — that  young  George  of  Castel- 
franco — of  the  Brave  Castle: — Stout 
George  they  called  him,  George  of  Georges, 
so  goodly  a  boy  he  was — Giorgione. 

Have  you  ever  thought  what  a  world 
his  eyes  opened  on — fair,  searching  eyes 
of  youth?  What  a  world  of  mighty  life, 
from  those  mountain  roots  to  the  shore; 
— of  loveliest  life,  when  he  went  down,  [10 
yet  so  young,  to  the  marble  city — and 
became  himself  as  a  fiery  heart  to  it? 

A  city  of  marble,  did  I  say?  nay,  rather 
a  golden  city,  paved  with  emerald.  For 
truly,  every  pinnacle  and  turret  glanced 
or  glowed,  overlaid  with  gold,  or  bossed 
with  jasper.  Beneath,  the  unsullied  sea 
drew  in  deep  breathing,  to  and  fro,  its 
eddies  of  green  wave.  Deep-hearted, 
majestic,  terrible  as  the  sea, — the  [20 
men  of  Venice  moved  in  sway  of  power 
and  war;  pure  as  her  pillars  of  alabaster, 
stood  her  mothers  and  maidens;  from  foot 
to  brow,  all  noble,  walked  her  knights; 
the  low  bronzed  gleaming  of  sea-rusted 
armor  shot  angrily  under  their  blood-red 
mantle-folds.  Fearless,  faithful,  patient, 
impenetrable,  implacable, — every  word 
a  fate — sat  her  senate.  In  hope  and 
honor,  lulled  by  flowing  of  wave  [30 
around  their  isles  of  sacred  sand,  each 
with  his  name  written  and  the  cross 
graved  at  his  side,  lay  her  dead.  A  won- 
derful piece  of  world.  Rather,  itself  a 
world.  It  lay  along  the  face  of  the  waters, 
no  larger,  as  its  captains  saw  it  from  their 
masts  at  evening,  than  a  bar  of  sunset 


RUSK  IN 


659 


that  could  not  pass  away;  but  for  its 
power,  it  must  have  seemed  to  them  as 
if  they  were  sailing  in  the  expanse  of  [40 
heaven,  and  this  a  great  planet,  whose 
orient  edge  widened  through  ether.  A 
world  from  which  all  ignoble  care  and 
petty  thoughts  were  banished,  with  all 
the  common  and  poor  elements  of  life. 
No  foulness,  nor  tumult,  in  those  tremu- 
lous streets,  that  filled,  or  fell,  beneath 
the  moon;  but  rippled  music  of  majestic 
change,  or  thrilling  silence.  No  weak 
walls  could  rise  above  them;  no  low-  [50 
roofed  cottage,  nor  straw-built  shed. 
Only  the  strength  as  of  rock,  and  the 
finished  setting  of  stones  most  precious. 
And  around  them,  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  still  the  soft  moving  of  stainless 
waters,  proudly  pure;  as  not  the  flower, 
so  neither  the  thorn  nor  the  thistle,  could 
grow  in  the  glancing  fields.  Ethereal 
strength  of  Alps,  dreamlike,  vanishing  in 
high  procession  beyond  the  Torcellan  [60 
shore;  blue  islands  of  Paduan  hills,  poised 
in  the  golden  west.  Above,  free  winds 
and  fiery  clouds  ranging  at  their  will;— - 
brightness  out  of  the  north,  and  balm 
from  the  south,  and  the  stars  of  the 
evening  and  morning  clear  in  the  limitless 
light  of  arched  heaven  and  circling  sea. 

Such  was  Giorgione's  school — such  Ti- 
tian's home. 

Near  the  south-west  corner  of  Co-  [70 
vent  Garden,  a  square  brick  pit  or  well 
is  formed  by  a  close-set  block  of  houses, 
to  the  back  windows  of  which  it  admits  a 
few  rays  of  light.  Access  to  the  bottom 
of  it  is  obtained  out  of  Maiden  Lane, 
through  a  low  archway  and  an  iron  gate; 
and  if  you  stand  long  enough  under  the 
archway  to  accustom  your  eyes  to  the 
darkness  you  may  see  on  the  left  hand  a 
narrow  door,  which  formerly  gave  [80 
quiet  access  to  a  respectable  barber's 
shop,  of  which  the  front  window,  looking 
into  Maiden  Lane,  is  still  extant,  filled, 
in  this  year  (i860),  with  a  row  of  bottles, 
connected,  in  some  defunct  manner,  with 
a  brewer's  business.  A  more  fashionable 
neighborhood,  it  is  said,  eighty  years 
ago  than  now — never  certainly  a  cheerful 
one — wherein  a  boy  being  born  on  St. 
George's  day,  1775,  began  soon  after  [90 
to  take  interest  in  the  world  of  Covent 


Garden,  and  put  to  service  such  spec- 
tacles of  life  as  it  afforded. 

No  knights  to  be  seen  there,  nor,  I 
imagine,  many  beautiful  ladies;  their 
costume  at  least  disadvantageous,  de- 
pending much  on  incumbency  of  hat  and 
feather,  and  short  waists;  the  majesty  of 
men  founded  similarly  on  shoebuckles 
and  wigs; — impressive  enough  when  [100 
Reynolds  will  do  his  best  for  it;  but  not 
suggestive  of  much  ideal  delight  to  a  boy. 

"Bello  ovile  dov'  io  dormii  agnello"; 
of  things  beautiful,  besides  men  and 
women,  dusty  sunbeams  up  or  down  the 
street  on  summer  mornings;  deep  fur- 
rowed cabbage-leaves  at  the  greengrocer's; 
magnificence  of  oranges  in  wheelbarrows 
round  the  corner;  and  Thames'  shore 
within  three  minutes'  race.  [no 

None  of  these  things  very  glorious; 
the  best,  however,  that  England,  it  seems, 
was  then  able  to  provide  for  a  boy  of 
gift:  who,  such  as  they  are,  loves  them — 
never,  indeed,  forgets  them.  The  short 
waists  modify  to  the  last  his  visions  of 
Greek  ideal.  His  foregrounds  had  always 
a  succulent  cluster  or  two  of  greengrocery 
at  the  corners.  Enchanted  oranges  gleam 
in  Covent  Gardens  of  the  Hesperides;  [120 
and  great  ships  go  to  pieces  in  order  to 
scatter  chests  of  them  on  the  waves. 
That  mist  of  early  sunbeams  in  the  Lon- 
don dawn  crosses,  many  and  many  a 
time,  the  clearness  of  Italian  air;  and  by 
Thames'  shore,  with  its  stranded  barges 
and  glidings  of  red  sail,  dearer  to  us  than 
Lucerne  lake  or  Venetian  lagoon, — by 
Thames'  shore  we  will  die. 

With  such  circumstance  round  [130 
him  in  youth,  let  us  note  what  necessary 
effects  followed  upon  the  boy.  I  assume 
him  to  have  had  Giorgione's  sensibility 
(and  more  than  Giorgione's,  if  that  be 
possible)  to  color  and  form.  I  tell  you 
farther,  and  this  fact  you  may  receive 
trustfully,  that  his  sensibility  to  human 
affection  and  distress  was  no  less  keen 
than  even  his  sense  for  natural  beauty — 
heart-sight  deep  as  eyesight.  [140 

Consequently,  he  attaches  himself  with 
the  faithfullest  child-love  to  everything 
that  bears  an  image  of  the  place  he  was 
born  in.  No  matter  how  ugly  it  is, — has 
it  anything  about  it  like  Maiden  Lane, 


66o 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


or  like  Thames'  shore?  If  so,  it  shall  be 
painted  for  their  sake.  Hence,  to  the 
very  close  of  life,  Turner  could  endure 
ugliness  which  no  one  else,  of  the  same 
sensibility,  would  have  borne  with  [150 
for  an  instant.  Dead  brick  walls,  blank 
square  windows,  old  clothes,  market- 
womanly  types  of  humanity — anything 
fishy  and  muddy,  like  Billingsgate  or 
Hungerford  Market,  had  great  attrac- 
tion for  him;  black  barges,  patched  sails, 
and  every  possible  condition  of  fog. 

You  will  find  these  tolerations  and 
affections  guiding  or  sustaining  him  to 
the  last  hour  of  his  life;  the  notablest  [160 
of  all  such  endurances  being  that  of  dirt. 
No  Venetian  ever  draws  anything  foul; 
but  Turner  devoted  picture  after  picture 
to  the  illustration  of  effects  of  dinginess, 
smoke,  soot,  dust,  and  dusty  texture; 
old  sides  of  boats,  weedy  roadside  vegeta- 
tion, dunghills,  straw-yards,  and  all  the 
soilings  and  stains  of  every  common  labor. 

And  more  than  this,  he  not  only  could 
endure,  but  enjoyed  and  looked  for  [170 
litter,  like  Covent  Garden  wreck  after 
the  market.  His  pictures  are  often  full  of 
it,  from  side  to  side;  their  foregrounds 
differ  from  all  others  in  the  natural  way 
that  things  have  of  lying  about  in  them. 
Even  his  richest  vegetation,  in  ideal 
work,  is  confused;  and  he  delights  in 
shingle,  debris,  and  heaps  of  fallen  stones. 
The  last  words  he  ever  spoke  to  me  about 
a  picture  were  in  gentle  exultation  [180 
about  his  St.  Gothard:  "that  litter  of 
stones  which  I  endeavored  to  represent." 

The  second  great  result  of  this  Covent 
Garden  training  was  understanding  of 
and  regard  for  the  poor,  whom  the  Vene- 
tians, we  saw,  despised;  whom,  contrarily, 
Turner  loved,  and  more  than  loved — un- 
derstood. He  got  no  romantic  sight  of 
them,  but  an  infallible  one,  as  he  prowled 
about  the  end  of  his  lane,  watching  [190 
night  effects  in  the  wintry  streets;  nor 
sight  of  the  poor  alone,  but  of  the  poor 
in  direct  relations  with  the  rich.  He 
knew,  in  good  and  evil,  what  both  classes 
thought  of,  and  how  they  dwelt  with, 
each  other. 

Reynolds  and  Gainsborough,  bred  in 
country  villages,  learned  there  the  country 
boy's  reverential  theory  of  "the  squire," 


and  kept  it.  They  painted  the  squire  [200 
and  the  squire's  lady  as  centres  of  the 
movements  of  the  universe,  to  the  end 
of  their  lives.  But  Turner  perceived  the 
younger  squire  in  other  aspects  about  his 
lane,  occurring  prominently  in  its  night 
scenery,  as  a  dark  figure,  or  one  of  two, 
against  the  moonlight.  He  saw  also  the 
working  of  city  commerce,  from  endless 
warehouse,  towering  over  Thames,  to  the 
back  shop  in  the  lane,  with  its  stale  [210 
herrings — highly  interesting  these  last; 
one  of  his  father's  best  friends,  whom  he 
often  afterwards  visited  affectionately  at 
Bristol,  being  a  fishmonger  and  glue- 
boiler;  which  gives  us  a  friendly  turn  of 
mind  towards  herring-fishing,  whaling, 
Calais  poissardes,  and  many  other  of 
our  choicest  subjects  in  after  life;  all  this 
being  connected  with  that  mysterious 
forest  below  London  Bridge  on  one  [220 
side; — and,  on  the  other,  with  these 
masses  of  human  power  and  national 
wealth  which  weigh  upon  us,  at  Covent 
Garden  here,  with  strange  compression, 
and  crush  us  into  narrow  Hand  Court. 

"That  mysterious  forest  below  London 
Bridge" — better  for  the  boy  than  wood  of 
pine,  or  grove  of  myrtle.  How  he  must 
have  tormented  the  watermen,  beseeching 
them  to  let  him  crouch  anywhere  in  [230 
the  bows,  quiet  as  a  log,  so  only  that  he 
might  get  floated  down  there  among  the 
ships,  and  round  and  round  the  ships, 
and  with  the  ships,  and  by  the  ships,  and 
under  the  ships,  staring,  and  clambering; 
— these  the  only  quite  beautiful  things 
he  can  see  in  all  the  world,  except  the  sky ; 
but  these,  when  the  sun  is  on  their  sails, 
filling  or  falling,  endlessly  disordered  by 
sway  of  tide  and  stress  of  anchorage,  [240 
beautiful  unspeakably;  which  ships  also 
are  inhabited  by  glorious  creatures— 
red-faced  sailors,  with  pipes,  appearing 
over  the  gunwales,  true  knights,  over 
their  castle  parapets — the  most  angelic 
beings  in  the  whole  compass  of  London 
world.  And  Trafalgar  happening  long 
before  we  can  draw  ships,  we,  neverthe- 
less, coax  all  current  stories  out  of  the 
wounded  sailors,  do  our  best  at  pres-  [250 
ent  to  show  Nelson's  funeral  streaming 
up  the  Thames;  and  vow  that  Trafalgar 
shall  have  its   tribute  of  memory  some 


RUSKTN 


661 


is     accom- 


day.  Which,  accordingly, 
plished — once,  with  all  our  might,  for  its 
death;  twice,  with  all  our  might,  for  its 
victory;  thrice,  in  pensive  farewell  to  the 
old  Temeraire,  and,  with  it,  to  that  order 
of  things. 

Now  this  fond  companying  with  [260 
sailors  must  have  divided  his  time,  it 
appears  to  me,  pretty  equally  between 
Covent  Garden  and  Wapping  (allowing  for 
incidental  excursions  to  Chelsea  on  one 
side,  and  Greenwich  on  the  other),  which 
time  he  would  spend  pleasantly,  but  not 
magnificently,  being  limited  in  pocket- 
money,  and  leading  a  kind  of  "Poor- 
Jack"  life  on  the  river. 

In  some  respects,  no  life  could  be  [270 
better  for  a  lad.  But  it  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  make  his  ear  fine  to  the  niceties 
of  language,  nor  form  his  moralities  on  an 
entirely  regular  standard.  Picking  up 
his  first  scraps  of  vigorous  English  chiefly 
at  Deptford  and  in  the  markets,  and  his 
first  ideas  of  female  tenderness  and  beauty 
among  nymphs  of  the  barge  and  the 
barrow, — another  boy  might,  perhaps, 
have  become  what  people  usually  term  [280 
"vulgar."  But  the  original  make  and 
frame  of  Turner's  mind  being  not  vulgar, 
but  as  nearly  as  possible  a  combination 
of  the  minds  of  Keats  and  Dante,  joining 
capricious  waywardness,  and  intense  open- 
ness to  every  fine  pleasure  of  sense,  and 
hot  defiance  of  formal  precedent,  with  a 
quite  infinite  tenderness,  generosity,  and 
desire  of  justice  and  truth — this  kind 
of  mind  did  not  become  vulgar,  but  [290 
very  tolerant  of  vulgarity,  even  fond  of 
it  in  some  forms;  and  on  the  outside, 
visibly  infected  by  it,  deeply  enough;  the 
curious  result,  in  its  combination  of  ele- 
ments, being  to  most  people  wholly  in- 
comprehensible. It  was  as  if  a  cable  had 
been  woven  of  blood-crimson  silk,  and 
then  tarred  on  the  outside.  People 
handled  it,  and  the  tar  came  off  on  their 
hands;  red  gleams  were  seen  through  [300 
the  black,  underneath,  at  the  places  where 
it  had  been  strained.  Was  it  ochre? — 
said  the  world — or  red  lead? 

Schooled  thus  in  manners,  literature, 
and  general  moral  principles  at  Chelsea 
and  Wapping,  we  have  finally  to  inquire 
concerning    the    most    important    point 


of  all.  We  have  seen  the  principal  dif- 
ferences between  this  boy  and  Giorgione, 
as  respects  sight  of  the  beautiful,  [310 
understanding  of  poverty,  of  commerce, 
and  of  order  of  battle;  then  follows  an- 
other cause  of  difference  in  our  training — 
not  slight, — the  aspect  of  religion,  namely, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Covent  Garden. 
I  say  the  aspect;  for  that  was  all  the  lad 
could  judge  by.  Disposed,  for  the  most 
part,  to  learn  chiefly  by  his  eyes,  in  this 
special  matter  he  finds  there  is  really  no 
other  way  of  learning.  His  father  had  [320 
taught  him  "to  lay  one  penny  upon  an- 
other." Of  mother's  teaching,  we  hear 
of  none;  of  parish  pastoral  teaching,  the 
reader  may  guess  how  much. 

I  chose  Giorgione  rather  than  Veronese 
to  help  me  in  carrying  out  this  parallel; 
because  I  do  not  find  in  Giorgione's  work 
any  of  the  early  Venetian  monarchist 
element.  He  seems  to  me  to  have  belonged 
more  to  an  abstract  contemplative  [330 
school.  I  may  be  wrong  in  this;  it  is  no 
matter; — -suppose  it  were  so,  and  that  he 
came  down  to  Venice  somewhat  recusant, 
or  insentient,  concerning  the  usual  priestly 
doctrines  of  his  day, — how  would  the 
Venetian  religion,  from  an  outer  intel- 
lectual standing-point,  have  looked  to  him? 

He  would  have  seen  it  to  be  a  religion 
indisputably  powerful  in  human  affairs; 
often  very  harmfully  so;  sometimes  [340 
devouring  widows'  nouses,  and  consum- 
ing the  strongest  and  fairest  from  among 
the  young;  freezing  into  merciless  bigotry 
the  policy  of  the  old:  also,  on  the  other 
hand,  animating  national  courage,  and 
raising  souls,  otherwise  sordid,  into  hero- 
ism: on  the  whole,  always  a  real  and 
great  power;  served  with  daily  sacrifice 
of  gold,  time,  and  thought;  putting  forth 
its  claims,  if  hypocritically,  at  least  [350 
in  bold  hypocrisy,  not  waiving  any  atom 
of  them  in  doubt  or  fear;  and,  assuredly, 
in  large  measure,  sincere,  believing  in 
itself,  and  believed:  a  goodly  system, 
moveover,  in  aspect;  gorgeous,  harmoni- 
ous, mysterious ; — a  thing  which  had  either 
to  be  obeyed  or  combated,  but  could  not 
be  scorned.  A  religion  towering  over 
all  the  city — many-buttressed — luminous 
in  marble  stateliness,  as  the  dome  [360 
of  our  Lady  of   Safety   shines  over  the 


662 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


sea;  many- voiced  also,  giving,  over  all 
the  eastern  seas,  to  the  sentinel  his 
watchword,  to  the  soldier  his  war-cry; 
and,  on  the  lips  of  all  who  died  for  Venice, 
shaping  the  whisper  of  death. 

I  suppose  the  boy  Turner  to  have  re- 
garded the  religion  of  his  city  also  from  an 
external  intellectual  standing-point. 

What  did  he  see  in  Maiden  Lane?     [370 

Let  not  the  reader  be  offended  with 
me;  I  am  willing  to  let  him  describe,  at. 
his  own  pleasure,  what  Turner  saw  there; 
but  to  me,  it  seems  to  have  been  this.  A 
religion  maintained  occasionally,  even 
the  whole  length  of  the  lane,  at  point  of 
constable's  staff;  but,  at  other  times, 
placed  under  the  custody  of  the  beadle, 
within  certain  black  and  unstately  iron 
railings  of  St.  Paul's,  Covent  Garden.  [380 
Among  the  wheelbarrows  and  over  the 
vegetables,  no  perceptible  dominance  of 
religion;  in  the  narrow,  disquieted  streets, 
none;  in  the  tongues,  deeds,  daily  ways 
of  Maiden  Lane,  little.  Some  honesty, 
indeed,  and  English  industry,  and  kind- 
ness of  heart,  and  general  idea  of  justice; 
but  faith,  of  any  national  kind,  shut  up 
from  one  Sunday  to  the  next,  not  artisti- 
cally beautiful  even  in  those  Sab-  [390 
batical  exhibitions ;  its  paraphernalia  being 
chiefly  of  high  pews,  heavy  elocution,  and 
cold  grimness  of  behavior. 

What  chiaroscuro  belongs  to  it — (de- 
pendent mostly  on  candlelight), — we  will, 
however,  draw  considerately;  no  goodli- 
ness  of  escutcheon,  nor  other  respecta- 
bility being  omitted,  and  the  best  of  their 
results  confessed,  a  meek  old  woman  and 
a  child  being  let  into  a  pew,  for  whom  [400 
the  reading  by  candlelight  will  be  bene- 
ficial. 

For  the  rest,  this  religion  seems  to  him 
discreditable — discredited — not  believing 
in  itself;  putting  forth  its  authority  in  a 
cowardly  way,  watching  how  far  it  might 
be  tolerated,  continually  shrinking,  dis- 
claiming, fencing,  finessing;  divided  against 
itself,  not  by  stormy  rents,  but  by  thin 
fissures,  and  splittings  of  plaster  [410 
from  the  walls.  Not  to  be  either  obeyed, 
or  combated,  by  an  ignorant,  yet  clear- 
sighted youth;  only  to  be  scorned.  And 
scorned  not  one  whit  the  less,  though 
also  the  dome  dedicated  to  it  looms  high 


over  distant  winding  of  the  Thames;  as 
St.  Mark's  campanile  rose,  for  goodly 
landmark,  over  mirage  of  lagoon.  For 
St.  Mark  ruled  over  life;  the  Saint  of  Lon- 
don over  death;  St.  Mark  over  St.  [420 
Mark's  Place,  but  St.  Paul  over  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard. 

Under  these  influences  pass  away  the 
first  reflective  hours  of  life,  with  such  con- 
clusion as  they  can  reach.  In  conse- 
quence of  a  fit  of  illness,  he  was  taken — 
I  cannot  ascertain  in  what  year — to  live 
with  an  aunt,  at  Brentford;  and  here, 
I  believe,  received  some  schooling,  which 
he  seems  to  have  snatched  vigor-  [430 
ously;  getting  knowledge,  at  least  by 
translation,  of  the  more  picturesque  clas- 
sical authors,  which  he  turned  presently 
to  use,  as  we  shall  see.  Hence  also,  walks 
about  Putney  and  Twickenham  in  the 
summer  time  acquainted  him  with  the 
look  of  English  meadow-ground  in  its 
restricted  states  of  paddock  and  park; 
and  with  some  round-headed  appearances 
of  trees,  and  stately  entrances  to  [440 
houses  of  mark:  the  avenue  at  Bushy, 
and  the  iron  gates  and  carved  pillars  of 
Hampton,  impressing  him  apparently  with 
great  awe  and  admiration;  so  that  in 
after  life  his  little  country  house  is, — of 
all  places  in  the  world, — at  Twickenham! 
Of  swans  and  reedy  shores  he  now  learns 
the  soft  motion  and  the  green  mystery, 
in  a  way  not  to  be  forgotten. 

And  at  last  fortune  wills  that  the  [450 
lad's  true  life  shall  begin;  and  one  summer's 
evening,  after  various  wonderful  stage- 
coach experiences  on  the  north  road, 
which  gave  him  a  love  of  stage-coaches 
ever  after,  he  finds  himself  sitting  alone 
among  the  Yorkshire  hills.  For  the  first 
time,  the  silence  of  Nature  round  him, 
her  freedom  sealed  to  him,  her  glory 
opened  to  him.  Peace  at  last;  no  roll 
of  cart-wheel,  nor  mutter  of  sullen  [460 
voices  in  the  back  shop;  but  curlew-cry 
in  space  of  heaven,  and  welling  of  bell- 
toned  streamlet  by  its  shadowy  rock. 
Freedom  at  last.  Dead-wall,  dark  railing, 
fenced  field,  gated  garden,  all  passed  away 
like  the  dream  of  a  prisoner;  and  behold, 
far  as  foot  or  eye  can  race  or  range,  the 
moor,  and  cloud.  Loveliness  at  last. 
It  is  here,   then,   among   these   deserted 


RUSKIN 


663 


vales!  Not  among  men.  Those  pale,  [470 
poverty-struck,  or  cruel  faces; — that  mul- 
titudinous, marred  humanity — are  not 
the  only  things  that  God  has  made.  Here 
is  something  He  has  made  which  no  one 
has  marred.  Pride  of  purple  rocks,  and 
river  pools  of  blue,  and  tender  wilderness 
of  glittering  trees,  and  misty  lights  of 
evening  on  immeasurable  hills. 

Beauty,  and  freedom,  and  peace;  and 
yet  another  teacher,  graver  than  [480 
these.  Sound  preaching  at  last  here,  in 
Kirkstall  crypt,  concerning  fate  and  life. 
Here,  where  the  dark  pool  reflects  the 
chancel  pillars,  and  the  cattle  lie  in  un- 
hindered rest,  the  soft  sunshine  on  their 
dappled  bodies,  instead  of  priests'  vest- 
ments; their  white  furry  hair  ruffled  a 
little,  fitfully,  by  the  evening  wind,  deep- 
scented  from  the  meadow  thyme. 

Consider  deeply  the  import  to  him  of  [490 
this,  his  first  sight  of  ruin,  and  compare  it 
with  the  effect  of  the  architecture  that 
was  around  Giorgione.  There  were  in- 
deed aged  buildings,  at  Venice,  in  his 
time,  but  none  in  decay.  All  ruin  was 
removed,  and  its  place  filled  as  quickly 
as  in  our  London;  but  filled  always  by 
architecture  loftier  and  more  wonderful 
than  that  whose  place  it  took,  the  boy 
himself  happy  to  work  upon  the  [500 
walls  of  it;  so  that  the  idea  of  the  passing 
away  of  the  strength  of  men  and  beauty 
of  their  works  never  could  occur  to  him 
sternly.  Brighter  and  brighter  the  cities 
of  Italy  had  been  rising  and  broadening 
on  hill  and  plain,  for  three  hundred  years. 
He  saw  only  strength  and  immortality, 
could  not  but  paint  both;  conceived  the 
form  of  man  as  deathless,  calm  with  power, 
and  fiery  with  life.  [510 

Turner  saw  the  exact  reverse  of  this. 
In  the  present  work  of  men,  meanness, 
aimlessness,  unsightliness:  thin-walled, 
lath-divided,  narrow-garreted  houses  of 
clay;  booths  of  a  darksome  Vanity  Fair, 
busily  base. 

But  on  Whitby  Hill,  and  by  Bolton 
Brook,  remained  traces  of  other  handi- 
work. Men  who  could  build  had  been 
there;  and  who  also  had  wrought,  not  [520 
merely  for  their  own  days.  But  to  what 
purpose?  Strong  faith,  and  steady  hands, 
and  patient  souls — can  this,  then,  be  all 


you  have  left!  this  the  sum  of  your  doing 
on  the  earth! — a  nest  whence  the  night- 
owl  may  whimper  to  the  brook,  and  a 
ribbed  skeleton  of  consumed  arches, 
looming  above  the  bleak  banks  of  mist, 
from  its  cliff  to  the  sea? 

As  the  strength  of  men  to  Giorgione,  [530 
to  Turner  their  weakness  and  vileness, 
were  alone  visible.  They  themselves, 
unworthy  or  ephemeral;  their  work,  des- 
picable, or  decayed.  In  the  Venetian's 
eyes,  all  beauty  depended  on  man's  pres- 
ence and  pride;  in  Turner's,  on  the  soli- 
tude he  had  left,  and  the  humiliation  he 
had  suffered. 

And  thus  the  fate  and  issue  of  all  his 
work  were  determined  at  once.  He  [540 
must  be  a  painter  of  the  strength  of 
nature,  there  was  no  beauty  elsewhere 
than  in  that;  he  must  paint  also  the 
labor  and  sorrow  and  passing  away  of 
men:  this  was  the  great  human  truth 
visible  to  him. 

Their  labor,  their  sorrow,  and  their 
death.  Mark  the  three.  Labor:  by 
sea  and  land,  in  field  and  city,  at  forge 
and  furnace,  helm  and  plough.  No  [550 
pastoral  indolence  nor  classic  pride  shall 
stand  between  him  and  the  troubling  of 
the  world;  still  less  between  him  and 
the  toil  of  his  country, — blind,  tormented, 
unwearied,  marvellous  England. 

Also  their  Sorrow:  Ruin  of  all  their 
glorious  work,  passing  away  of  their 
thoughts  and  their  honor,  mirage  of 
pleasure,  Fallacy  of  Hope;  gathering  of 
weed  on  temple  step;  gaining  of  wave  [560 
on  deserted  strand;  weeping  of  the  mother 
for  the  children,  desolate  by  her  breath- 
less first-born  in  the  streets  of  the  city, 
desolate  by  her  last  sons  slain,  among  the 
beasts  of  the  field. 

And  their  Death.  That  old  Greek 
question  again; — yet  unanswered.  The 
unconquerable  spectre  still  flitting  among 
the  forest  trees  at  twilight;  rising  ribbed 
out  of  the  sea-sand; — white,  a  [570 
strange  Aphrodite, — out  of  the  sea- foam; 
stretching  its  gray,  cloven  wings  among 
the  clouds;  turning  the  light  of  their  sun- 
sets into  blood.  This  has  to  be  looked 
upon,  and  in  a  more  terrible  shape  than 
ever  Salvator  or  Durer  saw  it.  The  wreck 
of  one  guilty  country  does  not  infer  the 


664 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


ruin  of  all  countries,  and  need  not  cause 
general  terror  respecting  the  laws  of  the 
universe.  Neither  did  the  orderly  and  [580 
narrow  succession  of  domestic  joy  and 
sorrow  in  a  small  German  community 
bring  the  question  in  its  breadth,  or  in  any 
unresolvable  shape,  before  the  mind  of 
Diirer.  But  the  English  death — the  Euro- 
pean death  of  the  nineteenth  century — 
was  of  another  range  and  power ;  more  ter- 
rible a  thousandfold  in  its  merely  physi- 
cal grasp  and  grief;  more  terrible,  incal- 
culably, in  its  mystery  and  shame.  [590 
What  were  the  robber's  casual  pang,  or 
the  range  of  the  flying  skirmish,  compared 
to  the  work  of  the  axe,  and  the  sword, 
and  the  famine,  which  was  done  during 
this  man's  youth  on  all  the  hills  and 
plains  of  the  Christian  earth,  from  Mos- 
cow to  Gibraltar?  He  was  eighteen  years 
old  when  Napoleon  came  down  on  Areola. 
Look  on  the  map  of  Europe  and  count 
the  blood-stains  on  it,  between  [600 
Areola  and  Waterloo. 

Not  alone  those  blood-stains  on  the 
Alpine  snow,  and  the  blue  of  the  Lom- 
bard plain.  The  English  death  was  be- 
fore his  eyes  also.  No  decent,  calculable, 
consoled  dying;  no  passing  to  rest  like 
that  of  the  aged  burghers  of  Nuremberg 
town.  No  gentle  processions  to  church- 
yards among  the  fields,  the  bronze  crests 
bossed  deep  on  the  memorial  tab-  [610 
lets,  and  the  skylark  singing  above  them 
from  among  the  corn.  But  the  life  tram- 
pled out  in  the  slime  of  the  street,  crushed 
to  dust  amidst  the  roaring  of  the  wheel, 
tossed  countlessly  away  into  howling 
winter  wind  along  five  hundred  leagues 
of  rock-fanged  shore.  Or,  worst  of  all, 
rotted  down  to  forgotten  graves  through 
years  of  ignorant  patience,  and  vain  seek- 
ing for  help  from  man,  for  hope  in  [620 
God — infirm,  imperfect  yearning,  as  of 
motherless  infants  starving  at  the  dawn; 
oppressed  royalties  of  captive  thought, 
vague  ague-fits  of  bleak,  amazed  despair. 

A  goodly  landscape  this,  for  the  lad  to 
paint,  and  under  a  goodly  light.  Wide 
enough  the  light  was,  and  clear;  no  more 
Salvator's  lurid  chasm  on  jagged  horizon, 
nor  Diirer's  spotted  rest  of  sunny  gleam 
on  hedgerow  and  field;  but  light  [630 
over  all  the  world.     Full  shone  now  its 


awful  globe,  one  pallid  charnel-house, — 
a  ball  strewn  bright  with  human  ashes, 
glaring  in  poised  sway  beneath  the  sun, 
all  blinding-white  with  death  from  pole 
to  pole, — death,  not  of  myriads  of  poor 
bodies  only,  but  of  will,  and  mercy,  and 
conscience;  death,  not  once  inflicted  on 
the  flesh,  but  daily,  fastening  on  the  spirit; 
death,  not  silent  or  patient,  wait-  [640 
ing  his  appointed  hour,  but  voiceful, 
venomous;  death  with  the  taunting  word, 
and  burning  grasp,  and  infixed  sting. 

"Put  ye  in  the  sickle,  for  the  harvest 
is  ripe."  The  word  is  spoken  in  our  ears 
continually  to  other  reapers  than  the 
angels, — to  the  busy  skeletons  that  never 
tire  for  stooping.  When  the  measure  of 
iniquity  is  full,  and  it  seems  that  another 
day  might  bring  repentance  and  [650 
redemption, — "Put  ye  in  the  sickle." 
When  the  young  life  has  been  wasted  all 
away,  and  the  eyes  are  just  opening  upon 
the  tracks  of  ruin,  and  faint  resolution 
rising  in  the  heart  for  nobler  things, — 
"Put  ye  in  the  sickle."  When  the  rough- 
est blows  of  fortune  have  been  borne 
long  and  bravely,  and  the  hand  is  just 
stretched  to  grasp  its  goal, — "Put  ye  in 
the  sickle."  And  when  there  are  but  [660 
a  few  in  the  midst  of  a  nation,  to  save  it, 
or  to  teach,  or  to  cherish ;  and  all  its  life  is 
bound  up  in  those  few  golden  ears, — 
"Put  ye  in  the  sickle,  pale  reapers,  and 
pour  hemlock  for  your  feast  of  harvest 
home." 

This  was  the  sight  which  opened  on 
the  young  eyes,  this  the  watchword 
sounding  within  the  heart  of  Turner  in 
his  youth.  [670 

So  taught,  and  prepared  for  his  life's 
labor,  sat  the  boy  at  last  alone  among  his 
fair  English  hills;  and  began  to  paint,  with 
cautious  toil,  the  rocks,  and  fields,  and 
trickling  brooks,  and  soft  white  clouds  of 
heaven. 


From  THE  STONES  OF  VENICE 

St.  Mark's 

"And  so  Barnabas  took  Mark,  and 
sailed  unto  Cyprus."  If  as  the  shores  of 
Asia  lessened  upon  his  sight,  the  spirit 
of  prophecy  had  entered  into  the  heart 


RUSKIN 


665 


of  the  weak  disciple  who  had  turned  back 
when  his  hand  was  on  the  plough,  and 
who  had  been  judged,  by  the  chiefest  of 
Christ's  captains,  unworthy  thencefor- 
ward to  go  forth  with  him  to  the  work, 
how  wonderful  would  he  have  thought  [10 
it,  that  by  the  lion  symbol  in  future  ages 
he  was  to  be  represented  among  men! 
how  woful,  that  the  war-cry  of  his  name 
should  so  often  reanimate  the  rage  of 
the  soldier,  on  those  very  plains  where 
he  himself  had  failed  in  the  courage  of  the 
Christian,  and  so  often  dye  with  fruitless 
blood  that  very  Cypriot  Sea,  over  whose 
waves,  in  repentance  and  shame,  he 
was  following  the  Son  of  Consola-  [20 
tion! 

That  the  Venetians  possessed  them- 
selves of  his  body  in  the  ninth  century, 
there  appears  no  sufficient  reason  to 
doubt,  nor  that  it  was  principally  in  con- 
sequence of  their  having  done  so,  that 
they  chose  him  for  their  patron  saint. 
There  exists,  however,  a  tradition  that 
before  he  went  into  Egypt  he  had  founded 
the  church  at  Aquileia,  and  was  thus  [30 
in  some  sort  the  first  bishop  of  the  Vene- 
tian isles  and  people.  I  believe  that  this 
tradition  stands  on  nearly  as  good  grounds 
as  that  of  St.  Peter  having  been  the  first 
bishop  of  Rome;  but,  as  usual,  it  is  en- 
riched by  various  later  additions  and  em- 
bellishments, much  resembling  the  stories 
told  respecting  the  church  of  Murano. 
Thus  we  find  it  recorded  by  the  Santo 
Padre  who  compiled  the  Vite  d£  Santi  [40 
spettanti  alle  Chiese  di  Venezia,  that  "St. 
Mark  having  seen  the  people  of  Aquileia 
well  grounded  in  religion,  and  being  called 
to  Rome  by  St.  Peter,  before  setting  off 
took  with  him  the  holy  bishop  Herma- 
goras,  and  went  in  a  small  boat  to  the 
marshes  of  Venice.  There  were  at  that 
period  some  houses  built  upon  a  certain 
high  bank  called  Rialto,  and  the  boat 
being  driven  by  the  wind  was  an-  [50 
chored  in  a  marshy  place,  when  St.  Mark, 
snatched  into  ecstasy,  heard  the  voice 
of  an  angel  saying  to  him:  'Peace  be  to 
thee,  Mark;  here  shall  thy  body  rest.'" 
The  angel  goes  on  to  foretell  the  building 
of  "una  stupenda,  ne  piu  veduta  Citta", 
but  the  fable  is  hardly  ingenious  enough 
to  deserve  farther  relation. 


But  whether  St.  Mark  was  first  bishop 
of  Aquileia  or  not,  St.  Theodore  was  [60 
the  first  patron  of  the  city;  nor  can  he 
yet  be  considered  as  having  entirely  ab- 
dicated his  early  right,  as  his  statue, 
standing  on  a  crocodile,  still  companions 
the  winged  lion  on  the  opposing  pillar 
of  the  piazzetta.  A  church  erected  to 
this  Saint  is  said  to  have  occupied,  before 
the  ninth  century,  the  site  of  St.  Mark's; 
and  the  traveller,  dazzled  by  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  great  square,  ought  not  [70 
to  leave  it  without  endeavoring  to  imag- 
ine its  aspect  in  that  early  time,  when 
it  was  a  green  field  cloister-like  and  quiet, 
divided  by  a  small  canal,  with  a  line  of 
trees  on  each  side;  and  extending  between 
the  two  churches  of  St.  Theodore  and 
St.  Gemanium,  as  the  little  piazza  of 
Torcello  lies  between  its  "palazzo"  and 
cathedral. 

But  in  the  year  813,  when  the  seat  of  [80 
government  was  finally  removed  to  the 
Rialto,  a  Ducal  Palace,  built  on  the  spot 
where  the  present  one  stands,  with  a 
Ducal  Chapel  beside  it,  gave  a  very  dif- 
ferent character  to  the  Square  of  St. 
Mark;  and  fifteen  years  later,  the  acquisi- 
tion of  the  body  of  the  Saint,  and  its 
deposition  in  the  Ducal  Chapel,  perhaps 
not  yet  completed,  occasioned  the  in- 
vestiture of  that  chapel  with  all  pos-  [90 
sible  splendor.  St.  Theodore  was  deposed 
from  his  patronship,  and  his  church  de- 
stroyed, to  make  room  for  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  the  one  attached  to  the  Ducal 
Palace,  and  thenceforward  known  as 
"St.  Mark's." 

This  first  church  was,  however,  de- 
stroyed by  fire,  when  the  Ducal  Palace  was 
burned  in  the  revolt  against  Candiano, 
in  976.  It  was  partly  rebuilt  by  his  [100 
successor,  Pietro  Orseolo,  on  a  larger 
scale;  and,  with  the  assistance  of  Byzan- 
tine architects,  the  fabric  was  carried  on 
under  successive  Doges  for  nearly  a  hun- 
dred years;  the  main  building  being  com- 
pleted in  107 1,  but  its  incrustation  with 
marble  not  till  considerably  later.  It 
was  consecrated  on  the  8th  of  October, 
1085,  according  to  Sansovino  and  the 
author  of  the  Chiesa  Ducale  di  S.  [no 
Marco,  in  1094  according  to  Lazari,  but 
certainly  between   1084  and   1096,  those 


660 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


years  being  the  limits  of  the  reign  of  Vital 
Falier;  I  incline  to  the  supposition  that 
it  was  soon  after  his  accession  to  the 
throne  in  1085,  though  Sansovino  writes, 
by  mistake,  Ordelafo  instead  of  Vital 
Falier.  But,  at  all  events,  before  the 
close  of  the  eleventh  century  the  great 
consecration  of  the  church  took  place.  [120 
It  was  again  injured  by  fire  in  1106,  but 
repaired;  and  from  that  time  to  the  fall 
of  Venice  there  was  probably  no  Doge  who 
did  not  in  some  slight  degree  embellish 
or  alter  the  fabric,  so  that  few  parts  of  it 
can  be  pronounced  boldly  to  be  of  any 
given  date.  Two  periods  of  interference 
are,  however,  notable  above  the  rest:  the 
first,  that  in  which  the  Gothic  school 
had  superseded  the  Byzantine  to-  [130 
wards  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
when  the  pinnacles,  upper  archivolts,  and 
window  traceries  were  added  to  the  ex- 
terior, and  the  great  screen  with  various 
chapels  and  tabernacle-work,  to  the  in- 
terior; the  second,  when  the  Renaissance 
school  superseded  the  Gothic,  and  the 
pupils  of  Titian  and  Tintoret  substituted, 
over  one  half  of  the  church,  their  own 
compositions  for  the  Greek  mosaics  [140 
with  which  it  was  originally  decorated; 
happily,  though  with  no  good  will,  having 
left  enough  to  enable  us  to  imagine  and 
lament  what  they  destroyed.  Of  this 
irreparable  loss  we  shall  have  more  to 
say  hereafter;  meantime,  I  wish  only  to 
fix  in  the  reader's  mind  the  succession  of 
periods  of  alterations  as  firmly  and  simply 
as  possible. 

We  have  seen  that  the  main  body  of  [150 
the  church  may  be  broadly  stated  to  be 
of  the  eleventh  century,  the  Gothic  addi- 
tions of  the  fourteenth,  and  the  restored 
mosaics  of  the  seventeenth.  .  .  . 

This,  however,  I  only  wish  him  to  recol- 
lect in  order  that  I  may  speak  generally 
of  the  Byzantine  architecture  of  St. 
Mark's,  without  leading  him  to  suppose 
the  whole  church  to  have  been  built  and 
decorated  by  Greek  artists.  Its  later  [160 
portions,  with  the  single  exception  of  the 
seventeenth-century  mosaics,  have  been 
so  dexterously  accommodated  to  the 
original  fabric  that  the  general  effect  is 
still  that  of  a  Byzantine  building;  and  I 
shall    not,   except   when   it   is  absolutely 


necessary,  direct  attention  to  the  dis- 
cordant points,  or  weary  the  reader  with 
anatomical  criticism.  Whatever  in  St. 
Mark's  arrests  the  eye,  or  affects  the  [170 
feelings,  is  either  Byzantine,  or  has  been 
modified  by  Byzantine  influence;  and  our 
inquiry  into  its  architectural  merits  need 
not  therefore  be  disturbed  by  the  anxie- 
ties of  antiquarianism,  or  arrested  by  the 
obscurities  of  chronology. 

And  now  I  wish  that  the  reader,  before 
I  bring  him  into  St.  Mark's  Place,  would 
imagine  himself  for  a  little  time  in  a  quiet 
English  cathedral  town,  and  walk  [180 
with  me  to  the  west  front  of  its  cathedral. 
Let  us  go  together  up  the  more  retired 
street,  at  the  end  of  which  we  can  see 
the  pinnacles  of  one  of  the  towers,  and 
then  through  the  low  gray  gateway,  with 
its  battlemented  top  and  small  latticed 
window  in  the  centre,  into  the  inner 
private-looking  road  or  close,  where  noth- 
ing goes  in  but  the  carts  of  the  tradesmen 
who  supply  the  bishop  and  the  chap-  [190 
ter,  and  where  there  are  little  shaven 
grassplots,  fenced  in  by  neat  rails,  before 
old-fashioned  groups  of  somewhat  diminu- 
tive and  excessively  trim  houses,  with 
little  oriel  and  bay  windows  jutting  out 
here  and  there,  and  deep  wooden  cornices 
and  eaves  painted  cream  color  and  white, 
and  small  porches  to  their  doors  in  the 
shape  of  cockle-shells,  or  little,  crooked, 
thick,  indescribable  wooden  gables  [200 
warped  a  little  on  one  side;  and  so  forward 
till  we  come  to  larger  houses,  also  old- 
fashioned,  but  of  red  brick,  and  with 
gardens  behind  them,  and  fruit  walls, 
which  show  here  and  there,  among  the 
nectarines,  the  vestiges  of  an  old  cloister 
arch  or  shaft,  and  looking  in  front  on  the 
cathedral  square  itself,  laid  out  in  rigid 
divisions  of  smooth  grass  and  gravel 
walk,  yet  not  uncheerful,  especially  [210 
on  the  sunny  side,  where  the  canons'  chil- 
dren are  walking  with  their  nursery- 
maids. And  so,  taking  care  not  to  tread 
on  the  grass,  we  will  go  along  the  straight 
walk  to  the  west  front,  and  there  stand 
for  a  time,  looking  up  at  its  deep-pointed 
porches  and  the  dark  places  between  their 
pillars  where  there  were  statues  once, 
and  where  the  fragments,  here  and  there, 
of  a  stately  figure  are  still  left,  which  [220 


RUSK  IX 


667 


has  in  it  the  likeness  of  a  king,  perhaps 
indeed  a  king  on  earth,  perhaps  a  saintly 
king  long  ago  in  heaven;  and  so  higher 
and  higher  up  to  the  great  mouldering 
wall  of  rugged  sculpture  and  confused 
arcades,  shattered,  and  gray,  and  grisly 
with  heads  of  dragons  and  mocking 
fiends,  worn  by  the  rain  and  swirling 
winds  into  yet  unseemlier  shape,  and 
colored  on  their  stony  scales  by  the  [230 
deep  russet-orange  lichen,  melancholy 
gold;  and  so,  higher  still,  to  the  bleak 
towers,  so  far  above  that  the  eye  loses 
itself  among  the  bosses  of  their  traceries, 
though  they  are  rude  and  strong,  and 
only  sees  like  a  drift  of  eddying  black 
points,  now  closing,  now  scattering,  and 
now  settling  suddenly  into  invisible  places 
among  the  bosses  and  flowers,  the  crowd 
of  restless  birds  that  fill  the  whole  [240 
square  with  that  strange  clangor  of  theirs, 
so  harsh  and  yet  so  soothing,  like  the 
cries  of  birds  on  a  solitary  coast  between 
the  cliffs  and  sea. 

Think  for  a  little  while  of  that  scene, 
and  the  meaning  of  all  its  small  formalisms, 
mixed  with  its  serene  sublimity.  Esti- 
mate its  secluded,  continuous,  drowsy 
felicities,  and  its  evidence  of  the  sense 
and  steady  performance  of  such  kind  [250 
of  duties  as  can  be  regulated  by  the 
cathedral  clock;  and  weigh  the  influence 
of  those  dark  towers  on  all  who  have 
passed  through  the  lonely  square  at  their 
feet  for  centuries,  and  on  all  who  have 
seen  them  rising  far  away  over  the  wooded 
plain,  or  catching  on  their  square  masses 
the  last  rays  of  the  sunset,  when  the*  city 
at  their  feet  was  indicated  only  by  the 
mist  at  the  bend  of  the  river.  And  [260 
then  let  us  quickly  recollect  that  we  are 
in  Venice,  and  land  at  the  extremity  of 
the  Calla  Lunga  San  Moise,  which  may 
be  considered  as  there  answering  to  the 
secluded  street  that  led  us  to  our  English 
cathedral  gateway. 

We  find  ourselves  in  a  paved  alley, 
some  seven  feet  wide  where  it  is  widest, 
full  of  people,  and  resonant  with  cries  of 
itinerant  salesmen, — a  shriek  in  their  [270 
beginning,  and  dying  away  into  a  kind  of 
brazen  ringing,  all  the  worse  for  its  con- 
finement between  the  high  houses  of  the 
passage   along  which  we  have  to  make 


our  way.  Over-head,  an  inextricable 
confusion  of  rugged  shutters,  and  iron 
balconies  and  chimney  flues,  pushed  out 
on  brackets  to  save  room,  and  arched 
windows  with  projecting  sills  of  Istrian 
stone,  and  gleams  of  green  leaves  [280 
here  and  there  where  a  fig-tree  branch 
escapes  over  a  lower  wall  from  some 
inner  cortile,  leading  the  eye  up  to  the 
narrow  stream  of  blue  sky  high  over  all. 
On  each  side,  a  row  of  shops,  as  densely 
set  as  may  be,  occupying,  in  fact,  inter- 
vals between  the  square  stone  shafts, 
about  eight  feet  high,  which  carry  the  first 
floors:  intervals  of  which  one  is  narrow 
and  serves  as  a  door;  the  other  is,  in  [290 
the  more  respectable  shops,  wainscotted 
to  the  height  of  the  counter  and  glazed 
above,  but  in  those  of  the  poorer  trades- 
men left  open  to  the  ground,  and  the 
wares  laid  on  benches  and  tables  in  the 
open  air,  the  light  in  all  cases  entering  at 
the  front  only,  and  fading  away  in  a  few 
feet  from  the  threshold  into  a  gloom 
which  the  eye  from  without  cannot  pene- 
trate, but  which  is  generally  broken  [300 
by  a  ray  or  two  from  a  feeble  lamp  at  the 
back  of  the  shop,  suspended  before  a 
print  of  the  Virgin.  The  less  pious  shop- 
keeper sometimes  leaves  his  lamp  un- 
lighted,  and  is  contented  with  a  penny 
print;  the  more  religious  one  has  his 
print  colored  and  set  in  a  little  shrine  with 
a  gilded  or  figured  fringe,  with  perhaps  a 
faded  flower  or  two  on  each  side,  and  his 
lamp  burning  brilliantly.  Here,  at  the  [310 
fruiterer's,  where  the  dark-green  water- 
melons are  heaped  upon  the  counter  like 
cannon  balls,  the  Madonna  has  a  taber- 
nacle of  fresh  laurel  leaves;  but  the 
pewterer  next  door  has  let  his  lamp  out, 
and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  his 
shop  but  the  dull  gleam  of  the  studded 
patterns  on  the  copper  pans,  hanging 
from  his  roof  in  the  darkness.  Next 
comes  a  "Vendita  Frittole  e  Liquori,"  [320 
where  the  Virgin,  enthroned  in  a  very 
humble  manner  beside  a  tallow  candle 
on  a  back  shelf,  presides  over  certain 
ambrosial  morsels  of  a  nature  too  ambigu- 
ous to  be  defined  or  enumerated.  But  a 
few  steps  farther  on,  at  the  regular  wine- 
shop of  the  calle,  where  we  are  offered 
"Vino  Nostrani  a  Soldi   28.32,"  the  Ma- 


668 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


donna  is  in  great  glory,  enthroned  above 
ten  or  a  dozen  large  red  casks  of  three-  [330 
year-old  vintage,  and  flanked  by  goodly 
ranks  of  bottles  of  Maraschino,  and  two 
crimson  lamps;  and  for  the  evening,  when 
the  gondoliers  will  come  to  drink  out, 
under  her  auspices,  the  money  they  have 
gained  during  the  day,  she  will  have  a 
whole  chandelier. 

A  yard  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the 
hostelry  of  the  Black  Eagle,  and,  glancing 
as  we  pass  through  the  square  door  [340 
of  marble,  deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer 
wall,  we  see  the  shadows  of  its  pergola  of 
vines  resting  on  an  ancient  well,  with  a 
pointed  shield  carved  on  its  side;  and  so 
presently  emerge  on  the  bridge  and 
Campo  San  Moise,  whence  to  the  entrance 
into  St.  Mark's  Place,  called  the  Bocca  di 
Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the  Vene- 
tian character  is  nearly  destroyed,  first 
by  the  frightful  facade  of  San  Moise,  [350 
which  we  will  pause  at  another  time  to 
examine,  and  then  by  the  modernizing 
of  the  shops  as  they  near  the  piazza,  and 
the  mingling  with  the  lower  Venetian 
populace  of  lounging  groups  of  English 
and  Austrians.  We  will  push  fast  through 
them  into  the  shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the 
end  of  the  "Bocca  di  Piazza,"  and  then 
we  forget  them  all;  for  between  those 
pillars  there  opens  a  great  light,  and,  [360 
in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we  advance  slowly, 
the  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark  seems  to  lift 
itself  visibly  forth  from  the  level  field  of 
chequered  stones;  and,  on  each  side,  the 
countless  arches  prolong  themselves  into 
ranged  symmetry,  as  if  the  rugged  and 
irregular  houses  that  pressed  together 
above  us  in  the  dark  alley  had  been  struck 
back  into  sudden  obedience  and  lovely 
order,  and  all  their  rude  casements  [370 
and  broken  walls  had  been  transformed 
into  arches  charged  with  goodly  sculpture, 
and  fluted  shafts  of  delicate  stone. 

And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for  be- 
yond those  troops  of  ordered  arches  there 
rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and  all  the 
great  square  seems  to  have  opened  from 
it  in  a  kind  of  awe,  that  we  may  see  it 
far  away; — a  multitude  of  pillars  and 
white  domes,  clustered  into  a  long  [380 
low  pyramid  of  colored  light;  a  treasure- 
heap,  it  seems,  partly  of  gold,  and  partly 


of  opal  and  mother-of-pearl,  hollowed 
beneath  into  five  great  vaulted  porches, 
ceiled  with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with 
sculpture  of  alabaster,  clear  as  amber 
and  delicate  as  ivory, — sculpture  fan- 
tastic and  involved,  of  palm  leaves  and 
lilies,  and  grapes  and  pomegranates,  and 
birds  clinging  and  fluttering  among  [390 
the  branches,  all  twined  together  into  an 
endless  network  of  buds  and  plumes; 
and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  solemn  forms 
of  angels,  sceptred,  and  robed  to  the  feet, 
and  leaning  to  each  other  across  the 
gates,  their  figures  indistinct  among  the 
gleaming  of  the  golden  ground  through 
the  leaves  beside  them,  interrupted  and 
dim,  like  the  morning  light  as  it  faded 
back  among  the  branches  of  Eden,  [400 
when  first  its  gates  were  angel-guarded 
long  ago.  And  round  the  walls  of  the 
porches  there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated 
stones,  jasper  and  porphyry,  and  deep- 
green  serpentine  spotted  with  flakes  of 
snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse  and 
half  yield  to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatra- 
like, "their  bluest  veins  to  kiss" — the 
shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them, 
revealing  line  after  line  of  azure  un-  [410 
dulation,  as  a  receding  tide  leaves  the 
waved  sand;  their  capitals  rich  with 
interwoven  tracery,  rooted  knots  of  herb- 
age, and  drifting  leaves  of  acanthus  and 
vine,  and  mystical  signs,  all  beginning 
and  ending  in  the  Cross;  and  above  them, 
in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continuous 
chain  of  language  and  of  life — angels,  and 
the  signs  of  heaven,  and  the  labors  of 
men,*  each  in  its  appointed  season  [420 
upon  the  earth;  and  above  these,  another 
range  of  glittering  pinnacles,  mixed  with 
white  arches  edged  with  scarlet  flowers, — 
a  confusion  of  delight,  amidst  which  the 
breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen 
blazing  in  their  breadth  of  golden  strength, 
and  the  St.  Mark's  Lion,  lifted  on  a  blue 
field  covered  with  stars,  until  at  last,  as 
if  in  ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break 
into  a  marble  foam,  and  toss  them-  [430 
selves  far  into  the  blue  sky  in  flashes  and 
wreaths  of  sculptured  spray,  as  if  the 
breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been 
frost-bound  before  they  fell,  and  the  sea- 
nymphs  had  inlaid  them  with  coral  and 
amethyst. 


RUSK  IN 


669 


Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England 
and  this,  what  an  interval!  There  is  a 
type  of  it  in  the  very  birds  that  haunt 
them;  for,  instead  of  the  restless  [440 
crowd,  hoarse-voiced  and  sable-winged, 
drifting  on  the  bleak  upper  air,  the  St. 
Mark's  porches  are  full  of  doves,  that 
nestle  among  the  marble  foliage,  and 
mingle  the  soft  iridescence  of  their  living 
plumes,  changing  at  every  motion,  with 
the  tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have 
stood  unchanged  for  seven  hundred 
years. 

And  what  effect  has  this  splendor  [450 
on  those  who  pass  beneath  it?  You  may 
walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to  and  fro, 
before  the  gateway  of  St.  Mark's,  and 
you  will  not  see  an  eye  lifted  to  it,  nor  a 
countenance  brightened  by  it.  Priest  and 
layman,  soldier  and  civilian,  rich  and 
poor,  pass  by  it  alike  regardlessly.  Up 
to  the  very  recesses  of  the  porches,  the 
meanest  tradesmen  of  the  city  push  their 
counters;  nay,  the  foundations  of  its  [460 
pillars  are  themselves  the  seats — not 
"of  them  that  sell  doves"  for  sacrifice, 
but  of  the  vendors  of  toys  and  carica- 
tures. Round  the  whole  square  in  front 
of  the  church  there  is  almost  a  continuous 
line  of  cafes,  where  the  idle  Venetians 
of  the  middle  classes  lounge,  and  read 
empty  journals;  in  its  centre  the  Austrian 
bands  play  during  the  time  of  vespers, 
their  martial  music  jarring  with  the  [470 
organ  notes, — the  march  drowning  the 
miserere,  and  the  sullen  crowd  thicken- 
ing round  them, — a  crowd,  which,  if  it 
had  its  will,  would  stiletto  every  soldier 
that  pipes  to  it.  And  in  the  recesses  of 
the  porches,  all  day  long,  knots  of  men 
of  the  lowest  classes,  unemployed  and 
listless,  lie  basking  in  the  sun  like  lizards; 
and  unregarded  children, — every  heavy 
glance  of  their  young  eyes  full  of  des-  [480 
peration  and  stony  depravity,  and  their 
throats  hoarse  with  cursing, — gamble,  and 
fight,  and  snarl,  and  sleep,  hour  after 
hour,  clashing  their  bruised  centesimi 
upon  the  marble  ledges  of  the  church 
porch.  And  the  images  of  Christ  and 
His  angels  look  down  upon  it  continu- 
ally. 


From  TIME   AND   TIDE 

Letter  XV 

The  Nature  of  Theft  by  Unjust 
Profits. — Crime  Can  Finally  be 
Arrested  Only  by  Education 

The  first  methods  of  polite  robbery,  by 
dishonest  manufacture,  and  by  debt,  of 
which  we  have  been  hitherto  speaking, 
are  easily  enough  to  be  dealt  with  and 
ended,  when  once  men  have  a  mind  to 
end  them.  But  the  third  method  of 
polite  robbery,  by  dishonest  acquisition, 
has  many  branches,  and  is  involved 
among  honest  arts  of  acquisition,  so  that 
it  is  difficult  to  repress  the  one  with-  [10 
out  restraining  the  other.  • 

Observe,  first,  large  fortunes  cannot 
honestly  be  made  by  the  work  of  one 
man's  hands  or  head.  If  his  work  bene- 
fits multitudes,  and  involves  position  of 
high  trust,  it  may  be  (I  do  not  say  that 
it  is)  expedient  to  reward  him  with  great 
wealth  or  estate;  but  fortune  of  this  kind 
is  freely  given  in  gratitude  for  benefit,  not 
as  repayment  for  labor.  Also,  men  [20 
of  peculiar  genius  in  any  art,  if  the  public 
can  enjoy  the  product  of  their  genius, 
may  set  it  at  almost  any  price  they 
choose;  but  this,  I  will  show  you  when  I 
come  to  speak  of  art,  is  unlawful  on  their 
part,  and  ruinous  to  their  own  powers. 
Genius  must  not  be  sold;  the  sale  of  it 
involves,  in  a  transcendental,  but  per- 
fectly true  sense,  the  guilt  both  of  simony 
and  prostitution.  Your  labor  only  [30 
may  be  sold;  your  soul  must  not. 

Now,  by  fair  pay  for  fair  labor,  accord- 
ing to  the  rank  of  it,  a  man  can  obtain 
means  of  comfortable,  or  if  he  needs  it, 
refined  life.  But  he  cannot  obtain  large 
fortune.  Such  fortunes  as  are  now  the 
prizes  of  commerce  can  be  made  only  in 
one  of  three  ways: — 

1.  By  obtaining  command  over  the 
labor  of  multitudes  of  other  men,  and  [40 
taxing  it  for  our  own  profit. 

2.  By  treasure-trove, — as  of  mines, 
useful  vegetable  products,  and  the  like, — 
in  circumstances  putting  them  under  our 
own  exclusive  control. 

3.  By  speculation  (commercial  gam- 
bling).    The  first  two  of  these  means  of 


b"]o 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


obtaining  riches  are,  in  some  forms  and 
within  certain  limits,  lawful,  and  advan- 
tageous to  the  State.  The  third  is  [50 
entirely  detrimental  to  it;  for  in  all  cases 
of  profit  derived  from  speculation,  at 
best,  what  one  man  gains  another  loses; 
and  the  net  result  to  the  State  is  zero 
(pecuniarily),  with  the  loss  of  time  and 
ingenuity  spent  in  the  transaction;  be- 
sides the  disadvantage  involved  in  the 
discouragement  of  the  losing  party,  and 
the  corrupted  moral  natures  of  both. 
This  is  the  result  of  speculation  at  its  [60 
best.  At  its  worst,  not  only  B.  loses  what 
A.  gains  (having  taken  his  fair  risk  of 
such  loss  for  his  fair  chance  of  gain), 
but  C.  and  D.,  who  never  had  any  chance 
at  all,  are  drawn  in  by  B.'s  fall,  and  the 
final  result  is  that  A.  sets  up  his  carriage 
on  the  collected  sum  which  was  once 
a  means  of  living  to  a  dozen  families. 

Nor  is  this  all.  For  while  real  com- 
merce is  founded  on  real  necessities  or  [70 
uses,  and  limited  by  these,  speculation, 
of  which  the  object  is  merely  gain,  seeks 
to  excite  imaginary  necessities  and  popu- 
lar desires,  in  order  to  gain  its  temporary 
profit  from  the  supply  of  them.  So  that 
not  only  the  persons  who  lend  their 
money  to  it  will  be  finally  robbed,  but 
the  work  done  with  their  money  will  be 
for  the  most  part  useless,  and  thus  the 
entire  body  of  the  public  injured  as  [80 
well  as  the  persons  concerned  in  the 
transaction.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
architectural  decorations  of  railways 
throughout  the  kingdom, — representing 
many  millions  of  money  for  which  no 
farthing  of  dividend  can  ever  be  forth- 
coming. The  public  will  not  be  induced 
to  pay  the  smallest  fraction  of  higher  fare 
to  Rochester  or  Dover  because  the  iron- 
work of  the  bridge  which  carries  them  [90 
over  the  Thames  is  covered  with  floral 
cockades,  and  the  piers  of  it  edged  with 
ornamental  cornices.  All  that  work  is 
simply  put  there  by  the  builders  that 
they  may  put  the  percentage  upon  it 
into  their  own  pockets;  and  the  rest  of 
the  money  being  thrown  into  that  floral 
form,  there  is  an  end  of  it,  as  far  as  the 
shareholders  are  concerned.  Millions 
upon  millions  have  thus  been  spent,  [100 
within   the  last  twenty  years,   on   orna- 


mental arrangements  of  zigzag  bricks, 
black  and  blue  tiles,  cast-iron  foliage, 
and  the  like;  of  which  millions,  as  I  said, 
not  a  penny  can  ever  return  into  the 
shareholders'  pockets,  nor  contribute  to 
public  speed  or  safety  on  the  line.  It  is 
all  sunk  forever  in  ornamental  architec- 
ture, and  (trust  me  for  this!)  all  that 
architecture  is  bad.  As  such,  it  had  [no 
incomparably  better  not  have  been  built. 
Its  only  result  will  be  to  corrupt  what 
capacity  of  taste  or  right  pleasure  in  such 
work  we  have  yet  left  to  us!  And  con- 
sider a  little,  what  other  kind  of  result 
than  that  might  have  been  attained  if  all 
those  millions  had  been  spent  usefully: 
say,  in  buying  land  for  the  people,  or 
building  good  houses  for  them,  or  (if  it 
had  been  imperatively  required  to  [120 
be  spent  decoratively)  in  laying  out  gar- 
dens and  parks  for  them, — or  buying 
noble  works  of  art  for  their  permanent 
possession, — or,  best  of  all,  establishing 
frequent  public  schools  and  libraries! 
Count  what  those  lost  millions  would 
have  so  accomplished  for  you!  But  you 
left  the  affair  to  "supply  and  demand," 
and  the  British  public  had  not  brains 
enough  to  "demand"  land,  or  lodg-  [130 
ing,  or  books.  It  "demanded"  cast-iron 
cockades  and  zigzag  cornices,  and  is 
"supplied"  with  them,  to  its  beatitude 
for  evermore. 

Now,  the  theft  we  first  spoke  of,  by 
falsity  of  workmanship  or  material,  is, 
indeed,  so  far  worse  than  these  thefts  by 
dishonest  acquisition,  that  there  is  no 
possible  excuse  for  it  on  the  ground  of 
self-deception;  while  many  specula-  [140 
tive  thefts  are  committed  by  persons  who 
really  mean  to  do  no  harm,  but  think  the 
system  on  the  whole  a  fair  one,  and  do 
the  best  they  can  in  it  for  themselves. 
But  in  the  real  fact  of  the  crime,  when 
consciously  committed,  in  the  numbers 
reached  by  its  injury,  in  the  degree  of 
suffering  it  causes  to  those  whom  it  ruins, 
in  the  baseness  of  its  calculated  betrayal 
of  implicit  trust,  in  the  yet  more  per-  [150 
feet  vileness  of  the  obtaining  such  trust 
by  misrepresentation,  only  that  it  may 
be  betrayed,  and  in  the  impossibility  that 
the  crime  should  be  at  all  committed, 
except  by  persons  of  good  position  and 


RUSKIN 


671 


large  knowledge  of  the  world, — what 
manner  of  theft  is  so  wholly  unpardon- 
able, so  inhuman,  so  contrary  to  every 
law  and  instinct  which  binds  and  ani- 
mates society?  [160 

And  then  consider  farther,  how  many 
of  the  carriages  that  glitter  in  our  streets 
are  driven,  and  how  many  of  the  stately 
houses  that  gleam  among  our  English 
fields  are  inhabited,  by  this  kind  of  thief! 

I  happened  to  be  reading  this  morning 
(29th  March)  some  portions  of  the  Lent 
services,  and  I  came  to  a  pause  over  the 
familiar  words,  "And  with  Him  they 
crucified  two  thieves."  Have  you  [170 
ever  considered  (I  speak  to  you  now  as  a 
professing  Christian)  why,  in  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  "numbering  among 
transgressors,"  the  transgressors  chosen 
should  have  been  especially  thieves — not 
murderers,  nor,  as  far  as  we  know,  sinners 
by  any  gross  violence?  Do  you  observe 
how  the  sin  of  theft  is  again  and  again 
indicated  as  the  chiefly  antagonistic  one 
to  the  law  of  Christ?  "This  he  said,  [180 
not  that  he  cared  for  the  poor,  but  be- 
cause he  was  a  thief,  and  had  the  bag" 
(of  Judas).  And  again,  though  Barabbas 
was  a  leader  of  sedition  and  a  murderer 
besides — (that  the  popular  election  might 
be  in  all  respects  perfect) — yet  St.  John, 
in  curt  and  conclusive  account  of  him, 
fastens  again  on  the  theft.  "Then 
cried  they  all  again  saying,  Not  this  man, 
but  Barabbas.  Now  Barabbas  was  [190 
a  robber."  I  believe  myself  the  reason 
to  be  that  theft  is  indeed,  in  its  subtle 
forms,  the  most  complete  and  excuseless 
of  human  crimes.  Sins  of  violence  usually 
have  passion  to  excuse  them:  they  may 
be  the  madness  of  moments;  or  they  may 
be  apparently  the  only  means  of  extrica- 
tion from  calamity.  In  other  cases,  they 
are  the  diseased  habits  of  lower  and 
brutified  natures.  But  theft  involv-  [200 
ing  deliberative  intellect,  and  absence  of 
passion,  is  the  purest  type  of  wilful  iniq- 
uity, in  persons  capable  of  doing  right. 
Which  being  so,  it  seems  to  be  fast  be- 
coming the  practice  of  modern  society  to 
crucify  its  Christ  indeed,  as  willingly  as 
ever,  in  the  persons  of  His  poor;  but  by 
no  means  now  to  crucify  its  thieves  be- 
side Him!     It  elevates  its  thieves  after 


another  fashion;  sets  them  upon  an  [210 
hill,  that  their  light  may  shine  before 
men,  and  that  all  may  see  their  good 
works,  and  glorify  their  Father  in — the 
Opposite  of  Heaven. 

I  think  your  trade  parliament  will  have 
to  put  an  end  to  this  kind  of  business 
somehow!  But  it  cannot  be  done  by 
laws  merely,  where  the  interests  and  cir- 
cumstances are  so  extended  and  complex. 
Nay,  even  as  regards  lower  and  more  [220 
defined  crimes,  the  assigned  punishment 
is  not  to  be  thought  of  as  a  preventive 
means;  but  only  as  the  seal  of  opinion 
set  by  society  on  the  fact.  Crime  cannot 
be  hindered  by  punishment;  it  will  always 
find  some  shape  and  outlet,  unpunishable 
or  unclosed.  Crime  can  only  be  truly 
hindered  by  letting  no  man  grow  up  a 
criminal — by  taking  away  the  will  to 
commit  sin;  not  by  mere  punishment  [230 
of  its  commission.  Crime,  small  and 
great,  can  only  be  truly  stayed  by  educa- 
tion— not  the  education  of  the  intellect 
only,  which  is,  on  some  men,  wasted, 
and  for  others  mischievous;  but  education 
of  the  heart,  which  is  alike  good  and 
necessary  for  all. 


THE   RELATION   OF   ART   TO 
MORALS 

.  .  .  And  now  I  pass  to  the  arts  with 
which  I  have  special  concern,  in  which, 
though  the  facts  are  exactly  the  same,  I 
shall  have  more  difficulty  in  proving  my 
assertion,  because  very  few  of  us  are  as 
cognizant  of  the  merit  of  painting  as  we 
are  of  that  of  language;  and  I  can  only 
show  you  whence  that  merit  springs,  after 
having  thoroughly  shown  you  in  what  it 
consists.  But,  in  the  meantime,  I  [10 
have  simply  to  tell  you,  that  the  manual 
arts  are  as  accurate  exponents  of  ethical 
state,  as  other  modes  of  expression;  first, 
with  absolute  precision,  of  that  of  the 
workman;  and  then  with  precision,  dis- 
guised by  many  distorting  influences,  of 
that  of  the  nation  to  which  it  belongs. 

And,  first,  they  are  a  perfect  exponent 
of  the  mind  of  the  workman:  but,  being 
so,  remember,  if  the  mind  be  great  or  [20 
complex,  the  art  is  not  an  easy  book  to 


672 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


read;  for  we  must  ourselves  possess  all 
the  mental  characters  of  which  we  are  to 
read  the  signs.  No  man  can  read  the 
evidence  of  labor  who  is  not  himself 
laborious,  for  he  does  not  know  what 
the  work  cost:  nor  can  he  read  the  evi- 
dence of  true  passion  if  he  is  not  pas- 
sionate; nor  of  gentleness  if  he  is  not 
gentle:  and  the  most  subtle  signs  of  [30 
fault  and  weakness  of  character  he  can 
only  judge  by  having  had  the  same  faults 
to  fight  with.  I  myself,  for  instance, 
know  impatient  work,  and  tired  work, 
better  than  most  critics,  because  I  am 
myself  always  impatient,  and  often  tired: 
— so  also,  the  patient  and  indefatigable 
touch  of  a  mighty  master  becomes  more 
wonderful  to  me  than  to  others.  Yet, 
wonderful  in  no  mean  measure  it  will  [40 
be  to  you  all,  when  I  make  it  manifest; — 
and  as  soon  as  we  begin  our  real  work, 
and  you  have  learned  what  it  is  to  draw 
a  true  line,  I  shall  be  able  to  make  mani- 
fest to  you, — and  undisputably  so, — 
that  the  day's  work  of  a  man  like  Man- 
tegna  or  Paul  Veronese  consists  of  an 
unfaltering,  uninterrupted,  succession  of 
movements  of  the  hand  more  precise  than 
those  of  the  finest  fencer:  the  pencil  [50 
leaving  one  point  and  arriving  at  another, 
not  only  with  unerring  precision  at  the 
extremity  of  the  line,  but  with  an  unerring 
and  yet  varied  course — sometimes  over 
spaces  a  foot  or  more  in  extent — yet  a 
course  so  determined  everywhere  that 
either  of  these  men  could,  and  Veronese 
often  does,  draw  a  finished  profile,  or 
any  other  portion  of  the  contour  of  the 
face,  with  one  line,  not  afterwards  [60 
changed.  Try,  first,  to  realize  to  your- 
selves the  muscular  precision  of  that 
action,  and  the  intellectual  strain  of  it; 
for  the  movement  of  a  fencer  is  perfect 
in  practised  monotony;  but  the  move- 
ment of  the  hand  of  a  great  painter  is 
at  every  instant  governed  by  direct  and 
new  intention.  Then  imagine  that  mus- 
cular firmness  and  subtlety,  and  the  in- 
stantaneously selective  and  ordinant  [70 
energy  of  the  brain,  sustained  all  day 
iong,  not  only  without  fatigue,  but  with 
a  visible  joy  in  the  exertion,  like  that 
which  an  eagle  seems  to  take  in  the  wave 
of  his  wings;  and  this  all  life  long,  and 


through  long  life,  not  only  without  failure 
of  power,  but  with  visible  increase  of  it, 
until  the  actually  organic  changes  of  old 
age.  And  then  consider,  so  far  as  you 
know  anything  of  physiology,  what  [80 
sort  of  an  ethical  state  of  body  and  mind 
that  means! — ethic  through  ages  past! 
what  fineness  of  race  there  must  be  to 
get  it,  what  exquisite  balance  and  sym- 
metry of  the  vital  powers!  And  then, 
finally,  determine  for  yourselves  whether 
a  manhood  like  that  is  consistent  with 
any  viciousness  of  soul,  with  any  mean 
anxiety,  any  gnawing  lust,  any  wretched- 
ness of  spite  or  remorse,  any  conscious-  [90 
ness  of  rebellion  against  law  of  God  or 
man,  or  any  actual,  though  unconscious 
violation  of  even  the  least  law  to  which 
obedience  is  essential  for  the  glory  of 
life,  and  the  pleasing  of  its  Giver. 

It  is,  of  course,  true  that  many  of  the 
strong  masters  had  deep  faults  of  charac- 
ter, but  their  faults  always  show  in  their 
work.  It  is  true  that  some  could  not 
govern  their  passions;  if  so,  they  died  [100 
young,  or  they  painted  ill  when  old.  But 
the  greater  part  of  our  misapprehension 
in  the  whole  matter  is  from  our  not  hav- 
ing well  known  who  the  great  painters 
were,  and  taking  delight  in  the  petty  skill 
that  was  bred  in  the  fumes  of  the  taverns 
of  the  North,  instead  of  theirs  who 
breathed  empyreal  air,  sons  of  the  morn- 
ing, under  the  woods  of  Assisi  and  the 
crags  of  Cadore.  [no 

It  is  true  however  also,  as  I  have 
pointed  out  long  ago,  that  the  strong 
masters  fall  into  two  great  divisions,  one 
leading  simple  and  natural  lives,  the 
other  restrained  in  a  Puritanism  of  the 
worship  of  beauty;  and  these  two  manners 
of  life  you  may  recognize  in  a  moment  by 
their  work.  Generally  the  naturalists 
are  the  strongest;  but  there  are  two  of 
the  Puritans,  whose  work  if  I  can  sue-  [120 
ceed  in  making  clearly  understandable 
to  you  during  my  three  years  here,  it  is 
all  I  need  care  to  do.  But  of  these  two 
Puritans  one  I  cannot  name  to  you,  and 
the  other  I  at  present  will  not.  One  I 
cannot,  for  no  one  knows  his  name,  except 
the  baptismal  one,  Bernard,  or  "dear 
little  Bernard" — Bernardino,  called  from 
his  birthplace,  (Luino,  on  the  Lago  Mag- 


RUSK  IN 


673 


giore,)  Bernard  of  Luino.  The  other  [130 
is  a  Venetian,  of  whom  many  of  you 
probably  have  never  heard,  and  of  whom, 
through  me,  you  shall  not  hear,  until  I 
have  tried  to  get  some  picture  by  him  over 
to  England. 

Observe  then,  this  Puritanism  in  the 
worship  of  beauty,  though  sometimes 
weak,  is  always  honorable  and  amiable, 
and  the  exact  reverse  of  the  false  Puri- 
tanism, which  consists  in  the  dread  or  [140 
disdain  of  beauty.  And  in  order  to  treat 
my  subject  rightly,  I  ought  to  proceed 
from  the  skill  of  art  to  the  choice  of  its 
subject,  and  show  you  how  the  moral 
temper  of  the  workman  is  shown  by  his 
seeking  lovely  forms  and  thoughts  to 
express,  as  well  as  by  the  force  of  his  hand 
in  expression.  But  I  need  not  now  urge 
this  part  of  the  proof  on  you,  because  you 
are  already,  I  believe,  sufficiently  [150 
conscious  of  the  truth  in  this  matter,  and 
also  I  have  already  said  enough  of  it  in 
my  writings;  whereas  I  have  not  at  all 
said  enough  of  the  infallibleness  of  fine 
technical  work  as  a  proof  of  every  other 
good  power.  And  indeed  it  was  long  be- 
fore I  myself  understood  the  true  mean- 
ing of  the  pride  of  the  greatest  men  in 
their  mere  execution,  shown  for  a  per- 
manent lesson  to  us,  in  the  stories  [160 
which,  whether  true  or  not,  indicate  with 
absolute  accuracy  the  general  conviction 
of  great  artists; — the  stories  of  the  con- 
test of  Apelles  and  Protogenes  in  a  line 
only,  (of  which  I  can  promise  you,  you 
shall  know  the  meaning  to  some  purpose 
in  a  little  while), — the  story  of  the  circle 
of  Giotto,  and  especially,  which  you  may 
perhaps  not  have  observed,  the  expression 
of  Diirer  in  his  inscription  on  the  [170 
drawings  sent  him  by  Raphael.  These 
figures,  he  says,  "Raphael  drew  and 
sent  to  Albert  Diirer  in  Niirnberg,  to 
show  him" — What?  Not  his  invention, 
nor  his  beauty  of  expression,  but  "sein 
Hand  zu  weisen,"  "to  show  him  his 
Jiand."  And  you  will  find,  as  you  ex- 
amine farther,  that  all  inferior  artists  are 
continually  trying  to  escape  from  the 
necessity  of  sound  work,  and  either  [180 
indulging  themselves  in  their  delights  in 
subject,  or  pluming  themselves  on  their 
noble  motives  for  attempting  what  they 


cannot  perform;  (and  observe,  by  the 
way,  that  a  great  deal  of  what  is  mis- 
taken for  conscientious  motive  is  nothing 
but  a  very  pestilent,  because  very  subtle, 
condition  of  vanity) ;  whereas  the  great 
men  always  understand  at  once  that  the 
first  morality  of  a  painter,  as  of  every-  [190 
body  else,  is  to  know  his  business;  and  so 
earnest  are  they  in  this,  that  many, 
whose  lives  you  would  think,  by  the  re- 
sults of  their  work,  had  been  passed  in 
strong  emotion,  have  in  reality  subdued 
themselves,  though  capable  of  the  very 
strongest  passions,  into  a  calm  as  absolute 
as  that  of  a  deeply  sheltered  mountain 
lake,  which  reflects  every  agitation  of  the 
clouds  in  the  sky,  and  every  change  [200 
of  the  shadows  on  the  hills,  but  is  itself 
motionless. 

Finally,  you  must  remember  that  great 
obscurity  has  been  brought  upon  the 
truth  in  this  matter  by  the  want  of  in- 
tegrity and  simplicity  in  our  modern  life. 
I  mean  integrity  in  the  Latin  sense,  whole- 
ness. Everything  is  broken  up,  and  min- 
gled in  confusion,  both  in  our  habits  and 
thoughts;  besides  being  in  great  part  [210 
imitative:  so  that  you  not  only  cannot 
tell  what  a  man  is,  but  sometimes  you 
cannot  tell  whether  he  is,  at  all ! — whether 
you  have  indeed  to  do  with  a  spirit,  or 
only  with  an  echo.  And  thus  the  same 
inconsistencies  appear  now,  between  the 
work  of  artists  of  merit  and  their  per- 
sonal characters,  as  those  which  you  find 
continually  disappointing  expectation  in 
the  lives  of  men  of  modern  literary  [220 
power; — the  same  conditions  of  society 
having  obscured  or  misdirected  the  best 
qualities  of  the  imagination,  both  in  our 
literature  and  art.  Thus  there  is  no 
serious  question  with  any  of  us  as  to  the 
personal  character  of  Dante  and  Giotto, 
of  Shakespeare  and  Holbein;  but  we 
pause  timidly  in  the  attempt  to  analyze 
the  moral  laws  of  the  art  skill  in  recent 
poets,  novelists,  and  painters.  [230 

Let  me  assure  you  once  for  all,  that  as 
you  grow  older,  if  you  enable  yourselves 
to  distinguish  by  the  truth  of  your  own 
lives,  what  is  true  in  those  of  other  men, 
you  will  gradually  perceive  that  all  good 
has  its  origin  in  good,  never  in  evil;  that 
the  fact  of  either  literature  or  painting 


6  74 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


being  truly  fine  of  their  kind,  whatever 
their  mistaken  aim,  or  partial  error,  is 
proof  of  their  noble  origin:  and  that,  [240 
if  there  is  indeed  sterling  value  in  the 
thing  done,  it  has  come  of  a  sterling  worth 
in  the  soul  that  did  it,  however  alloyed  or 
defiled  by  conditions  of  sin  which  are 
sometimes  more  appalling  or  more  strange 
than  those  which  all  may  detect  in  their 
own  hearts,  because  they  are  part  of  a 
personality  altogether  larger  than  ours, 
and  as  far  beyond  our  judgment  in  its 
darkness  as  beyond  our  following  in  [250 
its  light.  And  it  is  sufficient  warning 
against  what  some  might  dread  as  the 
probable  effect  of  such  a  conviction  on 
your  own  minds,  namely,  that  you  might 
permit  yourselves  in  the  weaknesses 
which  you  imagined  to  be  allied  to  genius, 
when  they  took  the  form  of  personal 
temptations; — it  is  surely,  I  say,  suffi- 
cient warning  against  so  mean  a  folly, 
to  discern,  as  you  may  with  little  [260 
pains,  that,  of  all  human  existences,  the 
lives  of  men  of  that  distorted  and  tainted 
nobility  of  intellect  are  probably  the 
most  miserable. 

I  pass  to  the  second,  and  for  us  the  more 
practically  important  question,  What  is 
the  effect  of  noble  art  upon  other  men; 
what  has  it  done  for  national  morality 
in  time  past:  and  what  effect  is  the  ex- 
tended knowledge  or  possession  of  it'  [270 
likely  to  have  upon  us  now?  And  here 
we  are  at  once  met  by  the  facts,  which 
are  as  gloomy  as  indisputable,  that,  while 
many  peasant  populations,  among  whom 
scarcely  the  rudest  practice  of  art  has 
ever  been  attempted,  have  lived  in  com- 
parative innocence,  honor,  and  happi- 
ness, the  worst  foulness  and  cruelty  of 
savage  tribes  have  been  frequently  asso- 
ciated with  fine  ingenuities  of  decora-  [280 
tive  design;  also,  that  no  people  has  ever 
attained  the  higher  stages  of  art  skill, 
except  at  a  period  of  its  civilization  which 
was  sullied  by  frequent,  violent,  and  even 
monstrous  crime;  and,  lastly,  that  the 
attaining  of  perfection  in  art  power,  has 
been  hitherto,  in  every  nation,  the  ac- 
curate signal  of  the  beginning  of  its 
ruin. 

Respecting  which  phenomena,  ob-  [290 
serve    first,    that    although    good    never 


springs  out  of  evil,  it  is  developed  to  its 
highest  by  contention  with  evil.  There 
are  some  groups  of  peasantry,  in  far-away 
nooks  of  Christian  countries,  who  are 
nearly  as  innocent  as  lambs;  but  the 
morality  which  gives  power  to  art  is  the 
morality  of  men,  not  of  cattle. 

Secondly,  the  virtues  of  the  inhabitants 
of  many  country  districts  are  ap-  [300 
parent,  not  real;  their  lives  are  indeed 
artless,  but  not  innocent;  and  it  is  only 
the  monotony  of  circumstances,  and  the 
absence  of  temptation,  which  prevent 
the  exhibition  of  evil  passions  not  less 
real  because  often  dormant,  nor  less  foul 
because  shown  only  in  petty  faults,  or 
inactive  malignities. 

But  you  will  observe  also  that  absolute 
artlessness,  to  men  in  any  kind  of  [310 
moral  health,  is  impossible;  they  have 
always,  at  least,  the  art  by  which  they 
live — agriculture  or  seamanship;  and  in 
these  industries,  skilfully  practised,  you 
will  find  the  law  of  their  moral  training; 
while,  whatever  the  adversity  of  cir- 
cumstances, every  rightly-minded  peas- 
antry, such  as  that  of  Sweden,  Denmark, 
Bavaria,  or  Switzerland,  has  associated 
with  its  needful  industry  a  quite  [320 
studied  school  of  pleasurable  art  in  dress; 
and  generally  also  in  song,  and  simple 
domestic  architecture. 

Again,  I  need  not  repeat  to  you  here 
what  I  endeavored  to  explain  in  the  first 
lecture  in  the  book  I  called  The  Two  Paths, 
respecting  the  arts  of  savage  races:  but 
I  may  now  note  briefly  that  such  arts  are 
the  result  of  an  intellectual  activity  which 
has  found  no  room  to  expand,  and  [330 
which  the  tyranny  of  nature  or  of  man 
has  condemned  to  disease  through  ar- 
rested growth.  And  where  neither  Chris- 
tianity, nor  any  other  religion  conveying 
some  moral  help,  has  reached,  the  animal 
energy  of  such  races  necessarily  flames 
into  ghastly  conditions  of  evil,  and  the 
grotesque  or  frightful  forms  assumed  by 
their  art  are  precisely  indicative  of  their 
distorted  moral  nature.  [340' 

But  the  truly  great  nations  nearly 
always  begin  from  a  race  possessing  this 
imaginative  power;  and  for  some  time 
their  progress  is  very  slow,  and  their  state 
not  one  of  innocence,  but  of  feverish  and 


MAC  AULA  Y 


675 


faultful  animal  energy.  This  is  gradually 
subdued  and  exalted  into  bright  human 
life;  the  art  instinct  purifying  itself  with 
the  rest  of  the  nature,  until  social  per- 
fectness  is  nearly  reached;  and  then  [350 
comes  the  period  when  conscience  and 
intellect  are  so  highly  developed,  that  new 
forms  of  error  begin  in  the  inability  to 
fulfil  the  demands  of  the  one,  or  to  answer 
the  doubts  of  the  other.  Then  the  whole- 
ness of  the  people  is  lost;  all  kinds  of 
hypocrisies  and  oppositions  of  science 
develop  themselves;  their  faith  is  ques- 
tioned on  one  side,  and  compromised  with 
on  the  other;  wealth  commonly  in-  [360 
creases  at  the  same  period  to  a  destructive 
extent;  luxury  follows;  and  the  ruin  of 
the  nation  is  then  certain:  while  the  arts, 
all  this  time,  are  simply,  as  I  said  at  first, 
the  exponents  of  each  phase  of  its  moral 
state,  and  no  more  control  it  in  its  political 
career  than  the  gleam  of  the  firefly  guides 
its  oscillation.  It  is  true  that  their  most 
splendid  results  are  usually  obtained  in 
the  swiftness  of  the  power  which  is  [370 
hurrying  to  the  precipice;  but  to  lay  the 
charge  of  the  catastrophe  to  the  art  by 
which  it  is  illumined,  is  to  find  a  cause  for 
the  cataract  in  the  hues  of  its  iris.  It  is 
true  that  the  colossal  vices  belonging  to 
periods  of  great  national  wealth  (for 
wealth,  you  will  find,  is  the  real  root  of 
all  evil)  can  turn  every  good  gift  and  skill 
of  nature  or  of  man  to  evil  purpose.  If, 
in  such  times,  fair  pictures  have  been  [380 
misused,  how  much  more  fair  realities? 
And  if  Miranda  is  immoral  to  Caliban  is 
that  Miranda's  fault?  .  .  . 


THOMAS   BABINGTON,    LORD 
MACAULAY   (1800-1859) 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  English  writers  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  He  was  of  a  Protestant  and 
Saxon  family  which  had  been  long  settled 
in  Ireland,  and  which  had,  like  most 
other  Protestant  and  Saxon  families, 
been,  in  troubled  times,  harassed  and  put 
in  fear  by  the  native  population.     His 


father,  Charles  Goldsmith,  studied  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Anne  at  the  diocesan  [10 
school  at  Elphin,  became  attached  to 
the  daughter  of  the  schoolmaster,  married 
her,  took  orders,  and  settled  at  a  place 
called  Pallas,  in  the  county  of  Longford. 
There  he  with  difficulty  supported  his 
wife  and  children  on  what  he  could  earn, 
partly  as  a  curate  and  partly  as  a  farmer. 

At  Pallas  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born 
in  November  1728.  That  spot  was  then. 
for  all  practical  purposes,  almost  as  [20 
remote  from  the  busy  and  splendid 
capital  in  which  his  later  years  were 
passed,  as  any  clearing  in  Upper 
Canada  or  any  sheep-walk  in  Australasia 
now  is.  Even  at  this  day  those  enthusiasts 
who  venture  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
birthplace  of  the  poet  are  forced  to  per- 
form the  latter  part  of  their  journey  on 
foot.  The  hamlet  lies  far  from  any  high- 
road on  a  dreary  plain  which  in  wet  [30 
weather  is  often  a  lake.  The  lanes  would 
break  any  jaunting-car  to  pieces;  and 
there  are  ruts  and  sloughs  through  which 
the  most  strongly-built  wheels  cannot 
be  dragged. 

While  Oliver  was  still  a  child,  his 
father  was  presented  to  a  living  worth 
about  £200  a  year,  in  the  county  of  West 
Meath.  The  family  accordingly  quitted 
their  cottage  in  the  wilderness  for  a  [40 
spacious  house  on  a  frequented  road,  near 
the  village  of  Lissoy.  Here  the  boy  was 
taught  his  letters  by  a  maid-servant, 
and  was  sent  in  his  seventh  year  to  a  vil- 
lage school  kept  by  an  old  quarter-master 
on  half-pay,  who  professed  to  teach 
nothing  but  reading,  writing,  and  arith- 
metic, but  who  had  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  stories  about  ghosts,  banshees, 
and  fairies,  about  the  great  Rap-  [50 
paree  chiefs,  Baldearg  O'Donnell  and 
galloping  Hogan,  and  about  the  exploits 
of  Peterborough  and  Stanhope,  the  sur- 
prise of  Monjuich,  and  the  glorious  dis- 
aster of  Brihuega.  This  man  must  have 
been  of  the  Protestant  religion;  but  he 
was  of  the  aboriginal  race,  and  not  only 
spoke  the  Irish  language,  but  could  pour 
forth  unpremeditated  Irish  verses.  Oliver 
early  became,  and  through  life  con-  [60 
tinued  to  be,  a  passionate  admirer  of 
the   Irish   music,   and   especially   of   the 


676 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


compositions  of  Carolan,  some  of  the 
last  notes  of  whose  harp  he  heard.  It 
ought  to  be  added  that  Oliver,  though  by 
birth  one  of  the  Englishry,  and  though 
connected  by  numerous  ties  with  the 
established  church,  never  showed  the 
least  sign  of  that  contemptuous  antipathy 
with  which,  in  his  days,  the  ruling  [70 
minority  in  Ireland  too  generally  regarded 
the  subject  majority.  So  far  indeed  was 
he  from  sharing  the  opinions  and  feelings 
of  the  caste  to  which  he  belonged,  that 
he  conceived  an  aversion  to  the  Glorious 
and  Immortal  Memory,  and,  even  when 
George  the  Third  was  on  the  throne, 
maintained  that  nothing  but  the  restora- 
tion of  the  banished  dynasty  could  save 
the  country.  [80 

From  the  humble  academy  kept  by 
the  old  soldier  Goldsmith  was  removed 
in  his  ninth  year.  He  went  to  several 
grammar-schools,  and  acquired  some 
knowledge  of  the  ancient  languages.  His 
life  at  this  time  seems  to  have  been  far 
from  happy.  He  had,  as  appears  from 
the  admirable  portrait  of  him  at  Knowle, 
features  harsh  even  to  ugliness.  The 
small-pox  had  set  its  mark  on  him  [90 
with  more  than  usual  severity.  His 
stature  was  small,  and  his  limbs  ill  put 
together.  Among  boys  little  tenderness 
is  shown  to  personal  defects;  and  the 
ridicule  excited  by  poor  Oliver's  appear- 
ance was  heightened  by  a  peculiar  sim- 
plicity and  a  disposition  to  blunder  which 
he  retained  to  the  last.  He  became  the 
common  butt  of  boys  and  masters,  was 
pointed  at  as  a  fright  in  the  play-  [too 
ground,  and  flogged  as  a  dunce  in  the 
schoolroom.  When  he  had  risen  to 
eminence,  those  who  had  once  derided 
him  ransacked  their  memory  for  the 
events  of  his  early  years,  and  recited 
repartees  and  couplets  which  had  dropped 
from  him,  and  which,  though  little  no- 
ticed at  the  time,  were  supposed,  a  quarter 
of  a  century  later,  to  indicate  the  powers 
which  produced  the  Vicar  of  Wake-  [no 
field  and  the  Deserted  Village. 

In  his  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went 
up  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar. 
The  sizars  paid  nothing  for  food  and 
tuition,  and  very  little  for  lodging;  but 
they  had  to  perform  some  menial  services 


from  which  they  have  long  been  relieved. 
They  swept  the  court:  they  carried  up 
the  dinner  to  the  fellows'  table,  and 
changed  the  plates  and  poured  out  [120 
the  ale  of  the  rulers  of  the  society.  Gold- 
smith was  quartered,  not  alone,  in  a 
garret,  on  the  window  of  which  his  name, 
scrawled  by  himself,  is  still  read  with 
interest.1  From  such  garrets  many  men 
of  less  parts  than  his  have  made  their 
way  to  the  woolsack  or  to  the  episcopal 
bench.  But  Goldsmith,  while  he  suffered 
all  the  humiliations,  threw  away  all  the 
advantages  of  his  situation.  He  neg-  [130 
lected  the  studies  of  the  place,  stood  low 
at  the  examinations,  was  turned  down 
to  the  bottom  of  his  class  for  playing  the 
buffoon  in  the  lecture- room,  was  severely 
reprimanded  for  pumping  on  a  constable, 
and  was  caned  by  a  brutal  tutor  for  giving 
a  ball  in  the  attic  story  of  the  college  to 
some  gay  youths  and  damsels  from  the 
city. 

While  Oliver  was  leading  at  Dublin  [140 
a  life  divided  between  squalid  distress 
and  squalid  dissipation,  his  father  died, 
leaving  a  mere  pittance.  The  youth  ob- 
tained his  bachelor's  degree,  and  left  the 
University.  During  some  time  the  hum- 
ble dwelling  to  which  his  widowed  mother 
had  retired  was  his  home.  He  was  now 
in  his  twenty-first  year;  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  do  something;  and  his 
education  seemed  to  have  fitted  him  [150 
to  do  nothing  but  to  dress  himself  in 
gaudy  colors,  of  which  he  was  as  fond  as 
a  magpie,  to  take  a  hand  at  cards,  to  sing 
Irish  airs,  to  play  the  flute,  to  angle  in 
summer,  and  to  tell  ghost  stories  by  the 
fire  in  winter.  He  tried  five  or  six  pro- 
fessions in  turn  without  success.  He  ap- 
plied for  ordination;  but,  as  he  applied 
in  scarlet  clothes,  he  was  speedily  turned 
out  of  the  episcopal  palace.  He  then  [160 
became  tutor  in  an  opulent  family,  but 
soon  quitted  his  situation  in  consequence 
of  a  dispute  about  play.  Then  he  deter- 
mined to  emigrate  to  America.  His  rela- 
tions, with  much  satisfaction,  saw  him 
set  out  for  Cork  on  a  good  horse,  with 
thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket.     But  in  six 

1  The  glass  on  which  the  name  is  written  has,  as  we  are  in- 
formed by  a  writer  in  Notes  and  Queries  (2nd  S.  ix.  p.  91), 
been  enclosed  in  a  frame  deposited  in  the  Manuscript  Room  of 
the  College  Library,  where  it  is  still  to  be  seen.    (Macaulay.) 


MACAU  LAY 


677 


weeks  he  came  back  on  a  miserable  hack, 
without  a  penny,  and  informed  his  mother 
that  the  ship  in  which  he  had  taken  [170 
his  passage,  having  got  a  fair  wind  while 
he  was  at  a  party  of  pleasure,  had  sailed 
without  him.  Then  he  resolved  to  study 
the  law.  A  generous  kinsman  advanced 
fifty  pounds.  With  this  sum  Goldsmith 
went  to  Dublin,  was  enticed  into  a  gaming- 
house, and  lost  every  shilling.  He  then 
thought  of  medicine.  A  small  purse  was 
made  up:  and  in  his  twenty-fourth  year 
he  was  sent  to  Edinburgh.  At  Edin-  [180 
burgh  he  passed  eighteen  months  in 
nominal  attendance  on  lectures,  and 
picked  up  some  superficial  information 
about  chemistry  and  natural  history. 
Thence  he  went  to  Leyden,  still  pretend- 
ing to  study  physic.  He  left  that  cele- 
brated university,  the  third  university 
at  which  he  had  resided,  in  his  twenty- 
seventh  year,  without  a  degree,  with  the 
merest  smattering  of  medical  knowl-  [190 
edge,  and  with  no  property  but  his  clothes 
and  his  flute.  His  flute,  however,  proved 
a  useful  friend.  He  rambled  on  foot 
through  Flanders,  France,  and  Switzer- 
land, playing  tunes  which  everywhere 
set  the  peasantry  dancing,  and  which 
often  procured  for  him  a  supper  and  a 
bed.  He  wandered  as  far  as  Italy.  His 
musical  performances,  indeed,  were  not 
to  the  taste  of  the  Italians,  but  he  [200 
contrived  to  live  on  the  alms  which  he 
obtained  at  the  gates  of  convents.  It 
should,  however,  be  observed  that  the 
stories  which  he  told  about  this  part  of 
his  life  ought  to  be  received  with  great 
caution;  for  strict  veracity  was  never  one 
of  his  virtues;  and  a  man  who  is  ordinarily 
inaccurate  in  narration  is  likely  to  be 
more  than  ordinarily  inaccurate  when  he 
talks  about  his  own  travels.  Gold-  [210 
smith,  indeed,  was  so  regardless  of  truth 
as  to  assert  in  print  that  he  was  present 
at  a  most  interesting  conversation  be- 
tween Voltaire  and  Fontenelle,  and  that 
this  conversation  took  place  at  Paris. 
Now  it  is  certain  that  Voltaire  never  was 
within  a  hundred  leagues  of  Paris  during 
the  whole  time  which  Goldsmith  passed 
on  the  Continent. 

In    1756  the  wanderer   landed  at  [220 
Dover,    without    a    shilling,    without    a 


friend,  and  without  a  calling.  He  had, 
indeed,  if  his  own  unsupported  evidence 
may  be  trusted,  obtained  from  the  Uni- 
versity of  Padua  a  doctor's  degree;  but 
this  dignity  proved  utterly  useless  to  him. 
In  England  his  flute  was  not  in  request; 
there  were  no  convents ;  and  he  was  forced 
to  have  recourse  to  a  series  of  desperate 
expedients.  He  turned  strolling  [230 
player;  but  his  face  and  figure  were  ill 
suited  to  the  boards  even  of  the  humblest 
theatre.  He  pounded  drugs  and  ran 
about  London  with  phials  for  charitable 
chemists.  He  joined  a  swarm  of  beggars, 
which  made  its  nest  in  Axe  Yard.  He 
wras  for  a  time  usher  of  a  school,  and  felt 
the  miseries  and  humiliations  of  this  situa- 
tion so  keenly  that  he  thought  it  a  pro- 
motion to  be  permitted  to  earn  his  [240 
bread  as  a  bookseller's  hack;  but  he  soon 
found  the  new  yoke  more  galling  than  the 
old  one,  and  was  glad  to  become  an  usher 
again.  He  obtained  a  medical  appoint- 
ment in  the  service  of  the  East  India 
Company:  but  the  appointment  was 
speedily  revoked.  Why  it  was  revoked 
we  are  not  told.  The  subject  was  one  on 
which  he  never  liked  to  talk.  It  is  prob- 
able that  he  wras  incompetent  to  per-  [250 
form  the  duties  of  the  place.  Then  he 
presented  himself  at  Surgeons'  Hall  for 
examination,  as  mate  to  a  naval  hospital. 
Even  to  so  humble  a  post  he  was  found 
unequal.  By  this  time  the  schoolmaster 
whom  he  had  served  for  a  morsel  of  food 
and  the  third  part  of  a  bed  was  no  more. 
Nothing  remained  but  to  return  to  the 
lowest  drudgery  of  literature.  Goldsmith 
took  a  garret  in  a  miserable  court,  [260 
to  which  he  had  to  climb  from  the  brink 
of  Fleet  Ditch  by  a  dizzy  ladder  of  flag- 
stones called  Breakneck  Steps.  The 
court  and  the  ascent  have  long  disap- 
peared; but  old  Londoners  will  remember 
both.  Here,  at  thirty,  the  unlucky  ad- 
venturer sat  down  to  toil  like  a  galley 
slave. 

In  the  succeeding  six  years  he  sent  to 
the  press  some  things  which  have  [270 
survived  and  many  which  have  perished. 
He  produced  articles  for  reviews,  maga- 
zines, and  newspapers;  children's  books 
which,  bound  in  gilt  paper  and  adorned 
with  hideous  woodcuts,  appeared  in  the 


678 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


window  of  the  once  far-famed  shop  at  the 
corner  of  Saint  Paul's  Churchyard;  An 
Enquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning 
in  Europe,  which,  though  of  little  or  no 
value,  is  still  reprinted  among  his  [280 
works;  a  Life  of  Beau  Nash,  which  is  not 
reprinted,  though  it  well  deserves  to  be 
so;  a  superficial  and  incorrect,  but  very 
readable,  History  of  England,  in  a  series 
of  letters  purporting  to  be  addressed  by 
a  nobleman  to  his  son;  and  some  lively 
and  amusing  Sketches  of  London  Society, 
in  a  series  of  letters  purporting  to  be 
addressed  by  a  Chinese  traveller  to  his 
friends.  All  these  works  were  anony-  [290 
mous;  but  some  of  them  were  well  known 
to  be  Goldsmith's;  and  he  gradually  rose 
in  the  estimation  of  the  booksellers  for 
whom  he  drudged.  He  was,  indeed,  em- 
phatically a  popular  writer.  For  accurate 
research  or  grave  disquisition  he  was 
not  well  qualified  by  nature  or  by  educa- 
tion. He  knew  nothing  accurately:  his 
reading  had  been  desultory;  nor  had  he 
meditated  deeply  on  what  he  had  [300 
read.  He  had  seen  much  of  the  world; 
but  he  had  noticed  and  retained  little 
more  of  what  he  had  seen  than  some 
grotesque  incidents  and  characters  which 
had  happened  to  strike  his  fancy.  But, 
though  his  mind  was  very  scantily  stored 
with  materials,  he  used  what  materials 
he  had  in  such  a  way  as  to  produce  a  won- 
derful effect.  There  have  been  many 
greater  writers;  but  perhaps  no  writer  [310 
was  ever  more  uniformly  agreeable.  His 
style  was  always  pure  and  easy,  and,  on 
proper  occasions,  pointed  and  energetic. 
His  narratives  were  always  amusing,  his 
descriptions  always  picturesque,  his  humor 
rich  and  joyous,  yet  not  without  an  oc- 
casional tinge  of  amiable  sadness.  About 
everything  that  he  wrote,  serious  or  spor- 
tive, there  was  a  certain  natural  grace 
and  decorum,  hardly  to  be  expected  [320 
from  a  man  a  great  part  of  whose  life 
had  been  passed  among  thieves  and  beg- 
gars, street -walkers  and  merry-andrews,  in 
those  squalid  dens  which  are  the  reproach 
of  great  capitals. 

As  his  name  gradually  became  known, 
the  circle  of  his  acquaintance  widened. 
He  was  introduced  to  Johnson,  who  was 
then  considered  as  the  first  of  living  Eng- 


lish writers;  to  Reynolds,  the  first  of  [330 
English  painters;  and  to  Burke,  who  had 
not  yet  entered  Parliament,  but  who  had 
distinguished  himself  greatly  by  his  writ- 
ings and  by  the  eloquence  of  his  conversa- 
tion. With  these  eminent  men  Gold- 
smith became  intimate.  In  1763  he  was 
one  of  the  nine  original  members  of  that 
celebrated  fraternity  which  has  some- 
times been  called  the  Literary  Club,  but 
which  has  always  disclaimed  that  [340 
epithet,  and  still  glories  in  the  simple 
name  of  The  Club. 

By  this  time  Goldsmith  had  quitted 
his  miserable  dwelling  at  the  top  of  Break- 
neck Steps,  and  had  taken  chambers  in 
the  more  civilized  region  of  the  Inns  of 
Court.  But  he  was  still  often  reduced  to 
pitiable  shifts.  Towards  the  close  of  1764 
his  rent  was  so  long  in  arrear  that  his 
landlady  one  morning  called  in  the  [350 
help  of  a  sheriff's  officer.  The  debtor, 
in  great  perplexity,  dispatched  a  mes- 
senger to  Johnson;  and  Johnson,  always 
friendly,  though  often  surly,  sent  back 
the  messenger  with  a  guinea,  and  promised 
to  follow  speedily.  He  came,  and  found 
that  Goldsmith  had  changed  the  guinea, 
and  was  railing  at  the  landlady  over  a 
bottle  of  Madeira.  Johnson  put  the 
cork  into  the  bottle,  and  entreated  his  [360 
friend  to  consider  calmly  how  money  was 
to  be  procured.  Goldsmith  said  that  he 
had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press.  Johnson 
glanced  at  the  manuscript,  saw  that  there 
were  good  things  in  it,  took  it  to  a  book- 
seller, sold  it  for  £60,  and  soon  returned 
with  the  money.  The  rent  was  paid; 
and  the  sheriff's  officer  withdrew.  Ac- 
cording to  one  story,  Goldsmith  gave  his 
landlady  a  sharp  reprimand  for  her  [370 
treatment  of  him:  according  to  another, 
he  insisted  on  her  joining  him  in  a  bowl  of 
punch.  Both  stories  are  probably  true. 
The  novel  which  was  thus  ushered  into 
the  world  was  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

But,  before  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  ap- 
peared in  print,  came  the  great  crisis  of 
Goldsmith's  literary  life.  In  Christmas 
week,  1764,  he  published  a  poem  entitled 
the  Traveller.  It  was  the  first  work  [380 
to  which  he  had  put  his  name"  and  it  at 
once  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  a  legitimate 
English  classic.    The  opinion  of  the  most 


MAC A ULA Y 


670 


skilful  critics  was,  that  nothing  finer  had 
appeared  in  verse  since  the  fourth  book 
of  the  Dunciad.  In  one  respect  the  Trav- 
eller differs  from  all  Goldsmith's  other 
writings.  In  general  his  designs  were 
bad,  and  his  execution  good.  In  the 
Traveller,  the  execution,  though  de-  [390 
serving  of  much  praise,  is  far  inferior  to 
the  design.  No  philosophical  poem, 
ancient  or  modern,  has  a  plan  so  noble, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  simple.  An 
English  wanderer,  seated  on  a  crag  among 
the  Alps,  near  the  point  where  three  great 
countries  meet,  looks  down  on  the  bound- 
less prospect,  reviews  his  long  pilgrimage, 
recalls  the  varieties  of  scenery,  of  climate, 
of  government,  of  religion,  of  national  [400 
character,  which  he  has  observed,  and 
comes  to  the  conclusion,  just  or  unjust, 
that  our  happiness  depends  little  on 
political  institutions,  and  much  on  the 
temper  and  regulation  of  our  own  minds. 
While  the  fourth  edition  of  the  Traveller 
was  on  the  counters  of  the  booksellers, 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  appeared,  and 
rapidly  obtained  a  popularity  which  has 
lasted  down  to  our  own  time,  and  [410 
which  is  likely  to  last  as  long  as  our 
language.  The  fable  is  indeed  one  of 
the  worst  that  ever  was  constructed.  It 
wants,  not  merely  that  probability  which 
ought  to  be  found  in  a  tale  of  common 
English  life,  but  that  consistency  which 
ought  to  be  found  even  in  the  wildest 
fiction  about  witches,  giants,  and  fairies. 
But  the  earlier  chapters  have  all  the 
sweetness  of  pastoral  poetry,  together  [420 
with  all  the  vivacity  of  comedy.  Moses 
and  his  spectacles,  the  vicar  and  his 
monogamy,  the  sharper  and  his  cosmog- 
ony, the  squire  proving  from  Aristotle 
that  relatives  are  related,  Olivia  preparing 
herself  for  the  arduous  task  of  converting 
a  rakish  lover  by  studying  the  controversy 
between  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday, 
the  great  ladies  with  their  scandal  about 
Sir  Tomkyn's  amours  and  Dr.  Bur-  [430 
dock's  verses,  and  Mr.  Burchell  with 
his  "Fudge,"  have  caused  as  much  harm- 
less mirth  as  has  ever  been  caused  by 
matter  packed  into  so  small  a  number  of 
pages.  The  latter  part  of  the  tale  is  un- 
worthy of  the  beginning.  As  we  approach 
the  catastrophe,  the  absurdities  lie  thicker 


and  thicker;  and  the  gleams  of  pleasantry 
become  rarer  and  rarer. 

The  success  which  had  attended  [440 
Goldsmith  as  a  novelist  emboldened  him 
to  try  his  fortune  as  a  dramatist.  He 
wrote  the  Goodnatnred  Man,  a  piece  which 
had  a  worse  fate  than  it  deserved.  Gar- 
rick  refused  to  produce  it  at  Drury  Lane. 
It  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1768, 
but  was  coldly  received.  The  author, 
however,  cleared  by  his  benefit  nights, 
and  by  the  sale  of  the  copyright,  no  less 
than  £500,  five  times  as  much  as  he  [450 
had  made  by  the  Traveller  and  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  together.  The  plot  of  the 
Goodnatnred  Man  is,  like  almost  all  Gold- 
smith's plots,  very  ill  constructed.  But 
some  passages  are  exquisitely  ludicrous; 
much  more  ludicrous,  indeed,  than  suited 
the  taste  of  the  town  at  that  time.  A 
canting,  mawkish  play,  entitled  False 
Delicacy,  had  just  had  an  immense  run. 
Sentimentality  was  all  the  mode.  [460 
During  some  years,  more  tears  were  shed 
at  comedies  than  at  tragedies;  and  a 
pleasantry  which  moved  the  audience  to 
anything  more  than  a  grave  smile  was 
reprobated  as  low.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  the  very  best  scene  in  the 
Goodnatnred  Man,  that  in  which  Miss 
Richland  finds  her  lover  attended  by  the 
bailiff  and  the  bailiff's  follower  in  full 
court  dresses,  should  have  been  merci-  [470 
lessly  hissed,  and  should  have  been 
omitted  after  the  first  night. 

In  1770  appeared  the  Deserted  Village. 
In  mere  diction  and  versification  this 
celebrated  poem  is  fully  equal,  perhaps 
superior,  to  the  Traveller,  and  it  is  gen- 
erally preferred  to  the  Traveller  by  that 
large  class  of  readers  who  think,  with 
Bayes  in  the  Rehearsal,  that  the  only  use 
of  a  plan  is  to  bring  in  fine  things.  [480 
More  discerning  judges,  however,  while 
they  admire  the  beauty  of  the  details, 
are  shocked  by  one  unpardonable  fault 
which  pervades  the  whole.  The  fault 
we  mean  is  not  that  theory  about  wealth 
and  luxury  which  has  so  often  been  cen- 
sured by  political  economists.  The  theory 
is  indeed  false;  but  the  poem,  considered 
merely  as  a  poem,  is  not  necessarily  the 
worse  on  that  account.  The  finest  [490 
poem  in  the  Latin  language,  indeed  the 


68o 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


finest  didactic  poem  in  any  language,  was 
written  in  defence  of  the  silliest  and 
meanest  of  all  systems  of  natural  and 
moral  philosophy.  A  poet  may  easily  be 
pardoned  for  reasoning  ill;  but  he  cannot 
be  pardoned  for  describing  ill,  for  ob- 
serving the  world  in  which  he  lives  so 
carelessly  that  his  portraits  bear  no 
resemblance  to  the  originals,  for  ex-  [500 
hibiting  as  copies  from  real  life  monstrous 
combinations  of  things  which  never  were 
and  never  could  be  found  together.  What 
would  be  thought  of  a  painter  who  should 
mix  August  and  January  in  one  landscape, 
who  should  introduce  a  frozen  river  into  a 
harvest  scene?  Would  it  be  a  sufficient 
defence  of  such  a  picture  to  say  that  every 
part  was  exquisitely  colored,  that  the 
green  hedges,  the  apple-trees  loaded  [510 
with  fruit,  the  wagons  reeling  under  the 
yellow  sheaves,  and  the  sunburned  reapers 
wiping  their  foreheads,  were  very  fine, 
and  that  the  ice  and  the  boys  sliding 
were  also  very  fine?  To  such  a  picture 
the  Deserted  Village  bears  a  great  resem- 
blance. It  is  made  up  of  incongruous 
parts.  The  village  in  its  happy  days  is  a 
true  English  village.  The  village  in  its 
decay  is  an  Irish  village.  The  felicity  [520 
and  the  misery  which  Goldsmith  has 
brought  close  together  belong  to  two 
different  countries,  and  to  two  different 
stages  in  the  progress  of  society.  He  had 
assuredly  never  seen  in  his  native  island 
such  a  rural  paradise,  such  a  seat  of  plenty, 
content,  and  tranquillity,  as  his  "Au- 
burn." He  had  assuredly  never  seen  in 
England  all  the  inhabitants  of  such  a 
paradise  turned  out  of  their  homes  [530 
in  one  day  and  forced  to  emigrate  in  a 
body  to  America.  The  hamlet  he  had 
probably  seen  in  Kent;  the  ejectment  he 
had  probably  seen  in  Munster;  but,  by 
joining  the  two,  he  has  produced  some- 
thing which  never  was  and  never  will  be 
seen  in  any  part  of  the  world. 

In  1773  Goldsmith  tried  his  chance  at 
Covent  Garden  with  a  second  play,  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer.  The  manager  was  [540 
not  without  great  difficulty  induced  to 
bring  this  piece  out.  The  sentimental 
comedy  still  reigned;  and  Goldsmith's 
comedies  were  not  sentimental.  The  Good- 
natured  Man  had  been  too  funny  to  suc- 


ceed; yet  the  mirth  of  the  Goodnatured 
Man  was  sober  when  compared  with  the 
rich  drollery  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer, 
which  is,  in  truth,  an  incomparable  farce 
in  five  acts.  On  this  occasion,  how-  [55c 
ever,  genius  triumphed.  Pit,  boxes,  and 
galleries  were  in  a  constant  roar  of 
laughter.  If  any  bigoted  admirer  of  Kelly 
and  Cumberland  ventured  to  hiss  or  groan, 
he  was  speedily  silenced  by  a  general  cry 
of  "Turn  him  out,"  or  "Throw  him 
over."  Two  generations  have  since  con- 
firmed the  verdict  which  was  pronounced 
on  that  night. 

While  Goldsmith  was  writing  the  [560 
Deserted  Village  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer, 
he  was  employed  in  works  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent kind,  works  from  which  he  derived 
little  reputation  but  much  profit.  He 
compiled  for  the  use  of  schools  a  History 
of  Rome,  by  which  he  made  £300;  a 
History  of  England,  by  which  he  made 
£600;  a  History  of  Greece,  for  which  he 
received  £250;  a  Natural  History,  for 
which  the  booksellers  covenanted  to  [570 
pay  him  800  guineas.  These  works  he 
produced  without  any  elaborate  research, 
by  merely  selecting,  abridging,  and  trans- 
lating into  his  own  clear,  pure,  and  flowing 
language  what  he  found  in  books  well 
known  to  the  world,  but  too  bulky  or  too 
dry  for  boys  and  girls.  He  committed 
some  strange  blunders;  for  he  knew  noth- 
ing with  accuracy.  Thus  in  his  History 
of  England  he  tells  us  that  Naseby  is  [580 
in  Yorkshire;  nor  did  he  correct  this 
mistake  when  the  book  was  reprinted. 
He  was  very  nearly  hoaxed  into  putting 
into  the  History  of  Greece  an  account  of  a 
battle  between  Alexander  the  Great  and 
Montezuma.  In  his  Animated  Nature 
he  relates,  with  faith  and  with  perfect 
gravity,  all  the  most  absurd  lies  which 
he  could  find  in  books  of  travels  about 
gigantic  Patagonians,  monkeys  that  [590 
preach  sermons,  nightingales  that  repeat 
long  conversations.  "If  he  can  tell  a 
horse  from  a  cow,"  said  Johnson,  "that 
is  the  extent  of  his  knowledge  of  zoology." 
How  little  Goldsmith  was  qualified  to 
write  about  the  physical  sciences  is  suf- 
ficiently proved  by  two  anecdotes.  He 
on  one  occasion  denied  that  the  sun  is 
longer  in  the  northern  than  in  the  southern 


MAC A  ULA Y 


68 1 


signs.  It  was  in  vain  to  cite  the  au-  [600 
thority  of  Maupertuis.  "  Maupertuis ! " 
he  cried;  "I  understand  those  matters 
better  than  Maupertuis."  On  another 
occasion  he,  in  defiance  of  the  evidence  of 
his  own  senses,  maintained  obstinately, 
and  even  angrily,  that  he  chewed  his 
dinner  by  moving  his  upper  jaw. 

Yet,  ignorant  as  Goldsmith  was,  few 
writers  have  done  more  to  make  the  first 
steps  in  the  laborious  road  to  knowl-  [610 
edge  easy  and  pleasant.  His  compilations 
are  widely  distinguished  from  the  com- 
pilations of  ordinary  bookmakers.  He 
was  a  great,  perhaps  an  unequalled, 
master  of  the  arts  of  selection  and 
condensation.  In  these  respects  his  his- 
tories of  Rome  and  of  England,  and  still 
more  his  own  abridgments  of  these  his- 
tories, well  deserve  to  be  studied.  In 
general  nothing  is  less  attractive  than  [620 
an  epitome;  but  the  epitomes  of  Gold- 
smith, even  when  most  concise,  are  always 
amusing;  and  to  read  them  is  considered 
by  intelligent  children,  not  as  a  task,  but 
as  a  pleasure. 

Goldsmith  might  now  be  considered  as 
a  prosperous  man.  He  had  the  means  of 
living  in  comfort,  and  even  in  what  to 
one  who  had  so  often  slept  in  barns  and 
on  bulks  must  have  been  luxury.  His  [630 
fame  was  great  and  was  constantly  rising. 
He  lived  in  what  was  intellectually  far 
the  best  society  of  the  kingdom,  in  a 
society  in  which  no  talent  or  accomplish- 
ment was  wanting,  and  in  which  the  art 
of  conversation  was  cultivated  with  splen- 
did success.  There  probably  were  never 
four  talkers  more  admirable  in  four  dif- 
ferent ways  than  Johnson,  Burke,  Beau- 
clerk,  and  Garrick;  and  Goldsmith  was  [640 
on  terms  of  intimacy  with  all  the  four. 
He  aspired  to  share  in  their  colloquial 
renown;  but  never  was  ambition  more 
unfortunate.  It  may  seem  strange  that 
a  man  who  wrote  with  so  much  per- 
spicuity, vivacity,  and  grace  should  have 
been,  whenever  he  took  a  part  in  con- 
versation, an  empty,  noisy,  blundering 
rattle.  But  on  this  point  the  evidence 
is  overwhelming.  So  extraordinary  [650 
was  the  contrast  between  Goldsmith's 
published  works  and  the  silly  things 
which  he  said,  that  Horace  Walpole  de- 


scribed him  as  an  inspired  idiot.  "Noll," 
said  Garrick,  "wrote  like  an  angel,  and 
talked  like  poor  Poll."  Chamier  declared 
that  it  was  a  hard  exercise  of  faith  to 
believe  that  so  foolish  a  chatterer  could 
have  really  written  the  Traveller.  Even 
Boswell  could  say,  with  contemptu-  [660 
ous  compassion,  that  he  liked  very  well 
to  hear  honest  Goldsmith  run  on.  "Yes, 
sir,"  said  Johnson;  "but  he  should  not 
like  to  hear  himself."  Minds  differ  as 
rivers  differ.  There  are  transparent  and 
sparkling  rivers  from  which  it  is  delightful 
to  drink  as  they  flow;  to  such  rivers  the 
minds  of  such  men  as  Burke  and  Johnson 
may  be  compared.  But  there  are  rivers 
of  which  the  water  when  first  drawn  [670 
is  turbid  and  noisome,  but  becomes 
pellucid  as  crystal,  and  delicious  to  the 
taste,  if  it  be  suffered  to  stand  till  it  has 
deposited  a  sediment;  and  such  a  river 
is  a  type  of  the  mind  of  Goldsmith.  His 
first  thoughts  on  every  subject  were  con- 
fused even  to  absurdity;  but  they  re- 
quired only  a  little  time  to  work  them- 
selves clear.  When  he  wrote  they  had 
that  time;  and  therefore  his  readers  [680 
pronounced  him  a  man  of  genius;  but 
when  he  talked  he  talked  nonsense,  and 
made  himself  the  laughing-stock  of  his 
hearers.  He  was  painfully  sensible  of 
his  inferiority  in  conversation;  he  felt 
every  failure  keenly;  yet  he  had  not 
sufficient  judgment  and  self-command  to 
hold  his  tongue.  His  animal  spirits  and 
vanity  were  always  impelling  him  to  try 
to  do  the  one  thing  which  he  could  not  [690 
do.  After  every  attempt  he  felt  he  had 
exposed  himself,  and  writhed  with  shame 
and  vexation;  yet  the  next  moment  he 
began  again. 

His  associates  seem  to  have  regarded 
him  with  kindness,  which,  in  spite  of 
their  admiration  of  his  writings,  was  not 
unmixed  with  contempt.  In  truth,  there 
was  in  his  character  much  to  love,  but 
very  little  to  respect.  His  heart  was  [700 
soft,  even  to  weakness:  he  was  so  gener- 
ous that  he  quite  forgot  to  be  just;  he 
forgave  injuries  so  readily  that  he  might 
be  said  to  invite  them:  and  was  so  liberal 
to  beggars  that  he  had  nothing  left  for 
his  tailor  and  his  butcher.  He  was  vain, 
sensual,   frivolous,   profuse,   improvident. 


682 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


One  vice  of  a  darker  shade  was  imputed 
to  him,  envy.  But  there  is  not  the  least 
reason  to  believe  that  this  bad  pas-  [710 
sion,  though  it  sometimes  made  him 
wince  and  utter  fretful  exclamations, 
ever  impelled  him  to  injure  by  wicked 
arts  the  reputation  of  any  of  his  rivals. 
The  truth  probably  is,  that  he  was  not 
more  envious,  but  merely  less  prudent 
than  his  neighbors.  His  heart  was  on  his 
lips.  All  those  small  jealousies,  which 
are  but  too  common  among  men  of  letters, 
but  which  a  man  of  letters  who  is  [720 
also  a  man  of  the  world  does  his  best 
to  conceal,  Goldsmith  avowed  with  the 
simplicity  of  a  child.  When  he  was  envi- 
ous, instead  of  affecting  indifference,  in- 
stead of  damning  with  faint  praise,  in- 
stead of  doing  injuries  slily  and  in  the 
dark,  he  told  everybody  that  he  was 
envious.  "Do  not,  pray,  do  not  talk  of 
Johnson  in  such  terms,"  he  said  to  Bos- 
well;  "you  harrow  up  my  very  soul."  [730 
George  Steevens  and  Cumberland  were 
men  far  too  cunning  to  say  such  a  thing. 
They  would  have  echoed  the  praises  of 
the  man  they  envied,  and  then  have  sent 
to  the  newspapers  anonymous  libels  upon 
him.  Both  what  was  good  and  what 
was  bad  in  Goldsmith's  character  was  to 
his  associates  a  perfect  security  that  he 
would  never  commit  such  villainy.  He 
was  neither  ill-natured  enough,  nor  [740 
long-headed  enough  to  be  guilty  of  any 
malicious  act  which  required  contrivance 
and  disguise. 

Goldsmith  has  sometimes  been  repre- 
sented as  a  man  of  genius,  cruelly  treated 
by  the  world,  and  doomed  to  struggle 
with  difficulties  which  at  last  broke  his 
heart.  But  no  representation  can  be 
more  remote  from  the  truth.  He  did, 
indeed,  go  through  much  sharp  [750 
misery  before  he  had  done  anything  con- 
siderable in  literature.  But,  after  his 
name  had  appeared  on  the  title-page  of 
the  Traveller,  he  had  none  to  blame  but 
himself  for  his  distresses.  His  average 
income  during  the  last  seven  years  of  his 
life  certainly  exceeded  £400  a  year;  and 
£400  a  year  ranked,  among  the  incomes 
of  that  day,  at  least  as  high  as  £800  a 
year  would  rank  at  present.  A  single  [760 
man  living  in  the  Temple  with  £400  a 


year  might  then  be  called  opulent.  Not 
one  in  ten  of  the  young  gentlemen  of 
good  families  who  were  studying  the  law 
there  had  so  much.  But  all  the  wealth 
which  Lord  Clive  had  brought  from  Ben- 
gal, and  Sir  Lawrence  Dundas  from 
Germany,  joined  together,  would  not 
have  sufficed  for  Goldsmith.  He  spent 
twice  as  much  as  he  had.  He  wore  [770 
fine  clothes,  gave  dinners  of  several 
courses,  paid  court  to  venal  beauties. 
He  had  also,  it  should  be  remembered, 
to  the  honor  of  his  heart,  though  not  of 
his  head,  a  guinea,  or  five,  or  ten,  accord- 
ing to  the  state  of  his  purse,  ready  for 
any  tale  of  distress,  true  or  false.  But  it 
was  not  in  dress  or  feasting,  in  promiscu- 
ous amours  or  promiscuous  charities,  that 
his  chief  expense  lay.  He  had  been  [780 
from  boyhood  a  gambler,  and  at  once  the 
most  sanguine  and  the  most  unskilful  of 
gamblers.  For  a  time  he  put  off  the  day 
of  inevitable  ruin  by  temporary  expedi- 
ents. He  obtained  advances  from  book- 
sellers, by  promising  to  execute  works 
which  he  never  began.  But  at  length 
this  source  of  supply  failed.  He  owed 
more  than  £2,000;  and  he  saw  no  hope  of 
extrication  from  his  embarrassments.  [790 
His  spirits  and  health  gave  way.  He  was 
attacked  by  a  nervous  fever,  which  he 
thought  himself  competent  to  treat.  It 
would  have  been  happy  for  him  if  his 
medical  skill  had  been  appreciated  as 
justly  by  himself  as  by  others.  Notwith- 
standing the  degree  which  he  pretended 
to  have  received  at  Padua,  he  could  pro- 
cure no  patients.  "I  do  not  practice," 
he  once  said;  "I  make  it  a  rule  to  pre-  [800 
scribe  only  for  my  friends."  "Pray,  dear 
Doctor,"  said  Beauclerk,  "alter  your 
rule,  and  prescribe  only  for  your  enemies." 
Goldsmith  now,  in  spite  of  this  excellent 
advice,  prescribed  for  himself.  The  remedy 
aggravated  the  malady.  The  sick  man 
was  induced  to  call  in  real  physicians; 
and  they  at  one  time  imagined  that  they 
had  cured  the  disease.  Still  his  weakness 
and  restlessness  continued.  He  could  [810 
get  no  sleep,  he  could  take  no  food.  "You 
are  worse,"  said  one  of  his  medical  at- 
tendants, "than  you  should  be  from  the 
degree  of  fever  which  you  have.  Is  your 
mind  at  ease?"     "No,  it  is  not,"  were 


MACAU  LAY 


683 


the  last  recorded  words  of  Oliver  Gold- 
smith. He  died  on  the  3rd  of  April,  1774, 
in  his  forty-sixth  year.  He  was  laid  in 
the  churchyard  of  the  Temple;  but  the 
spot  was  not  marked  by  any  inscrip-  [820 
tion,  and  is  now  forgotten.  The  coffin 
was  followed  by  Burke  and  Reynolds. 
Both  these  great  men  were  sincere  mourn- 
ers. Burke,  when  he  heard  of  Goldsmith's 
death,  had  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 
Reynolds  had  been  so  much  moved  by 
the  news  that  he  had  flung  aside  his  brush 
and  palette  for  the  day. 

A  short  time  after  Goldsmith's  death, 
a  little  poem  appeared,  which  will,  as  [830 
long  as  our  language  lasts,  associate  the 
names  of  his  two  illustrious  friends  with 
his  own-  It  has  already  been  mentioned 
that  he  sometimes  felt  keenly  the  sarcasm 
which  his  wild  blundering  talk  brought 
upon  him.  He  was,  not  long  before  his 
last  illness,  provoked  into  retaliating. 
He  wisely  betook  himself  to  his  pen;  and 
at  that  weapon  he  proved  himself  a  match 
for  all  his  assailants  together.  Within  [840 
a  small  compass  he  drew  with  a  singularly 
easy  and  vigorous  pencil  the  characters 
of  nine  or  ten  of  his  intimate  associates. 
Though  this  little  work  did  not  receive 
his  last  touches,  it  must  always  be  re- 
garded as  a  masterpiece.  It  is  impossible, 
however,  not  to  wish  that  four  or  five 
likenesses  which  have  no  interest  for  pos- 
terity were  wanting  to  that  noble  gallery, 
and  that  their  places  were  supplied  [850 
by  sketches  of  Johnson  and  Gibbon,  as 
happy  and  vivid  as  the  sketches  of  Burke 
and  Garrick. 

Some  of  Goldsmith's  friends  and  ad- 
mirers honored  him  with  a  cenotaph  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  Nollekens  was  the 
sculptor;  and  Johnson  wrote  the  inscrip- 
tion. It  is  much  to  be  lamented  that 
Johnson  did  not  leave  to  posterity  a  more 
durable  and  a  more  valuable  memorial  [860 
of  his  friend.  A  life  of  Goldsmith  would 
have  been  an  inestimable  addition  to  the 
Lives  of  the  Poets.  No  man  appreciated 
Goldsmith's  writings  more  justly  than 
Johnson:  no  man  was  better  acquainted 
with  Goldsmith's  character  and  habits: 
and  no  man  was  more  competent  to  de- 
lineate with  truth  and  spirit  the  pecul- 
iarities of  a  mind  in  which  great  powers 


were  found  in  company  with  great  [870 
weaknesses.  But  the  list  of  poets  to  whose 
works  Johnson  was  requested  by  the  book- 
sellers to  furnish  prefaces  ended  with 
Lyttleton,  who  died  in  1773.  The  line 
seems  to  have  been  drawn  expressly  for 
the  purpose  of  excluding  the  person 
whose  portrait  would  have  most  fitly 
closed  the  series.  Goldsmith,  however, 
has  been  fortunate  in  his  biographers. 
Within  a  few  years  his  life  has  been  [880 
written  by  Mr.  Prior,  by  Mr.  Washington 
Irving,  and  by  Mr.  Forster.  The  dili- 
gence of  Mr.  Prior  deserves  great  praise; 
the  style  of  Mr.  Washington  Irving  is 
always  pleasing;  but  the  highest  place 
must,  in  justice,  be  assigned  to  the  emi- 
nently interesting  work  of  Mr.  Forster. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH  (1819-1861) 
QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried;  4 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side: 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel,  n 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed,  15 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared! 

To  veer,  how  vain!  On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks!  In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through   winds  and   tides  one   compass 
guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true.  20 

But  O  blithe  breeze;  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 


684 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought,  25 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there! 


WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship 

would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where   the   land   she   travels  from? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth 
face,  5 

Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to 
pace; 

Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 

The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  northwesters 

rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and 

wave!  10 

The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults   to   bear,   and   scorns   to   wish   it 

past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship 

would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where   the    land   she   travels  from? 

Away,  15 

Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 


ALL  IS  WELL 

Whate'er  you  dream,  with  doubt  possessed, 

Keep,  keep  it  snug  within  your  breast, 

And  lay  you  down  and  take  your  rest; 

Forget  in  sleep  the  doubt  and  pain, 

And  when  you  wake,  to  work  again.         5 

The  wind  it  blows,  the  vessel  goes, 

And  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 

'Twill  all  be  well:  no  need  of  care; 
Though    how    it    will,    and    when,    and 

where, 
We  cannot  see,  and  can't  declare.  10 


In  spite  of  dreams,  in  spite  of  thought, 
'Tis  not  in  vain,  and  not  for  nought, 
The  wind  it  blows,  the  ship  it  goes, 
Though  where  and  whither,  no  one  knows. 


LIFE  IS  STRUGGLE 

To  wear  out  heart,  and  nerves,  and  brain, 
And  give  oneself  a  world  of  pain; 
Be  eager,  angry,  fierce,  and  hot, 
Imperious,   supple — God   knows  what, 
For  what's  all  one  to  have  or  not;  5 

O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain! 
For  'tis  not  joy,  it  is  not  gain, 
It  is  not  in  itself  a  bliss, 
Only  it  is  precisely  this 

That  keeps  us  all  alive.  10 

To  say  we  truly  feel  the  pain, 
And  quite  are  sinking  with  the  strain; — 
Entirely,  simply,  undeceived, 
Believe,  and  say  we  ne'er  believed 
The  object,  e'en  were  it  achieved,  15 

A  thing  we  e'er  had  cared  to  keep; 
With  heart  and  soul  to  hold  it  cheap, 
And  then  to  go  and  try  it  again; 
O  false,  unwise,  absurd,  and  vain! 
O,  'tis  not  joy,  and  'tis  not  bliss,  20 

Only  it  is  precisely  this 
That  keeps  us  still  alive. 


ITE  DOMUM  SATURN,  VENIT 
HESPERUS 

The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper 

snow 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie), 
The  rainy  clouds  are  filing  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall 

we. 
Home,   Rose,  and  home,   Provence  and 

La  Palie.  5 

Ah  dear,  and  where  is  he,  a  year  agone, 
Who  stepped  beside  and  cheered  us  on 

and  on? 
My  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from  me. 
In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea, 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie.  10 


C  LOUGH 


6S5 


The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the  sky 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie), 

And  through  the  vale  the  rains  go  sweep- 
ing by; 

Ah  me,  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be? 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie.  15 

Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel 

they 
O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign  seas  that 

stray 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie). 
And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to  mind 
The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  be- 
hind? 20 
And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering 

see 
The  feeding  kine,  and  doth  he  think  of 

me, 
My  sweetheart  wandering  wheresoe'er  it 

be? 
Home,   Rose,   and   home,   Provence  and 

La  Palie. 

The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to 
snow  25 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie), 

And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  be- 
low. 

Heigho!  but  soon  in  shelter  shall  we  be: 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 
La  Palie. 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped    30 
Some  comelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish  to 

wed? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie.) 
For  weary  is  work,  and  weary  day  by  day 
To   have   your   comfort   miles   on   miles 

away. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie.  35 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall  find  my  mate, 
And  he  returning  see  himself  too  late? 
For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we 

see, 
And  God  he  knows,  and  what  must  be, 

must  be, 


When  sweethearts  wander  far  away  from 
me.  40 

Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie. 

The  sky  behind  is  brightening  up  anew 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and 

La  Palie), 
The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journey  too: 
Heigho !  aha !  for  here  at  home  are  we : —  45 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie. 


SAY  NOT  THE  STRUGGLE  NOUGHT 
AVAILETH 

Say  not  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labor  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars;  5 
It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  concealed, 

Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 
And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain,         10 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  mak- 
ing, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When   daylight   comes,    comes   in   the 
light,  _  14 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD  (1822-1888) 

SHAKESPEARE 

Others  abide  our  question.    Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask — Thou  smilest  and  art 

still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.    For  the  loftiest 

hill 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 
Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 5 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwell- 
ing-place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality; 


686 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sun- 
beams know, 

Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honored, 
self-secure,  10 

Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at. — 
Better  so! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs 
which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious 
brow. 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away, 
Down  and  away  below! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow,  5 

Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray; 
Children  dear,  let  us  away! 
This  way,  this  way ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go —  10 

Call  once  yet! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know: 

"Margaret!  Margaret!" 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more!)  to  a  mother's  ear;       15 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 

Surely  she  will  come  again! 

Call  her  once  and  come  away; 

This  way,  this  way! 

"Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay;  20 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret!  Margaret! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down; 
Call  no  more! 

One  last  look  at  the  white- walled  town,  25 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 

shore; 
Then  come  down! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day: 
Come  away,  come  away! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  30 

We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell? 


Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep,      35 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round, 
Feed    in    the    ooze    of    their    pasture- 
ground;  40 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine: 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye?        45 
When  did  music  come  this  way? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
(Call  yet  once!)  that  she  went  away? 
Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me,  50 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the 

sea, 
And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She    combed    its    bright    hair,    and    she 

tended  it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off 

bell. 
She  sighed,   she  looked  up  through  the 

clear  green  sea;  55 

She  said:  "I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk 

pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to- 
day. 
'Twill  be  Easter- time   in  the  world,  ah 

me! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman!  here 

with  thee." 
I  said:  "Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the 

waves;  60 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the 

kind  sea-caves!" 
She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf 

in  the  bay. 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone? 

"The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones 
moan;  65 

Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "in  the  world  they 
say; 

Come!"  I  said;  and  we  rose  through  the 
surf  in  the  bay. 

We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy 
down 

Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white- 
walled  town; 


ARNOLD 


687 


Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where 

all  was  still,  70 

To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 

hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk 

at  their  prayers, 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing 

airs. 
We  climbed  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones 

worn  with  rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the 

small  leaded  panes.  75 

She  sate  by  the  pillar;  we  saw  her  clear: 
"Margaret,    hist!    come    quick,    we   are 

here! 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "we  are  long  alone; 
The   sea   grows   stormy,    the   little   ones 

moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look,         80 
For  her   eyes   were   sealed   to   the   holy 

book! 
Loud  prays  the  priest;  shut  stands  the 

door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more! 

Down,  down,  down!  85 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea! 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming 

town, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings:  "O  joy,  0  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child 

with  its  toy!  90 

For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy 

well; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun!" 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 
Singing  most  joyfully,  95 

Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the 

sand, 
And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea; 
And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare;  100 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 
From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 
And  a  heart  sorrow-laden; 
A  long,  long  sigh  105 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mer- 

maiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 


Come  away,  away,  children; 
Come,  children,  come  down! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder;  no 

Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar.  115 

We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing:  "Here  came  a  mortal,  120 

But  faithless  was  she! 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 

When  soft  the  winds  blow,  125 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 

When  spring-tides  are  low; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starred  with  broom, 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly  130 

On  the  blanched  sands  a  gloom; 

Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie, 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry.  135 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side: 

And  then  come  back  down, 

Singing:  "There  dwells  a  loved  one,     140 

But  cruel  is  she! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 


PHILOMELA 

Hark!  ah,  the  nightingale — 

The  tawny-throated! 

Hark,  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a 
burst! 

What  triumph!  hark! — what  pain! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore,         5 

Still,     after     many     years,     in     distant 
lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 

That  wild,  un quenched,  deep-sunken,  old- 
world  pain — 
Say,  will  it  never  heal? 


688 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,   tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm? 


15 


Dost  thou  to-night  behold 
Here,    through    the    moonlight    on    this 

English  grass, 
The  unfriendly  palace  in   the  Thracian 
wild? 
Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes  20 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's 
shame? 
Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make 
resound  25 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,    and   the   high   Cephissian 
vale? 
Listen,  Eugenia — 
How    thick    the   bursts    come    crowding 
through  the  leaves! 
Again — thou  hearest?  30 

Eternal  passion! 
Eternal  pain! 


REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew! 

In  quiet  she  reposes; 
Ah,  would  that  I  did  too! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required;  5 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 

But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 
And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound;         10 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her   cabined,   ample   spirit, 

It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath; 

To-night   it    doth    inherit  15 

The  vasty  hall  of  death. 


THE  SCHOLAR-GIPSY 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the 
hill; 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled1 
cotes ; 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  un- 
fed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their 
throats, 
Nor     the     cropped     herbage     shoot 
another  head.  5 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to 
rest, 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  some- 
times seen 
Cross  and    recross    the    strips    of 
moonblanched    green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  begin  the 
quest!  10 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of 
late — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he 
leaves 
His    coat,    his    basket,    and    his 
earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the 
sheaves, 
Then  here,  at  noon,  comes  back  his 
stores  to  use —  15 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
While    to   my    ear    from    uplands    far 
away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is 

borne, 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the 
corn — 
All   the   live   murmur   of   a   summer's 
day.  20 

Screened  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half- 
reaped  field, 
And  here  till  sun-down,  shepherd,  will 
I  be. 
Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet 
poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing 
stalks  I  see 
Pale    blue    convolvulus    in    tendrils 
creep;  25 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 

1  made  of  interwoven  twigs  or  branches. 


ARNOLD 


689 


Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  per- 
fumed showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I 

am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun 
with  shade; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's 
towers.  30 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  GlanviPs 
book — 
Come,  let   me  read   the   oft-read  tale 
again ! 
The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive 
brain, 
Who,    tired   of   knocking   at   prefer- 
ment's door,  35 
One  summer-morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy 
lore, 
And  roamed  the  world  with  that  wild 

brotherhood, 
And  came,  as  most  men  deemed,  to 
little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no 
more.  40 

But   once,  years   after,   in    the   country- 
lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he 
knew, 
Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  in- 
quired; 
Whereat  he  answered,  that  the  gipsy- 
crew, 
His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  de- 
sired 45 
The  workings  of  men's  brains, 
And    they    can    bind    them    to    what 
thoughts  they  will. 
"And  I,"  he  said,  "the  secret  of  their 

art, 
When  fully  learned,  will  to  the  world 
impart; 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for 
this  skill."  50 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  returned  no 
more. — 
But  rumors  hung  about  the  country- 
side, 
That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen 
to  stray, 


Seen   by    rare    glimpses,    pensive    and 
tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of 
gray,  55 

The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst 
in  spring; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berk- 
shire moors, 
On  the  warm  ingle-bench,1  the  smock- 
frocked  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  enter- 
ing. 60 

But,    'mid   their   drink    and    clatter,    he 
would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy 
looks, 
And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer,  on 
thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheat  fields  scare 
the  rooks 
I  ask  if  thou  hast  passed  their  quiet 
place;  65 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moored  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer 
heats, 
'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the 

sunshine  fills, 
And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled 
Cumner  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy 
retreats.  70 

For    most,   I   know,    thou   lov'st   retired 
ground ! 
Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 
Returning  home  on  summer-nights, 
have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab- 
lock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers 
wet,  75 

As  the  punt's2  rope  chops  round: 
And   leaning   backward    in   a    pensive 
dream, 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of 

flowers 
Plucked    in    shy    fields    and    distant 
Wychwood  bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit 
stream.  80 


1  fireside  bench. 


!  small,  flat-bottomed  boat. 


690 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no 

And   marked   thee,   when    the   stars 

more. 

come  out  and  shine, 

Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets 

Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow 

come 

away.                                     no 

To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in 

May, 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood — 

Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have 

Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf- 

seen  thee  roam, 

edged  way 

Or    cross    a    stile    into    the    public 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and  every 

way.                                         85 

bush  you  see 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 

With  scarlet  patches  tagged  and  shreds 

Of  flowers — the  frail-leafed,  white  anem- 

of gray, 

one, 

Above  the  forest-ground  called  Thes- 

Dark  bluebells  drenched  with  dews  of 

saly —                                     115 

summer  eves, 

The  blackbird,  picking  food, 

And    purple    orchises    with    spotted 

Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears 

leaves — 

at  all; 

But  none  hath  words  she  can  report  of 

So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him 

thee.                                         90 

stray, 

Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  with- 

And, above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay- 

ered  spray, 

time's  here 

And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven 

In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine 

to  fall.                                     120 

flames, 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

breezy  grass 

Where    home    through    flooded    fields 

Where    black-winged    swallows    haunt 

foot-travelers  go, 

the  glittering  Thames, 

Have  I  not  passed  thee  on  the  wooden 

To  bathe  in   the  abandoned  lasher 

bridge 

pass,                                         95 

Wrapped  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with 

Have  often  passed  thee  near, 

the  snow, 

Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown; 

Thy   face   toward   Hinksey   and   its 

Marked  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy 

wintry  ridge?                         125 

figure  spare, 

And  thou  hast  climbed  the  hill, 

Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  ab- 

And gained  the  white  brow  of  the  Cum- 

stracted air — 

ner  range; 

But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou 

Turned  once  to  watch,  while  thick 

wast  gone.                             100 

the  snowflakes  fall, 

The  line  of    festal   light  in  Christ- 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner 

Church  hall — 

hills, 

Then   sought   thy   straw   in   some   se- 

Where at  her  open  door  the  housewife 

questered  grange.                  130 

darns, 

Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a 

But  what — I  dream!  Two  hundred  years 

gate 

are  flown 

To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy 

Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford 

barns. 

halls, 

Children,    who    early    range    these 

And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale 

slopes  and  late                      105 

inscribe 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 

That    thou    wert    wandered    from    the 

Have  known  thee  eying,  all  an  April- 

studious  walls 

day, 

To   learn   strange   arts,   and   join   a 

The  springing  pastures  and  the  feed- 

gipsy-tribe;                            135 

ing  kine; 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 

ARNOLD 


691 


Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  church- 
yard laid — 
Some  country-nook,  where  o'er  thy 

unknown  grave 
Tall    grasses    and    white    flowering 
nettles  wave, 
Under   a   dark,    red-fruited   yew-tree's 
shade.  140 

— No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of 
hours! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal 
men? 
Tis    that    from    change    to    change 
their  being  rolls; 
'Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 
Exhaust    the    energy    of    strongest 
souls,  145 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss 
and  teen,1 
And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes 

our  wit, 
To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are — what  we 
have  been.      •  150 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  should'st  thou 
perish,  so? 
Thou  had'st  one  aim,  one  business,  one 
desire; 
Else  wert  thou  long  since  numbered 
with  the  dead, 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men, 
thy  fire, 
The    generations    of    thy    peers    are 
fled,  155 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from 

age, 
And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glan- 
vil's  page, 
Because   thou   hadst — what   we,   alas! 
have  not.  160 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with 
powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 
Firm   to   their  mark,   not   spent  on 
other  things; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid 
doubt, 

1  sorrow. 


Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much 

been  baffled,  brings.  165 

0  life  unlike  to  ours! 

Who   fluctuate   idly   without   term   or 

scope, 

Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for 

what  he  strives, 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  differ- 
ent lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee, 
in  hope.  170 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  heaven: 
and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 
Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly 
willed, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in 
deeds, 
Whose    vague    resolves    never    have 
been  fulfilled;  175 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds    new    beginnings,     disappoint- 
ments new; 
Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 
And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won 
to-day — 
Ah,  do  not  we,  wanderer,  await  it  too? 

Yes,  we  await  it,  but  it  still  delays,        181 
And  then  we  suffer;  and  amongst  us  one, 
Who  most  has  suffered,  takes  deject- 
edly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days;     186 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth 
and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was 

fed, 
And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and 
how  the  head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes.  190 

This  for  our  wisest!  and  we  others  pine, 
And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would 
end, 
And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try 
to  bear; 
With  close-lipped  patience  for  our  only 
friend, 
Sad  patience,  too  near  neighbor  to 
despair —  195 

But  none  has  hope  like  thine. 


692 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Thou  through  the  fields  and  through 
the  woods  dost  stray, 
Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant 

boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time 
away.  200 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and 
clear, 
And    life   ran   gaily    as   the   sparkling 
Thames ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern 
life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 
Its  heads  o'ertaxed,  its  palsied  hearts, 
was  rife —    .  205 

Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering 
wood! 
Averse,    as    Dido   did    with   gesture 

stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in 
Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude.  210 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 
With  a  free,  onward  impulse  brushing 
through, 
By  night,  the  silvered  branches  of  the 
glade — 
Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none 
pursue,  215 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and    resting    on    the   moonlit 
pales, 
Freshen    thy    flowers    as    in    former 

years 
With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted 
ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  night- 
ingales. 220 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental 
strife, 
Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet 
spoils  for  rest; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own 
fair  life, 


Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfixed 
thy  powers, 
And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shift- 
ing made; 
And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth 
would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like 
ours.  230 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and 

smiles! 
— As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the 
sea, 
Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-haired  creepers  stealth- 

fly, 

The   fringes   of   a   southward-facing 

brow  235 

Among  the  ^Egean  isles; 

And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted   with   amber   grapes,    and 

Chian  wine, 
Green,   bursting    figs,   and    tunnies1 
steeped  in  brine; 
And   knew   the   intruders   on  his  an- 
cient home,  240 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the 
waves — 
And  snatched  his  rudder,  and  shook  out 
more  sail, 
And  day  and  night  held  on  indig- 
nantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the 
.  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily,  245 
To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside   the  western   straits;   and   un- 
bent sails 
There,   where    down     cloudy    cliffs, 

through  sheets  of  foam, 
Shy    traffickers,    the    dark    Iberians 
come; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded 
bales.  250 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 

An  Episode 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the 
east, 


Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  un-     And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream 


blest.  225 

Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 


But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 

1  a  kind  of  fish. 


ARNOLD 


693 


Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged 

in  sleep; 
Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not:  all  night  long  5 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his 

tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his 

sword, 
And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left 

his  tent, 
And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog,  10 
Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's 

tent. 
Through    the    black    Tartar    tents    he 

passed,  which  stood 
Clustering  like  bee-hives  on  the  low  flat 

strand 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer-floods  o'erflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high 

Pamere :  1 5 

Through  the  black  tents  he  passed,  o'er 

that  low  strand, 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink — the  spot  where 

first  a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes 

the  land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned 

the  top  20 

With  a  clay  fort;  but  that  was  fallen,  and 

now 
The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 
A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were 

spread. 
And   Sohrab   came  there,   and   went   in, 

and  stood 
Upon  the  thick  piled  carpets  in  the  tent,  25 
And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his 

bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his 

arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the 

step 
Was  dulled;  for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's 

sleep; 
And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said: 
"Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear 

dawn.  31 

Speak!  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm? " 

But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and 

said : — 
"Thou  knowest  me,  Peran-Wisa:  it  is  I. 
The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe        35 
Sleep;  but  I  sleep  not;  all  night  long  I  lie 


Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  de- 
sires. 41 
Thou  knowest  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan 

first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars  and  bore  arms, 
I    have   still   served   Afrasiab   well,   and 

shown, 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that,  while  I  still 

bear  on  46 

The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the 

world, 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone — 
Rustum,  my  father;  who  I  hoped  should 

greet,  •    50 

Should  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well- 
fought  field 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what 

I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day:  but  I     55 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian 

lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man:  if  I  prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it;  if  I  fall — 
Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no 

kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight,       60 
Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names 

are  sunk; 
But  of  a  single  combat  fame  speaks  clear." 
He   spoke;   and   Peran-Wisa   took   the 

hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sighed,  and 

said : — 
"O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar 

chiefs,  66 

And  share  the  battle's  common  chance 

with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever 

first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen?     70 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with 

us 
Unmurmuring;  in  our  tents,  while  it  is 

war, 


C94 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  when  'tis  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab's 

towns. 
But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all, 
To    seek    out    Rustum — seek    him    not 

through  fight:  75 

Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young, 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray; 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 
In  Se'istan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old.  82 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength 

at  last 
Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age; 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 
There   go! — Thou    wilt   not?    Yet   my 

heart  forebodes  86 

Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well, 

though  lost 
To  us;  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in 

peace 
To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights  90 
In  vain: — but  who  can  keep  the  lion's 

cub 
From  ravening,  and  who  govern  Rustum's 

son? 
Go,   I   will   grant   thee  what   thy   heart 

desires." 
So  said  he,  and  dropped  Sohrab's  hand, 

and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he 

lay;  ...  95 

And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and 

he  took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  staff,  no  sword ; 
And  on  his  head  he  set  his  sheep-skin  cap, 
Black,  glossy,  curled,  the  fleece  of  Kara- 

Kul;  101 

And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and 

called 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 
The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  cleared 

the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering 

sands.  105 

And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen 

filed 
Into  the  open  plain;  so  Haman  bade — 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 


From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse, 

they  streamed:  no 

As  when,  some  gray  November  morn,  the 

files, 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-necked 

cranes, 
Stream   over   Casbin,   and   the  southern 

slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries, 
Or  some  frore  1  Caspian  reed-bed,  south- 
ward bound  115 
For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board — so  they 

streamed. 
The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King's  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with 

long  spears; 
Large  men,  large  steeds;  who  from  Bok- 
hara come 
And    Khiva,    and    ferment    the   milk  of 

mares.  120 

Next  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of 

south, 
The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 
And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian 

sands; 
Light  men,  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only 

drink 
The    acrid    milk    of    camels,    and    their 

wells.  125 

And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse, 

who  came 
From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service 

owned; 
The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 
And  close-set  skull-caps;  and  those  wilder 

hordes  130 

Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern 

waste, 
Kalmuks  and  unkempt  Kuzzaks,  tribes 

who  stray 
Nearest  the  Pole,   and  wandering  Kirg- 

hizzes, 
Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamere; 
These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the 

plain.  135 

And   on   the   other   side   the   Persians 

formed : 
First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they 

seemed, 
The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan:  and  behind, 
The   royal   troops  of   Persia,  horse   and 

foot, 

1  frozen. 


ARNOLD 


695 


Marshalled  battalions  bright  in  burnished 

steel.  140 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came, 

Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the 

front, 
And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost 

ranks. 
And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians, 

saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 
He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he 

came,  146 

And  checked  his  ranks,  and  fixed  them 

where  they  stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and 

said : — 
"Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars, 

hear!  150 

Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to- 
day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian 

lords 
To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to 

man." 
As,  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When   the   dew  glistens  on  the  pearled 

ears,  155 

A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for 

joy- 
So,  when   they  heard   what  Peran-Wisa 

said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons 

ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they 

loved. 
But  as  a  troop  of  pedlars,  from  Cabool, 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus,  161 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of 

milk  snow; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount, 

they  pass 
Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds  dead  on 

the  snow, 
Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they 

themselves  165 

Slake  their  parched  throats  with  sugared 

mulberries — 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their 

breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'er- 

hanging  snows — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with 

fear. 


And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came 
up  170 

To  counsel:  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King; 
These    came    and    counselled,   and    then 

Gudurz  said: — 
"Ferood,    shame    bids    us    take    their 

challenge  up.  175 

Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match 

this  youth. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,   the  lion's 

heart. 
But  Rustum  came  last  night;  aloof  he  sits 
And   sullen,  and   has   pitched    his   tents 

apart. 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear     180 
The   Tartar   challenge,    and    this    young 

man's  name. 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 
Stand   forth   the  while,   and   take   their 

challenge  up." 
So  spake  he;  and  Ferood  stood  forth 

and  cried: — 
"Old  man,  be   it  agreed  as   thou   hast 

said!  185 

Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 

He  spake;  and  Peran-Wisa  turned,  and 

strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to 

his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz 

ran, 
And  crossed  the  camp  which  lay  behind, 

and  reached,  190 

Out  on   the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's 

tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering 

gay»  ..     .     , 

Just   pitched:    the   high  pavilion   in   the 

midst 
Was  Rustum's,  and  his  men  lay  camped 

around. 
And  Gudurz  entered  Rustum's  tent,  and 

found  195 

Rustum;  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but 

still 
The  table  stood  before  him,  charged  with 

food; 
A  side  of  roasted   sheep,   and  cakes  of 

bread, 
And  dark  green  melons;  and  there  Rustum  • 

sate 
Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist,  200 


696 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  played  with  it;  but  Gudurz  came  and 

stood 
Before  him;  and  he  looked,  and  saw  him 

stand, 
And  with  a  cry  sprang  up,  and  dropped  the 

bird, 
And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and 

said : — 
"Welcome!    these    eyes    could    see    no 

better  sight.  205 

What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat 

and  drink." 
But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent-door,  and 

said : — 
"Not  now;  a  time  will  come  to  eat  and 

drink, 
But  not  to-day;  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at 

gaze;  210 

For    from    the    Tartars    is    a   challenge 

brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To     fight     their     champion — and     thou 

knowest  his  name — 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young 


man  s! 


215 


He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's 

heart; 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's1  chiefs  are  old, 
Or  else  too  weak ;  and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we 

lose!" 
He  spoke:  but  Rustum  answered  with 

a  smile: —  220 

"Go  to!  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older:  if  the  young  are  weak,  the  King 
Errs   strangely;   for    the   King,   for  Kai- 

Khosroo, 
Himself   is   young,   and   honors   younger 

men, 
And    lets    the    aged    moulder    to    their 

graves.  225 

Rustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the 

young — 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts, 

not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's 

fame? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I 

have —  230 

A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 

1  Persia's. 


And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-haired  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex, 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his 

herds, 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old 

age.  235 

There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up, 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak 

old  man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's 

fame, 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless 

kings,  240 

And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw 

sword  no  more." 
He    spoke,   and    smiled;    and    Gudurz 

made  reply: — 
"What  then,  O  Rustum,  will  men  say  to 

this, 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and 

seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most 

he  seeks,  245 

Hidest  thy  face?     Take  heed,  lest  men 

should  say: 
'  Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his 

fame, 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men.'  " 
And,  greatly  moved,  then  Rustum  made 

reply : — 
"O  Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such 

words?  250 

Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to 

say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or 

famed, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 
Are  not  they  mortal,  am  not  I  myself? 
But  who  for  men  of  nought  would  do 

great  deeds?  255 

Come,  thou  shall  see  how  Rustum  hoards 

his  fame! 
But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain 

arms; 
Let   not   men   say   of   Rustum,   he   was 

matched 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 
He  spoke,   and  frowned;  and  Gudurz 

turned,  and  ran  260 

Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear 

and  joy — 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum 

came. 


ARNOLD 


697 


But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent  door,  and 

called 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his 

arms, 
And  clad  himself  in  steel:   the  arms  he 

chose  265 

Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  de- 
vice, 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  from  the  fluted  spine  atop,  a  plume 
Of  horsehair  waved,  a  scarlet  horsehair 

plume. 
So  armed,  he  issued  forth;  and  Ruksh, 

his  horse,  270 

Followed  him   like   a   faithful  hound   at 

heel — 
Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  noised  through 

all  the  earth, 
The  horse  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find, 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him 

home,  275 

And  reared  him;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty 

crest; 
Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broidered 

green 
Crusted   with  gold,   and  on  the  ground 

were  worked 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters 

know. 
So  followed,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and 

crossed  280 

The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  ap- 
peared. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with 

shouts 
Hailed;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he 

was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on 

shore,  285 

By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  into  the  blue  waves,  at 

night, 
Having    made    up    his    tale    of    precious 

pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands — 
So   dear   to    the   pale   Persians   Rustum 

came.  290 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  ad- 
vanced, 
And  Sohrab  armed  in  Haman's  tent,  and 

came. 
And  as  afield  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 


Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's 

corn, 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing 

corn,  295 

And  in   the  midst  a  stubble,   short  and 

bare — 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with 

spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  towards  the  Tartar  tents,  and 

saw  300 

Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he 

came. 
As   some   rich   woman,  on   a  winter's 

morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor 

drudge 
Who  with  numb  blackened  fingers  makes 

her  fire — 
At  cock-crow  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn,  305 
When    the    frost    flowers    the    whitened 

window-panes — 
And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the 

thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be;  so  Rustum 

eyed 
The   unknown   adventurous   youth,   who 

from  afar  309 

Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs :  long  he  perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For    very    young    he    seemed,    tenderly 

reared ; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark, 

and  straight, 
Which    in    a    queen's    secluded    garden 

throws  315 

Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit 

turf, 
By   midnight,    to   a   bubbling  fountain's 

sound — 
So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a  deep  pity  entered  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming;  and  he  stood,  320 
And  beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  and 

said : — 
"O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  Heaven 

is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant;  but  the  grave 

is  cold! 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead 

grave. 
Behold  me!  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron,   325 


698 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  tried;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a 

field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many  a 

foe— 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  saved. 
0  Sohrab,   wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on 

death? 
Be  governed!  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and 

come  33° 

To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me, 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die. 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 
So  he  spake,  mildly:  Sohrab  heard  his 

voice, 
The   mighty   voice   of   Rustum,   and   he 

saw  335 

His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand, 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Has  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
Against  the  robbers ;  and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streaked  with  its  first  gray  hairs; — hope 

filled  his  soul,  34° 

And  he  ran  forward  and  embraced  his 

knees, 
And  clasped  his  hand  within  his  own,  and 

said : — 
"0,  by  thy  father's  head!  by  thine  own 

soul! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum?  speak!  art  thou 

not  he?" 
But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling 

youth,  345 

And  turned  away,  and  spake  to  his  own 

soul : — 
"Ah  me,  I  muse  what  this  young  fox 

may  mean! 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks, 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say :  Rustum  is  here!  350 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  "find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous 

gifts, 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a  feast  day,  in  Afrasiab's  hall,  355 
In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry: 
'I  challenged  once,  when  the  two  armies 

camped 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight;  but  they 
Shrank,  only  Rustum  dared;  then  he  and 

I  360 

Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms 

away.' 


So   will    he    speak,   perhaps,    while    men 

applaud; 
Then   were   the   chiefs  of  Iran   shamed 

through  me." 
And  then  he  turned,  and  sternly  spake 

aloud: — 
"Rise!  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  ques- 
tion thus  365 
Of  Rustum?  I  am  here,  whom  thou  hast 

called 
By  challenge  forth:  make  good  thy  vaunt, 

or  yield ! 
Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight? 
Rash  boy,  men   look  on   Rustum's   face 

and  flee. 
For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum 

stand  370 

Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  revealed, 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting 

more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this — 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul: 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt  and 

yield;  375 

Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till 

winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer- 
floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 
He   spoke:   and   Sohrab   answered,   on 

his  feet: — 
"Art  thou  so  fierce?    Thou  wilt  not  fright 

me  so!  380 

I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum 

stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting 

then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand 

here. 
Begin!   thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread 

than  I,  385 

And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am 

young — 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of 

Heaven. 
And    though    thou    thinkest    that    thou 

knowest  sure 
Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely 

know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea,  390 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to 

fall. 


ARNOLD 


699 


And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 
Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea, 
Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of 

death,  395 

We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make 

us  know; 
Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 
He  spoke,  and  Rustum  answered  not, 

but  hurled 
His  spear;  down  from  the  shoulder,  down 

it  came 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk  400 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds 
Drops  like  a  plummet;  Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash:  the 

spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the 

sand, 
Which  it  sent  flying  wide; — then  Sohrab 

threw  405 

In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum's  shield; 

sharp  rang, 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned 

the  spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none 

but  he 
Could  wield:  an  unlopped  trunk  it  was, 

and  huge, 
Still  rough — like  those  which  men  in  tree- 
less plains  410 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded 

rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter- 
time 
Has  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack, 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs 

— so  huge  415 

The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and 

struck 
One    stroke;    but    again    Sohrab    sprang 

aside, 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club 

came 
Thundering  to  earth,  and  leaped  from  Rus- 
tum's hand. 
And  Rustum  followed  his  own  blow,  and 

fell  420 

To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched 

the  sand. 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed 

his  sword, 
And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he 

lay 


Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with 

sand; 
But  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared 

his  sword,  425 

But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke, 

and  said: — 
"Thou  strikest  too  hard!  that  club  of 

thine  will  float 
Upon    the   summer-floods,    and   not   my 

bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth!  not  wroth  am 

I; 

No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my 

SOul.  430 

Thou  sayst  thou  art  not  Rustum:  be  it  so. 
Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch 

my  soul? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too — 
Have   waded    foremost    in    their   bloody 

waves, 
And   heard   their   hollow   roar   of   dying 

men;  435 

But   never  was  my  heart  thus   touched 

before. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings 

of  the  heart? 
0  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven ! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry 

spears, 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like 

friends,  441 

And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's 

deeds. 
There   are    enough   foes    in    the   Persian 

host, 
Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel 

no  pang; 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom 

thou  445 

Mayst  fight;  fight  them,  when  they  con- 
front thy  spear! 
But  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee  and 

me!" 
He  ceased:  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum 

had  risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage:  his 

club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right- 
hand  451 
Blazed    bright    and    baleful,    like    that 

autumn-star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers:  dust  had  soiled 


700 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glitter- 
ing arms. 
His  breast  heaved,  his  lips  foamed,  and 

twice  his  voice  455 

Was  choked  with  rage:  at  last  these  words 

broke  way: — 
"Girl!  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with 

thy  hands ! 
Curled   minion,   dancer,   coiner  of  sweet 

words ! 
Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 

more! 
Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now  460 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art 

wont  to  dance; 
But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,   who  make  no 

play 
Of  war;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,   and  pledge, 

and  wine!  465 

Remember  all  thy  valor:  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning!  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone; 
Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both 

the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy 

girl's  wiles." 
He  spoke,  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his 

taunts,  470 

And  he  too  drew  his  sword:  at  once  they 

rushed 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come   rushing   down   together  from   the 

clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west; 

their  shields  474 

Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of    hewing    axes,    crashing    trees — such 

blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars 

took  part  480 

In  that  unnatural  conflict;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  darked  the 

sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the 

plain, 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapped  the 

pair.  485 

In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and 

they  alone; 


For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either 

hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was 

pure, 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  blood- 
shot eyes  490 
And  laboring  breath;  first  Rustum  struck 

the  shield 
Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out;   the  steel- 
spiked  spear 
Rent    the    tough    plates,    but    failed    to 

reach   the   skin, 
And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry 

groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rus- 

tum's  helm,  495 

Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through;  but  all 

the  crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horse- 
hair plume, 
Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust; 
And  Rustum  bowed  his  head;  but  then 

the  gloom 
Grew  blacker,   thunder   rumbled   in   the 

air,  500 

And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud;  and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful 

cry; — 
No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the 

roar 
Of  some  pained  desert  lion,  who  all  day 
Hath  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his 

side,  505 

And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand. 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked 

for  fear, 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  but 

rushed  on, 
And    struck    again;    and    again    Rustum 

bowed  510 

His  head;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like 

glass, 
Sprang    in   a    thousand    shivers    on    the 

helm, 
And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head ;  his  dreadful 

eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing 

spear,  515 

And  shouted,  Rustum! — Sohrab  heard  that 

shout, 


ARNOLD 


701 


And  shrank  amazed:  back  he  recoiled  one 

step, 
And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  ad- 
vancing form; 
And  then  he  stood  bewildered;  and  he 

dropped 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced 

his  side.  520 

He  reeled,  and  staggering  back,  sank  to 

the  ground; 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the 

wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted 

all 
The  cloud;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the 

pair — 
Saw    Rustum    standing,    safe    upon    his 

feet,  525 

And    Sohrab,    wounded,    on    the   bloody 

sand. 
Then    with    a    bitter    smile,    Rustum 

began : — 
"Sohrab,   thou   thoughtest  in   thy  mind 

to  kill 
A   Persian  lord  this  day,   and  strip  his 

corpse, 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent. 
Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come 

down  531 

Himself    to    fight,    and    that    thy    wiles 

would  move 
His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 
And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would 

praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy 

fame,  535 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 
Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown 

man! 
Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 
Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father 

old." 
And,    with    a    fearless    mien,    Sohrab 

replied : —  540 

"Unknown  thou  art;  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt 

is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful 

man! 
No!    Rustum    slays    me,    and    this    filial 

heart. 
For  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men 

as  thee, 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was,  545 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 


But   that   beloved   name    unnerved    my 

arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in 

thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my 

shield 
Fall;   and   thy   spear   transfixed   an   un- 
armed foe.  550 
And    now    thou    boastest,   and   insultest 

my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble 

to  hear! 
The    mighty    Rustum    shall    avenge    my 

death! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the 

world, 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish 
thee!"  555 

As   when   some   hunter  in   the   spring 
hath  found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 
And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she 

rose, 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she 
fell  560 

Far  off; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging 

back 
From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  de- 
scries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole;  at  that,  he 

checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest;  but 
she  566 

Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers — never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it;  570 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by: — • 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows 

his  loss, 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but 

stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not.  575 
But,  with  a  cold  incredulous  voice,  he 
said:— 
"What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  re- 
venge? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 
And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  re- 
plied:— 579 


702 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"Ah!  yes,  he  had!  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his 

ear, 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries 

long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far 

from  here, 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him 

leap 
To  arms,   and   cry   for  vengeance   upon 

thee.  585 

Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son! 
What    will    that    grief,    what    will    that 

vengeance  be? 
Oh,  could  I  live,  till  I  that  grief  had  seen ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells  590 
With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows 

gray 
With    age,    and    rules    over    the    valiant 

Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is 

done.  595 

But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear; 
And   then   will   that   defenceless   woman 

learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe,  600 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 
He  spoke;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept 

aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He  spoke;  but  Rustum  listened,  plunged 

in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son       605 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names 

he  knew; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him, 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all — 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for 

fear  610 

Rustum  should  take  the  boy,  to  train  in 

arms; 
And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum's 

son; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deemed  he;  yet  he  listened,  plunged 

in  thought,  615 

And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 


Of  the  bright  rocking  Ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon:  tears  gathered  in  his 

eyes; 
For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture;  as,  at  dawn, 
The   shepherd   from   his   mountain-lodge 

descries  621 

A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds — so  Rustum 

saw 
His  youth;  saw  Sohrab's  mother,  in  her 

bloom ; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved 

well  625 

His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his 

fair  child 
With  joy;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they 

led, 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer- 
time— 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful 

hills  630 

In  Ader-baijan.    And  he  saw  that  youth, 
Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand, 
Like  some  rich  hyacinth  which  by  the 

scythe 
Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut,  635 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its 

bed, 
And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass — so  Sohrab  lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 
And  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and 

said : —  640 

"0  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 

Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well 

have  loved. 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false — thou  art  not  Rus- 
tum's son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son:  one  child  he 

had —  645 

But  one — a  girl;  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of 

us — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor 

war." 
But  Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath;  for 

now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fixed  spear  grew 

fierce,  650 

And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 


ARNOLD 


7°3 


And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die — 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn 

foe; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said: — 
"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my 

words?  655 

Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men, 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from 

mine. 
I  tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother 

gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she 

bore."  660 

He  spoke;  and  all  the  blood  left  Rus- 

tum's  cheeks, 
And  his  knees  tottered,  and  he  smote  his 

hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clanked  aloud; 
And  to  his  heart   he   pressed  the  other 

hand,  665 

And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said: — 

"Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could 

not  lie! 
If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's 

son." 
Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab 

loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his 

arm,  670 

And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain 

vase, 
An  emperor's  gift — at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes, 

the  lamp  675 

Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin 

hands — 
So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's 

seal. 
It  was  that  griffin,  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to 

die,  680 

A   helpless  babe,   among   the   mountain 

rocks; 
Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  reared, 

and  loved — 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful 

eyes,  685 


And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand  and 

said : — 
"How  say'st  thou?     Is  that  sign  the 

proper  sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?  " 
He    spoke:    but    Rustum    gazed,    and 

gazed,  and  stood 
Speechless;  and  then  he  uttered  one  sharp 

cry:  690 

"O    boy — thy  father!" — and    his   voice 

choked  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  passed  before  his 

eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to 

earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and 

cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his 

lips,  695 

And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked 

his  cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life;  and  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his 

eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;  and  he 

seized 
In   both  his  hands   the  dust  which  lay 

around,  700 

And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched 

his  hair, — 
His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glitter- 
ing arms; 
And   strong   convulsive  groanings   shook 

his  breast, 
And  his  sobs  choked  him;  and  he  clutched 

his  sword, 
To  draw  it,  and  forever  let  life  out.         705 
But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his 

hands, 
And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and 

said : — 
"Father,  forbear!  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  that  at  my  birth  was  written 

down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  uncon- 
scious hand.  710 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee;  and  thy  heart  spoke 

too, 
I  know  it!  but  fate  trod  those  promptings 

down 
Under  its  iron  heel;  fate,  fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father's 

spear.  715 


7°4 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this!  I  find 
My  father;  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found! 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on   this  sand,  and 

take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my 

cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say: 

'My  son!'  720 

Quick!  quick!  for  numbered  are  my  sands 

of  life, 
And  swift;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this 

field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away — 
Sudden,    and   swift,   and   like   a   passing 

wind. 
But    it   was   writ   in    Heaven    that   this 

should  be."  725 

So  said  he:  and  his  voice  released  the 

heart 
Of  Rustum,   and  his  tears  broke  forth; 

he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept 

aloud, 
And  kissed  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both 

the  hosts 
When    they    saw    Rustum's    grief:    and 

Ruksh,  the  horse,  730 

With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground  and 

mane 
Sweeping   the  dust,   came   near,   and  in 

mute  woe 
First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compas- 
sionate eyes,  735 
The   big   warm   tears   rolled   down,   and 

caked  the  sand. 
But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice, 

and  said: — 
"Ruksh,    now    thou   grievest;   but,   O 

Ruksh,  thy  feet 
Should  first  have  rotted  on  their  nimble 

joints, 
Or  ere  they  bore  thy  master  to  this  field! " 
But  Sohrab  looked  upon  the  horse  and 

said: —  741 

"Is  this,  then,  Ruksh?  How  often,  in  past 

days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave 

steed, 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse!  and 

said, 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and 

thee.  745 


Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane! 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never 

go, 
And  snuffed  the  breezes  of  my  father's 

home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Sei'stan, 
And  seen  the  river  of  Helmund,  and  the 

Lake  751 

Of  Zirrah ;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given 

thee  food, 
Corn   in   a   golden   platter   soaked   with 

wine, 
And  said  'O  Ruksh!  bear  Rustum  well!' 

but  I  755 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  fur- 
rowed face, 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Hel- 
mund stream; 
But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and 

seen 
Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand,         760 
Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 
And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents;  and  only 

drunk 
The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their 

sheep, 
The  northern  Sir;  and   this  great  Oxus 

stream —  765 

The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 

And,    with    a    heavy    groan,    Rustum 

bewailed : — 
"Oh,  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over 

me! 
Oh,  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll    tumbling   in    the   current   o'er   my 

head!"  770 

But,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab 

replied: — 
"Desire  not  that,  my  father!  thou  must 

live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and 

live, 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age;  776 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come!  thou  seest  this  great  host  of 

men 
Which  follow  me;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not 

these! 


ARNOLD 


7°5 


Let  me  entreat  for  them;  what  have  they 

done?  780 

They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my 

star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send 

with  them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Se'istan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for 

me,  785 

Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all 

thy  friends. 
And   thou  must   lay  me  in   that   lovely 

earth, 
And   heap   a   stately   mound   above   my 

bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all: 
That   so   the   passing   horseman   on   the 

waste  790 

May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and 

cry: 
'Sohrab,    the   mighty    Rustum' s    son,    lies 

there, 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance 

Ml'— 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 
And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum 

replied: —  795 

"Fear  not!  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my 

son, 
So  shall  it  be;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents, 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence 

with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Se'istan, 
And   place   thee   on   a   bed,   and   mourn 

for  thee,  800 

With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my 

friends. 
And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And   heap   a   stately   mound   above   thy 

bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 
And   men   shall   not   forget  thee  in   thy 

grave.  805 

And  I  will  spare  thy  host;  yea,  let  them 

go! 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace! 
What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more? 
For  would  that  all  whom  I  have  ever 

slain 
Might  be  once  more  alive;  my  bitterest 

foes,  810 

And  they  who  were  called  champions  in 

their  time, 


And   through   whose   death   I   won   that 

fame  I  have — 
And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 
A   poor,   mean   soldier,  and   without   re- 
nown, 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my 

son!  815 

Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself, 
Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 
Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke 

of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine!  and  I  might  die,  not 

thou; 
And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Se'istan;     820 
And  Zal   might  weep  above  my  grave, 

not  thine; 
And  say  'O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 
For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  mefst  thine  end. ' 
But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my 

youth, 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age,   825 
And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 
Then,  at  the  point  of  death,   Sohrab 

replied : — 
"  A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man ! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace;  only  not 

now, 
Not  yet!  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that 

day,  830 

When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted 

ship, 

Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai-Khosroo, 

Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 

From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave." 

And  Rustum  gazed  on  Sohrab's  face, 

and  said: —  835 

"  Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that 

sea! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 
He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him, 

and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and 

eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish;  but  the 

blood  840 

Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and 

life 
Flowed  with  the  stream; — all  down  his 

cold  white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and 

soiled 
Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,   freshly   gathered,   on   their   native 

bank,  845 


7o6 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


By  romping  children,  whom  their  nurses 

call 
Indoors   from    the    sun's    eye;    his   head 

drooped   low, 
His  limbs  grew  slack;  motionless,  white, 

he  lay — 
White,  with  eyes  closed;  only  when  heavy 

gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps  quivering  through  all 

his  frame,  850 

Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened 

them, 
And   fixed   them   feebly   on   his   father's 

face; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed,  and  from 

his  limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it 

left,  855 

And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delight- 
ful world. 
So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead; 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horse- 
man's cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead 

son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high- 
reared  860 
By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights 

of  steps 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain 

side — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 
And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn 

waste,  865 

And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole 

pair, 
And  darkened  all;  and  a  cold  fog,  with 

night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.    Soon  a  hum  arose, 
As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began   to   twinkle   through   the  fog:   for 

now  870 

Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took 

their  meal; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge: 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 
But  the  majestic  river  floated  on,  875 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 
Rejoicing,    through   the   hushed   Choras- 

mian  waste, 


Under  the  solitary  moon; — he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,   and  bright,   and   large;   then 

sands  begin  881 

To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his 

streams, 
And  split  his  currents;  that  for  many  a 

league 
The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy 

isles —  885 

Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer — till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 

wide 
His    luminous    home    of    waters    opens, 

bright  890 

And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 
bathed  stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

THE  AUSTERITY  OF  POETRY 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow, 
Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred  song, 
In  his  light  youth  amid  a  festal  throng 
Sat  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public  show. 
Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did 

glow  5 

Youth  like  a  star;    and  what  to   youth 

belong — 
Gay    raiment,    sparkling    gauds,    elation 

strong. 
A  prop  gave  way!  crash  fell  a  platform!  lo, 
'Mid  struggling  sufferers,  hurt  to  death, 

she  lay! 
Shuddering,  they  drew  her  garments  off 

— and  found  10 

A   robe  of   sackcloth   next   the   smooth, 

white  skin. 
Such,    poets,   is   your   bride,    the   Muse! 

young,  gay, 
Radiant,  adorned  outside;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 

NOVEMBER    1 85 7 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 
The  autumn  .evening.    The  field 
Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 
Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms, 


ARNOLD 


Fade  into  dimness  apace,  5 

Silent; — hardly  a  shout 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street, 

In  the  school-room  windows; — but  cold, 

Solemn,  unlighted,  austere,  10 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 

The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 

Thou,  my  father!  art  laid. 


>5 


There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah! 

That  word,  gloom,  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back,  in  the  light 

Of  thy  radiant  vigor,  again; 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  passed 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side;  20 

Seasons  impaired  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast!  and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening,  and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee.  25 


Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 
Since  thou  arosest  to  tread, 
In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 
Of  death,  at  a  call  unforeseen, 
Sudden.     For  fifteen  years, 
We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 
Rested  as  under  the  boughs 
Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 
Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might, 
Bare,  unshaded,  alone, 
Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 


3° 


35 


40 


O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?     For  that  force, 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm! 


Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 

Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 

Still  thou  performest  the  word 

Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live — 

Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here! 

Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 

The  humble  good  from  the  ground,         50 

Sternly  repressest  the  bad! 

Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 

Those  who  with  half-open  eyes 

Tread  the  border-land  dim 


45 


707 


55 


'Twixt  vice  and  virtue;  revivest, 
Succorest!     This  was  thy  work, 
This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 


What  is  the  course  of  the  life 

Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth? 

Most  men  eddy  about  60 

Here  and  there — eat  and  drink, 

Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 

Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 

Aloft,  are  hurled  in  the  dust. 

Striving  blindly,  achieving  65 

Nothing;  and  then  they  die — 

Perish; — and  no  one  asks 

Who  or  what  they  have  been, 

More  than  he  asks  what  waves, 

In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild  70 

Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swelled, 

Foamed  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 

Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires, 

Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent,  75 

Not  without  aim  to  go  round 

In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 

Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 

Ah,  yes!  some  of  us  strive 

Not  without  action  to  die  80 

Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 

From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 

Glut   the  devouring  grave! 

We,  we  have  chosen  our  path — 

Path  to  a  clear-purposed  goal,  85 

Path  of  advance! — but  it  leads 

A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 

Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 

Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth — 

Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm.     90 

Thunder  crashes  from  rock 

To  rock,  the  cataracts  reply; 

Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes; 

Roaring  torrents  have  breached 

The  track;  the  stream-bed  descends     95 

In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 

Planted  his  footstep — the  spray 

Boils  o'er  its  borders!  aloft 

The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 

Their  hanging  ruin!  alas,  100 

Havoc  is  made  in  our  train! 

Friends,  who  set  forth  at  our  side, 

Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 

We,  we  only  are  left! 

With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips     105 

Sternly  compressed,  we  strain  on, 


70S 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


On — and  at  nightfall  at  last 
Come  to  the  end  of  our  way, 
To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks; 
Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host 
Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 
Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs — 
Holds  his  lantern  to  scan 
Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks: 
Whom  in  our  party  we  bring, 
Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow? 


115 


Sadly  we  answer:  We  bring 

Only  ourselves!  we  lost 

Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 

Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through,     120 

Stripped,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 

Friends,  companions,  and  train, 

The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  would'st  not  alone 

Be  saved,  my  father!  alone  125 

Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 

Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 

We  were  weary,  and  we 

Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march 

Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die.  130 

Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 

Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 

Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 

If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 

Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet,     135 

Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 

Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 

Nothing — to  us  thou  wast  still 

Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm! 

Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given  140 

Many  to  save  with  thyself; 

And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 

O  faithful  shepherd!  to  come, 

Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 

And  through  thee  I  believe  145 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone; 

Pure  souls  honored  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor, 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see —  150 

Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes!  I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 

Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd  155 

Who  all  round  me  to-day 


Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 

Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile; 

But  souls  tempered  with  fire, 

Fervent,  heroic,  and  good,  160 

Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God ! — or  sons 

Shall  I  not  call  you?  because 

Not  as  servants  ye  knew 

Your  Father's  innermost  mind,  165 

His,  who  unwillingly  sees 

One  of  his  little  ones  lost — 

Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 

Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 

Fainted,  and  fallen,  and  died!  170 

See!  In  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending? — A  God 

Marshalled  them,  gave  them  their  goal. — 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long!  176 

Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild! 

Sore  thirst  plagues  them,  the  rocks, 

Rising  all  round,  overawe; 

Factions  divide  them,  their  host  180 

Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 

— Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined! 

Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 

That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive; 

Sole  they  shall  stray;  on  the  rocks  185 

Batter  for  ever  in  vain, 

Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ye,  like  angels,  appear,  190 

Radiant  with  ardor  divine. 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear! 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 

Weakness  is  not  in  your  word, 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow.  195 

Ye  alight  in  our  van!  at  your  voice 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave.  200 

Order,  courage,  return; 

Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 

Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 

Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 

Strengthen  the  wavering  line,  205 

Stablish,  continue  our  march, 

On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste, 

On,  to  the  City  of  God. 


ARNOLD 


709 


DOVER  BEACH 


The  sea  is  calm  to-night, 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits; — on  the  French  coast 

the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone;  the  cliffs  of  England 

stand, 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil 
bay.  5 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night- 
air! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched 

land, 
Listen!  you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back, 
and  fling,  10 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago  15 

Heard  it  on  the  y£gean,  and  it  brought 
Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 
Of  human  misery;  we 
Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 
Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea.  20 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,   too,   at  the  full,   and   round 

earth's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 
But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar,  25 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges 

drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To   one   another!   for   the   world,    which 

seems  30 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath   really   neither   joy,    nor   love,  nor 

light. 
Nor  certitude,   nor  peace,   nor  help  for 

pain; 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain    35 
Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle 

and  flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


THE  LAST  WORD 


Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed, 
Creep,  and  let  no  more  be  said! 
Vain  thy  onset!  all  stands  fast. 
Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last. 

Let  the  long  contention  cease!  5 

Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  will ! 
Thou  art  tired;  best  be  still. 

They  out-talked  thee,  hissed  thee,   tore 

thee? 
Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee;  10 

Fired  their  ringing  shot  and  passed, 
Hotly  charged — and  sank  at  last. 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb! 
Let  the  victors,  when  they  come, 
When  the  forts  of  folly  fall,  15 

Find  thy  body  by  the  wall! 


LITERATURE  AND   SCIENCE 

Practical  people  talk  with  a  smile  of 
Plato  and  of  his  absolute  ideas;  and  it  is 
impossible  to  deny  that  Plato's  ideas  do 
often  seem  unpractical  and  impracticable, 
and  especially  when  one  views  them  in 
connection  with  the  life  of  a  great  work-a- 
day  world  like  the  United  States.  The 
necessary  staple  of  the  life  of  such  a  world 
Plato  regards  with  disdain;  handicraft 
and  trade  and  the  working  professions  [10 
he  regards  with  disdain;  but  what  be- 
comes of  the  life  of  an  industrial  modern 
community  if  you  take  handicraft  and 
trade  and  the  working  professions  out  of 
it?  The  base  mechanic  arts  and  handi- 
crafts, says  Plato,  bring  about  a  natural 
weakness  in  the  principle  of  excellence 
in  a  man,  so  that  he  cannot  govern  the 
ignoble  growths  in  him,  but  nurses  them, 
and  cannot  understand  fostering  any  [20 
other.  Those  who  exercise  such  arts  and 
trades,  as  they  have  their  bodies,  he  says 
marred,  by  their  vulgar  businesses,  so 
they  have  their  souls,  too,  bowed  and 
broken  by  them.  And  if  one  of  these 
uncomely  people  has  a  mind  to  seek  self- 
culture  and  philosophy,  Plato  compares 
him  to  a  bald  little  tinker,  who  has  scraped 


7io 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


together  money,  and  has  got  his  release 
from  service,  and  has  had  a  bath,  and  [30 
bought  a  new  coat,  and  is  rigged  out  like 
a  bridegroom  about  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  his  master  who  has  fallen  into  poor 
and  helpless  estate. 

Nor  do  the  working  professions  fare 
any  better  than  trade  at  the  hands  of 
Plato.  He  draws  for  us  an  inimitable 
picture  of  the  working  lawyer,  and  of  his 
life  of  bondage;  he  shows  how  this  bond- 
age from  his  youth  up  has  stunted  [40 
and  warped  him,  and  made  him  small 
and  crooked  of  soul,  encompassing  him 
with  difficulties  which  he  is  not  man 
enough  to  rely  on  justice  and  truth  as 
means  to  encounter,  but  has  recourse, 
for  help  out  of  them,  to  falsehood  and 
wrong.  And  so,  says  Plato,  this  poor 
creature  is  bent  and  broken,  and  grows 
up  from  boy  to  man  without  a  particle  of 
soundness  in  him,  although  exceed-  [50 
ingly  smart  and  clever  in  his  own  es- 
teem. 

One  cannot  refuse  to  admire  the  artist 
who  draws  these  pictures.  But  we  say  to 
ourselves  that  his  ideas  show  the  influence 
of  a  primitive  and  obsolete  order  of  things, 
when  the  warrior  caste  and  the  priestly 
caste  were  alone  in  honor,  and  the  humble 
work  of  the  world  was  done  by  slaves. 
We  have  now  changed  all  that;  the  mod-  [60 
ern  majority  consists  in  work,  as  Emerson 
declares;  and  in  work,  we  may  add,  prin- 
cipally of  such  plain  and  dusty  kind  as 
the  work  of  cultivators  of  the  ground, 
handicraftsmen,  men  of  trade  and  business, 
men  of  the  working  professions.  Above 
all  is  this  true  in  a  great  industrious 
community  such  as  that  of  the  United 
States. 

Now  education,  many  people  go  on  [70 
to  say,  is  still  mainly  governed  by  the  ideas 
of  men  like  Plato,  who  lived  when  the 
warrior  caste  and  the  priestly  or  philo- 
sophical class  were  alone  in  honor,  and  the 
really  useful  part  of  the  community  were 
slaves.  It  is  an  education  fitted  for  per- 
sons of  leisure  in  such  a  community. 
This  education  passed  from  Greece  and 
Rome  to  the  feudal  communities  of 
Europe,  where  also  the  warrior  caste  [80 
and  the  priestly  caste  were  alone  held  in 
honor,  and  where  the  really  useful  and 


working  part  of  the  community,  though 
not  nominally  slaves  as  in  the  pagan 
world,  were  practically  not  much  better 
off  than  slaves,  and  not  more  seriously 
regarded.  And  how  absurd  it  is,  people 
end  by  saying,  to  inflict  this  educa- 
tion upon  an  industrious  modern  com- 
munity, where  very  few  indeed  are  per-  [90 
sons  of  leisure,  and  the  mass  to  be  con- 
sidered has  not  leisure,  but  is  bound,  for 
its  own  great  good,  and  for  the  great 
good  of  the  world  at  large,  to  plain  labor 
and  to  industrial  pursuits,  and  the  educa- 
tion in  question  tends  necessarily  to  make 
men  dissatisfied  with  these  pursuits  and 
unfitted  for  them! 

That  is  what  is  said.  So  far  I  must 
defend  Plato,  as  to  plead  that  his  view  [100 
of  education  and  studies  is  in  the  general, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  sound  enough,  and 
fitted  for  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men, 
whatever  their  pursuits  may  be.  "An  in- 
telligent man,"  says  Plato,  "will  prize 
those  studies  which  result  in  his  soul 
getting  soberness,  righteousness,  and  wis- 
dom, and  will  less  value  the  others." 
I  cannot  consider  that  a  bad  description 
of  the  aim  of  education,  and  of  the  mo-  [no 
tives  which  should  govern  us  in  the  choice 
of  studies,  whether  we  are  preparing  our- 
selves for  a  hereditary  seat  in  the  English 
House  of  Lords  or  for  the  pork  trade  in 
Chicago. 

Still  I  admit  that  Plato's  world  was  not 
ours,  that  his  scorn  of  trade  and  handi- 
craft is  fantastic,  that  he  had  no  con- 
ception of  a  great  industrial  community 
such  as  that  of  the  United  States,  and  [120 
that  such  a  community  must  and  will 
shape  its  education  to  suit  its  own  needs. 
If  the  usual  education  handed  down  to 
it  from  the  past  does  not  suit  it,  it  will 
certainly  before  long  drop  this  and  try 
another.  The  usual  education  in  the  past 
has  been  mainly  literary.  The  question 
is  whether  the  studies  which  were 
long  supposed  to  be  the  best  for  all  of  us 
are  practically  the  best  now;  whether  [130 
others  are  not  better.  The  tyranny  of 
the  past,  many  think,  weighs  on  us  in- 
juriously in  the  predominance  given  to 
letters  in  education.  The  question  is 
raised  whether,  to  meet  the  needs  of  our 
modern    life,    the    predominance    ought 


ARNOLD 


711 


not  now  to  pass  from  letters  to  science; 
and  naturally  the  question  is  nowhere 
raised  with  more  energy  than  here  in  the 
United  States.  The  design  of  abasing  [140 
what  is  called  "mere  literary  instruction 
and  education,"  and  of  exalting  what  is 
called  "sound,  extensive,  and  practical 
scientific  knowledge,"  is,  in  this  intensely 
modern  world  of  the  United  States,  even 
more  perhaps  than  in  Europe,  a  very 
popular  design,  and  makes  great  and 
rapid  progress. 

I  am  going  to  ask  whether  the  present 
movement  for  ousting  letters  from  their  [150 
old  predominance  in  education,  and  for 
transferring  the  predominance  in  educa- 
tion to  the  natural  sciences,  whether  this 
brisk  and  flourishing  movement  ought  to 
prevail,  and  whether  it  is  likely  that  in 
the  end  it  really  will  prevail.  An  objec- 
tion may  be  raised  which  I  will  antici- 
pate. My  own  studies  have  been  almost 
wholly  in  letters,  and  my  visits  to  the 
field  of  the  natural  sciences  have  been  [160 
very  slight  and  inadequate,  although 
those  sciences  have  always  strongly  moved 
my  curiosity.  A  man  of  letters,  it  will 
perhaps  be  said,  is  not  competent  to  dis- 
cuss the  comparative  merits  of  letters  and 
natural  science  as  means  of  education. 
To  this  objection  I  reply,  first  of  all,  that 
his  incompetence,  if  he  attempts  the  dis- 
cussion but  is  really  incompetent  for  it,  will 
be  abundantly  visible;  nobody  will  be  [170 
taken  in;  he  will  have  plenty  of  sharp 
observers  and  critics  to  save  mankind 
from  that  danger.  But  the  line  I  am  going 
to  follow  is,  as  you  will  soon  discover,  so 
extremely  simple,  that  perhaps  it  may 
be  followed  without  failure  even  by 
one  who  for  a  more  ambitious  line 
of  discussion  would  be  quite  incompe- 
tent. 

Some  of  you  may  possibly  remember  [180 
a  phrase  of  mine  which  has  been  the  object 
of  a  good  deal  of  comment;  an  observation 
to  the  effect  that  in  our  culture,  the  aim 
being  to  know  ourselves  and  the  world,  we 
have,  as  the  means  to  this  end,  to  know  the 
best  which  has  been  thought  and  said  in 
the  world.  A  man  of  science,  who  is  also 
an  excellent  writer  and  the  very  prince  of 
debaters,  Professor  Huxley,  in  a  discourse 
at  the  opening  of  Sir  Josiah  Mason's    [190 


college  at  Birmingham,  laying  hold  of 
this  phrase,  expanded  it  by  quoting  some 
more  words  of  mine,  which  are  these: 
"The  civilised  world  is  to  be  regarded  as 
now  being,  for  intellectual  and  spiritual 
purposes,  one  great  confederation,  bound 
to  a  joint  action  and  working  to  a  com- 
mon result;  and  whose  members  have 
for  their  proper  outfit  a  knowledge  of 
Greek,  Roman,  and  Eastern  antiquity,  [200 
and  of  one  another.  Special  local  and 
temporary  advantages  being  put  out  of 
account,  that  modern  nation  will  in  the 
intellectual  and  spiritual  sphere  make 
most  progress,  which  most  thoroughly 
carries  out  this  programme." 

Now  on  my  phrase,  thus  enlarged, 
Professor  Huxley  remarks  that  when  I 
speak  of  the  above-mentioned  knowledge 
as  enabling  us  to  know  ourselves  and  [210 
the  world,  I  assert  literature  to  contain  the 
materials  which  suffice  for  thus  making 
us  know  ourselves  and  the  world.  But 
it  is  not  by  any  means  clear,  says  he, 
that  after  having  learnt  all  which  ancient 
and  modern  literatures  have  to  tell  us, 
we  have  laid  a  sufficiently  broad  and 
deep  foundation  for  that  criticism  of  life, 
that  knowledge  of  ourselves  and  the  world, 
which  constitutes  culture.  On  the  [220 
contrary,  Professor  Huxley  declares  that 
he  finds  himself  "wholly  unable  to  admit 
that  either  nations  or  individuals  will 
really  advance,  if  their  outfit  draws 
nothing  from  the  stores  of  physical 
science.  An  army  without  weapons  of 
precision,  and  with  no  particular  base  of 
operations,  might  more  hopefully  enter 
upon  a  campaign  on  the  Rhine,  than 
a  man,  devoid  of  a  knowledge  of  [230 
what  physical  science  has  done  in  the 
last  century,  upon  a  criticism  of 
life." 

This  shows  how  needful  it  is  for  those 
who  are  to  discuss  any  matter  together, 
to  have  a  common  understanding  as  to 
the  sense  of  the  terms  they  employ, — 
how  needful,  and  how  difficult.  What 
Professor  Huxley  says,  implies  just  the 
reproach  which  is  so  often  brought  [240 
against  the  study  of  belles  lettres,  as  they 
are  called:  that  the  study  is  an  elegant 
one,  but  slight  and  ineffectual;  a  smatter- 
ing of  Greek  and  Latin  and  other  orna- 


712 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


mental  things,  of  little  use  for  any  one 
whose  object  is  to  get  at  truth,  and  to  be 
a  practical  man.  So,  too,  M.  Renan  talks 
of  the  "superficial  humanism"  of  a  school- 
course  which  treats  us  as  if  we  were  all 
going  to  be  poets,  writers,  preachers,  [250 
orators,  and  he  opposes  this  humanism  to 
positive  science,  or  the  critical  search 
after  truth.  And  there  is  always  a  tend- 
ency in  those  who  are  remonstrating 
against  the  predominance  of  letters  in 
education,  to  understand  by  letters  belles 
lettres,  and  by  belles  lettres  a  superficial 
humanism,  the  opposite  of  science  or  true 
knowledge. 

But  when  we  talk  of  knowing  Greek  [260 
and  Roman  antiquity,  for  instance,  which 
is  the  knowledge  people  have  called  the 
humanities,  I  for  my  part  mean  a  knowl- 
edge which  is  something  more  than  a 
superficial  humanism,  mainly  decorative. 
"I  call  all  teaching  scientific"  says  Wolf, 
the  critic  of  Homer,  "which  is  systematic- 
ally laid  out  and  followed  up  to  its  ori- 
ginal sources.  For  example:  a  knowledge 
of  classical  antiquity  is  scientific  [270 
when  the  remains  of  classical  antiquity 
are  correctly  studied  in  the  original  lan- 
guages." There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
Wolf  is  perfectly  right;  that  all  learning 
is  scientific  which  is  systematically  laid 
out  and  followed  up  to  its  original  sources, 
and  that  a  genuine  humanism  is  scientific. 

When  I  speak  of  knowing  Greek  and 
Roman  antiquity,  therefore,  as  a  help  to 
knowing  ourselves  and  the  world,  I  [280 
mean  more  than  a  knowledge  of  so  much 
vocabulary,  so  much  grammar,  so  many 
portions  of  authors  in  the  Greek  and  Latin 
languages,  I  mean  knowing  the  Greeks 
and  Romans,  and  their  life  and  genius, 
and  what  they  were  and  did  in  the  world; 
what  we  get  from  them,  and  what  is  its 
value.  That,  at  least,  is  the  ideal;  and 
when  we  talk  of  endeavoring  to  know 
Greek  and  Roman  antiquity,  as  a  [290 
help  to  knowing  ourselves  and  the  world, 
we  mean  endeavoring  so  to  know  them 
as  to  satisfy  this  ideal,  however  much  we 
may  still  fall  short  of  it. 

The  same  also  as  to  knowing  our  own 
and  other  modern  nations,  with  the  like 
aim  of  getting  to  understand  ourselves 
and  the  world.     To  know  the  best  that 


has  been  thought  and  said  by  the  modern 
nations,  is  to  know,  says  Professor  [300 
Huxley,  "only  what  modern  literatures 
have  to  tell  us;  it  is  the  criticism  of  life 
contained  in  modern  literature."  And 
yet  "the  distinctive  character  of  our 
times,"  he  urges,  "lies  in  the  vast  and 
constantly  increasing  part  which  is  played 
by  natural  knowledge."  And  how,  there- 
fore, can  a  man,  devoid  of  knowledge  of 
what  physical  science  has  done  in  the 
last  century,  enter  hopefully  upon  a  [310 
criticism  of  modern  life? 

Let  us,  I  say,  be  agreed  about  the  mean- 
ing of  the  terms  we  are  using.  I  talk  of 
knowing  the  best  which  has  been  thought 
and  uttered  in  the  world;  Professor 
Huxley  says  this  means  knowing  litera- 
ture. Literature  is  a  large  word;  it  may 
mean  everything  written  with  letters  or 
printed  in  a  book.  Euclid's  Elements 
and  Newton's  Principia  are  thus  [320 
literature.  All  knowledge  that  reaches  us 
through  books  is  literature.  But  by  litera- 
ture Professor  Huxley  means  belles  lettres. 
He  means  to  make  me  say,  that  knowing 
the  best  which  has  been  thought  and 
said  by  the  modern  nations  is  knowing 
their  belles  lettres  and  no  more.  And  this 
is  no  sufficient  equipment,  he  argues,  for 
a  criticism  of  modern  life.  But  as  I  do 
not  mean,  by  knowing  ancient  Rome,  [330 
knowing  merely  more  or  less  of  Latin 
belles  lettres,  and  taking  no  account  of 
Rome's  military,  and  political,  and  legal, 
and  administrative  work  in  the  world; 
and  as,  by  knowing  ancient  Greece,  I 
understand  knowing  her  as  the  giver  of 
Greek  art,  and  the  guide  to  a  free  and 
right  use  of  reason  and  to  scientific 
method,  and  the  founder  of  our  mathe- 
matics and  physics  and  astronomy  [340 
and  biology, — I  understand  knowing  her 
as  all  this,  and  not  merely  knowing  certain 
Greek  poems,  and  histories,  and  treatises, 
and  speeches, — so  as  to  the  knowledge 
of  modern  nations  also.  By  knowing 
modern  nations,  I  mean  not  merely  know- 
ing their  belles  lettres,  but  knowing  also 
what  has  been  done  by  such  men  as 
Copernicus,  Galileo,  Newton,  Darwin. 
"Our  ancestors  learned,"  says  Pro-  [350 
fessor  Huxley,  "that  the  earth  is  the 
centre  of  the  visible  universe,  and  that 


ARNOLD 


7i3 


man  is  the  cynosure  of  things  terrestrial; 
and  more  especially  was  it  inculcated  that 
the  course  of  nature  has  no  fixed  order, 
but  that  it  could  be,  and  constantly  was, 
altered."  But  for  us  now,  continues 
Professor  Huxley,  "the  notions  of  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  world  enter- 
tained by  our  forefathers  are  no  longer  [360 
credible.  It  is  very  certain  that  the  earth 
is  not  the  chief  body  in  the  material  uni- 
verse, and  that  the  world  is  not  subor- 
dinated to  man's  use.  It  is  even  more 
certain  that  nature  is  the  expression  of  a 
definite  order,  with  which  nothing  inter- 
feres." "And  yet,"  he  cries,  "the  purely 
classical  education  advocated  by  the 
representatives  of  the  humanists  in  our 
day  gives  no  inkling  of  all  this!"         [370 

In  due  place  and  time  I  will  just  touch 
upon  that  vexed  question  of  classical 
education;  but  at  present  the  question  is 
as  to  what  is  meant  by  knowing  the  best 
which  modern  nations  have  thought  and 
said.  It  is  not  knowing  their  belles  lettres 
merely  which  is  meant.  To  know  Italian 
belles  lettres  is  not  to  know  Italy,  and  to 
know  English  belles  lettres  is  not  to  know 
England.  Into  knowing  Italy  and  [380 
England  there  comes  a  great  deal  more, 
Galileo  and  Newton  amongst  it.  The 
reproach  of  being  a  superficial  humanism, 
a  tincture  of  belles  lettres,  may  attach 
rightly  enough  to  some  other  disciplines; 
but  to  the  particular  discipline  recom- 
mended when  I  proposed  knowing  the 
best  that  has  been  thought  and  said  in 
the  world,  it  does  not  apply.  In  that 
best  I  certainly  include  what  in  mod-  [390 
ern  times  has  been  thought  and  said  by 
the  great  observers  and  knowers  of 
nature. 

There  is,  therefore,  really  no  question 
between  Professor  Huxley  and  me  as  to 
whether  knowing  the  great  results  of  the 
modern  scientific  study  of  nature  is  not 
required  as  a  part  of  our  culture,  as  well 
as  knowing  the  products  of  literature  and 
art.  But  to  follow  the  processes  by  [400 
which  those  results  are  reached,  ought, 
say  the  friends  of  physical  science,  to 
be  made  the  staple  of  education  for  the 
bulk  of  mankind.  And  here  there  does 
arise  a  question  between  those  whom 
Professor  Huxley  calls  with   playful  sar- 


casm "the  Levites  of  culture,"  and  those 
whom  the  poor  humanist  is  sometimes 
apt  to  regard  as  its  Nebuchadnezzars. 

The  great  results  of  the  scientific  [410 
investigation  of  nature  we  are  agreed 
upon  knowing,  but  how  much  of  our  study 
are  we  bound  to  give  to  the  processes  by 
which  those  results  are  reached?  The 
results  have  their  visible  bearing  on 
human  life.  But  all  the  processes,  too, 
all  the  items  of  fact  by  which  those  results 
are  reached  and  established,  are  interest- 
ing. All  knowledge  is  interesting  to  a 
wise  man,  and  the  knowledge  of  na-  [420 
ture  is  interesting  to  all  men.  It  is  very 
interesting  to  know,  that,  from  the  al- 
buminous white  of  the  egg,  the  chick  in 
the  egg  gets  the  materials  for  its  flesh, 
bones,  blood,  and  feathers;  while,  from 
the  fatty  yelk  of  the  egg,  it  gets  the  heat 
and  energy  which  enable  it  at  length  to 
break  its  shell  and  begin  the  world.  It 
is  less  interesting,  perhaps,  but  still  it 
is  interesting,  to  know  that  when  a  [430 
taper  burns,  the  wax  is  converted  into 
carbonic  acid  and  water.  Moreover,  it 
is  quite  true  that  the  habit  of  dealing 
with  facts,  which  is  given  by  the  study  of 
nature,  is,  as  the  friends  of  physical 
science  praise  it  for  being,  an  excellent 
dsicipline.  The  appeal,  in  the  study  of 
nature,  is  constantly  to  observation  and 
experiment;  not  only  is  it  said  that  the 
thing  is  so,  but  we  can  be  made  to  see  [440 
that  it  is  so.  Not  only  does  a  man  tell 
us  that  when  a  taper  burns  the  wax  is 
converted  into  carbonic  acid  and  water, 
as  a  man  may  tell  us,  if  he  likes,  that 
Charon  is  punting  his  ferry-boat  on  the 
river  Styx,  or  that  Victor  Hugo  is  a  sub- 
lime poet,  or  Mr.  Gladstone  the  most 
admirable  of  statesmen;  but  we  are  made 
to  see  that  the  conversion  into  carbonic 
acid  and  water  does  actually  happen.  [450 
This  reality  of  natural  knowledge  it  is, 
which  makes  the  friends  of  physical  science 
contrast  it,  as  a  knowledge  of  things, 
with  the  humanist's  knowledge,  which  is, 
they  say,  a  knowledge  of  words.  And 
hence  Professor  Huxley  is  moved  to  lay 
it  down  that,  "for  the  purpose  of  attain- 
ing real  culture,  an  exclusively  scientific 
education  is  at  least  as  effectual  as  an 
exclusively  literary  education."    And  [460 


714 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


a  certain  President  of  the  Section  for 
Mechanical  Science  in  the  British  As- 
sociation is,  in  Scripture  phrase,  "very 
bold,"  and  declares  that  if  a  man,  in  his 
mental  training,  "has  substituted  litera- 
ture and  history  for  natural  science,  he 
has  chosen  the  less  useful  alternative." 
But  whether  we  go  these  lengths  or  not, 
we  must  all  admit  that  in  natural  science 
the  habit  gained  of  dealing  with  facts  [470 
is  a  most  valuable  discipline,  and  that 
every  one  should  have  some  experience  of 
it. 

More  than  this,  however,  is  demanded 
by  the  reformers.  It  is  proposed  to  make 
the  training  in  natural  science  the  main 
part  of  education,  for  the  great  majority 
of  mankind  at  any  rate.  And  here,  I 
confess,  I  part  company  with  the  friends 
of  physical  science,  with  whom  up  to  [480 
this  point  I  have  been  agreeing.  In  dif- 
fering from  them,  however,  I  wish  to 
proceed  with  the  utmost  caution  and 
diffidence.  The  smallness  of  my  own 
acquaintance  with  the  disciplines  of  nat- 
ural science  is  ever  before  my  mind,  and 
I  am  fearful  of  doing  these  disciplines  an 
injustice.  The  ability  and  pugnacity  of 
the  partisans  of  natural  science  make 
them  formidable  persons  to  contra-  [490 
diet.  The  tone  of  tentative  inquiry,  which 
befits  a  being  of  dim  faculties  and  bounded 
knowledge,  is  the  tone  I  would  wish  to 
take  and  not  to  depart  from.  At  present 
it  seems  to  me,  that  those  who  are  for 
giving  to  natural  knowledge,  as  they  call 
it,  the  chief  place  in  the  education  of  the 
majority  of  mankind,  leave  one  important 
thing  out  of  their  account:  the  constitu- 
tion of  human  nature.  But  I  put  this  [500 
forward  on  the  strength  of  some  facts 
not  at  all  recondite,  very  far  from  it;  facts 
capable  of  being  stated  in  the  simplest 
possible  fashion,  and  to  which,  if  I  so 
state  them,  the  man  of  science  will,  I 
am  sure,  be  willing  to  allow  their  due 
weight. 

Deny  the  facts  altogether,  I  think,  he 
hardly  can.  He  can  hardly  deny,  that 
when  we  set  ourselves  to  enumerate  [510 
the  powers  which  go  to  the  building  up  of 
human  life,  and  say  that  they  are  the 
power  of  conduct,  the  power  of  intellect 
and  knowledge,  the  power  of  beauty,  and 


the  power  of  social  life  and  manners, — he 
can  hardly  deny  that  this  scheme,  though 
drawn  in  rough  and  plain  lines  enough, 
and  not  pretending  to  scientific  exactness, 
does  yet  give  a  fairly  true  representa- 
tion of  the  matter.  Human  nature  is  [520 
built  up  by  these  powers;  we  have  the 
need  for  them  all.  When  we  have  rightly 
met  and  adjusted  the  claims  of  them  all, 
we  shall  then  be  in  a  fair  way  for  getting 
soberness  and  righteousness,  with  wis- 
dom. This  is  evident  enough,  and  the 
friends  of  physical  science  would  admit 
it. 

But  perhaps  they  may  not  have  suf- 
ficiently observed  another  thing:  [530 
namely,  that  the  several  powers  just 
mentioned  are  not  isolated,  but  there  is, 
in  the  generality  of  mankind,  a  perpetual 
tendency  to  relate  them  one  to  another  in 
divers  ways.  With  one  such  way  of 
relating  them  I  am  particularly  concerned 
now.  Following  our  instinct  for  intellect 
and  knowledge,  we  acquire  pieces  of 
knowledge;  and  presently,  in  the  gen- 
erality of  men,  there  arises  the  desire  [540 
to  relate  these  pieces  of  knowledge  to  our 
sense  for  conduct,  to  our  sense  for 
beauty, — and  there  is  weariness  and  dis- 
satisfaction if  the  desire  is  baulked. 
Now  in  this  desire  lies,  I  think,  the 
strength  of  that  hold  which  letters  have 
upon  us. 

All  knowledge  is,  as  I  said  just  now, 
interesting;  and  even  items  of  knowledge 
which  from  the  nature  of  the  case  [550 
cannot  well  be  related,  but  must  stand 
isolated  in  our  thoughts,  have  their  in- 
terest. Even  lists  of  exceptions  have 
their  interest.  If  we  are  studying  Greek 
accents,  it  is  interesting  to  know  that 
pais  and  pas,  and  some  other  mono- 
syllables of  the  same  form  of  declension, 
do  not  take  the  circumflex  upon  the  last 
syllable  of  the  genitive  plural,  but  vary, 
in  this  respect,  from  the  common  rule.  [560 
If  we  are  studying  physiology,  it  is  in- 
teresting to  know  that  the  pulmonary 
artery  carries  dark  blood  and  the  pul- 
monary vein  carries  bright  blood,  de- 
parting in  this  respect  from  the  common 
rule  for  the  division  of  labor  between  the 
veins  and  the  arteries.  But  every  one 
knows  how  we  seek  naturally  to  combine 


ARNOLD 


7i5 


the  pieces  of  our  knowledge  together, 
to  bring  them  under  general  rules,  to  [570 
relate  them  to  principles;  and  how  un- 
satisfactory and  tiresome  it  would  be  to 
go  on  for  ever  learning  lists  of  exceptions, 
or  accumulating  items  of  fact  which  must 
stand  isolated. 

Well,  that  same  need  of  relating  our 
knowledge,  which  operates  here  within 
the  sphere  of  our  knowledge  itself,  we 
shall  find  operating,  also,  outside  that 
sphere.  We  experience,  as  we  go  on  [580 
learning  and  knowing, — the  vast  majority 
of  us  experience, — the  need  of  relating 
what  we  have  learned  and  known  to  the 
sense  which  we  have  in  us  for  conduct, 
to  the  sense  which  we  have  in  us  for 
beauty. 

A  certain  Greek  prophetess  of  Man- 
tineia  in  Arcadia,  Diotima  by  name, 
once  explained  to  the  philosopher  Soc- 
rates that  love,  and  impulse,  and  [590 
bent  of  all  kinds,  is,  in  fact,  nothing  else 
but  the  desire  in  men  that  good  should 
for  ever  be  present  to  them.  This  desire 
for  good,  Diotima  assured  Socrates,  is 
our  fundamental  desire,  of  which  funda- 
mental desire  every  impulse  in  us  is  only 
some  one  particular  form.  And  therefore 
this  fundamental  desire  it  is,  I  suppose, — 
this  desire  in  men  that  good  should  be 
for  ever  present  to  them, — which  [600 
acts  in  us  when  we  feel  the  impulse  for 
relating  our  knowledge  to  our  sense  for 
conduct  and  to  our  sense  for  beauty. 
At  any  rate,  with  men  in  general  the  in- 
stinct exists.  Such  is  human  nature. 
And  the  instinct,  it  will  be  admitted,  is 
innocent,  and  human  nature  is  preserved 
by  our  following  the  lead  of  its  innocent 
instincts.  Therefore,  in  seeking  to  gratify 
this  instinct  in  question,  we  are  fol-  [610 
lowing  the  instinct  of  self-preservation 
in  humanity. 

But,  no  doubt,  some  kinds  of  knowledge 
cannot  be  made  to  directly  serve  the  in- 
stinct in  question,  cannot  be  directly 
related  to  the  sense  for  beauty,  to  the 
sense  for  conduct.  These  are  instrument- 
knowledges;  they  lead  on  to  other  knowl- 
edges, which  can.  A  man  who  passes 
his  life  in  instrument-knowledges  is  [620 
a  specialist.  They  may  be  invaluable  as 
instruments    to    something    beyond,    for 


those  who  have  the  gift  thus  to  employ 
them;  and  they  may  be  disciplines  in 
themselves  wherein  it  is  useful  for  every 
one  to  have  some  schooling.  But  it  is 
inconceivable  that  the  generality  of  men 
should  pass  all  their  mental  life  with 
Greek  accents  or  with  formal  logic.  My 
friend  Professor  Sylvester,  who  is  [630 
one  of  the  first  mathematicians  in  the 
world,  holds  transcendental  doctrines  as 
to  the  virtue  of  mathematics,  but  those 
doctrines  are  not  for  common  men.  In 
the  very  Senate  House  and  heart  of  our 
English  Cambridge  I  once  ventured, 
though  not  without  an  apology  for  my 
profaneness,  to  hazard  the  opinion  that 
for  the  majority  of  mankind  a  little  of 
mathematics,  even,  goes  a  long  way.  [640 
Of  course  this  is  quite  consistent  with 
their  being  of  immense  importance  as  an 
instrument  to  something  else;  but  it  is 
the  few  who  have  the  aptitude  for  thus 
using  them,  not  the  bulk  of  mankind. 

The  natural  sciences  do  not,  how- 
ever, stand  on  the  same  footing  with 
these  instrument-knowledges.  Experience 
shows  us  that  the  generality  of  men  will 
find  more  interest  in  learning  that,  [650 
when  a  taper  burns,  the  wax  is  converted 
into  carbonic  acid  and  water,  or  in  learn- 
ing the  explanation  of  the  phenomenon 
of  dew,  or  in  learning  how  the  circula- 
tion of  the  blood  is  carried  on,  than  they 
find  in  learning  that  the  genitive  plural 
of  pais  and  pas  does  not  take  the  cir- 
cumflex on  the  termination.  And  one 
piece  of  natural  knowledge  is  added  to 
another,  and  others  are  added  to  that,  [660 
and  at  last  we  come  to  propositions  so 
interesting  as  Mr.  Darwin's  famous  prop- 
osition that  "our  ancestor  was  a  hairy 
quadruped  furnished  with  a  tail  and 
pointed  ears,  probably  arboreal  in  his 
habits."  Or  we  come  to  propositions 
of  such  reach  and  magnitude  as  those 
which  Professor  Huxley  delivers,  when 
he  says  that  the  notions  of  our  forefathers 
about  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  [670 
the  world  were  all  wrong,  and  that  nature 
is  the  expression  of  a  definite  order  with 
which  nothing  interferes. 

Interesting,  indeed,  these  results  of 
science  are,  important  they  are,  and  we 
should  all  of  us  be  acquainted  with  them. 


716 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


But  what  I  now  wish  you  to  mark  is, 
that  we  are  still,  when  they  are  pro- 
pounded to  us  and  we  receive  them,  we 
are  still  in  the  sphere  of  intellect  and  [680 
knowledge.  And  for  the  generality  of 
men  there  will  be  found,  I  say,  to  arise, 
when  they  have  duly  taken  in  the  propo- 
sition that  their  ancestor  was  "a  hairy 
quadruped  furnished  with  a  tail  and 
pointed  ears,  probably  arboreal  in  his 
habits,"  there  will  be  found  to  arise  an 
invincible  desire  to  relate  this  proposition 
to  the  sense  in  us  for  conduct,  and  to  the 
sense  in  us  for  beauty.  But  this  the  [690 
men  of  science  will  not  do  for  us,  and 
will  hardly  even  profess  to  do.  They 
will  give  us  other  pieces  of  knowledge, 
other  facts,  about  other  animals  and 
their  ancestors,  or  about  plants,  or  about 
stones,  or  about  stars;  and  they  may 
finally  bring  us  to  those  great  ''general 
conceptions  of  the  universe,  which  are 
forced  upon  us  all,"  says  Professor  Huxley, 
"by  the  progress  of  physical  science."  [700 
But  still  it  will  be  knowledge  only  which 
they  give  us;  knowledge  not  put  for  us  into 
relation  withour  sense  for  conduct, our  sense 
for  beauty,  and  touched  with  emotion  by 
being  so  put;  not  thus  put  for  us,  and 
therefore,  to  the  majority  of  mankind,  after 
a  certain  while,  unsatisfying,  wearying. 

Not  to  the  born  naturalist,  I  admit. 
But  what  do  we  mean  by  a  born  nat- 
uralist? We  mean  a  man  in  whom  [710 
the  zeal  for  observing  nature  is  so  uncom- 
monly strong  and  eminent,  that  it  marks 
him  off  from  the  bulk  of  mankind.  Such 
a  man  will  pass  his  life  happily  in  collect- 
ing natural  knowledge  and  reasoning 
upon  it,  and  will  ask  for  nothing,  or  hardly 
anything,  more.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  the  sagacious  and  admirable  nat- 
uralist whom  we  lost  not  very  long  ago, 
Mr.  Darwin,  once  owned  to  a  friend  [720 
that  for  his  part  he  did  not  experience 
the  necessity  for  two  things  which  most 
men  find  so  necessary  to  them, — religion 
and  poetry;  science  and  the  domestic 
affections,  he  thought,  were  enough.  To 
a  born  naturalist,  I  can  well  understand 
that  this  should  seem  so.  So  absorbing 
is  his  occupation  with  nature,  so  strong 
his  love  for  his  occupation,  that  he  goes 
on  acquiring  natural  knowledge  and  [730 


reasoning  upon  it,  and  has  little  time  or 
inclination  for  thinking  about  getting  it 
related  to  the  desire  in  man  for  conduct, 
the  desire  in  man  for  beauty.  He  relates 
it  to  them  for  himself  as  he  goes  along, 
so  far  as  he  feels  the  need;  and  he  draws 
from  the  domestic  affections  all  the  addi- 
tional solace  necessary.  But  then  Dar- 
wins  are  extremely  rare.  Another  great 
and  admirable  master  of  natural  [740 
knowledge,  Faraday,  was  a  Sandemanian. 
That  is  to  say,  he  related  his  knowledge 
to  his  instinct  for  conduct  and  to  his 
instinct  for  beauty,  by  the  aid  of  that 
respectable  Scottish  sectary,  Robert 
Sandeman.  And  so  strong,  in  general,  is 
the  demand  of  religion  and  poetry  to 
have  their  share  in  a  man,  to  associate 
themselves  with  his  knowing,  and  to  re- 
lieve and  rejoice  it,  that  probably,  [750 
for  one  man  amongst  us  with  the  disposi- 
tion to  do  as  Darwin  did  in  this  respect, 
there  are  at  least  fifty  with  the  disposition 
to  do  as  Faraday. 

Education  lays  hold  upon  us,  in  fact, 
by  satisfying  this  demand.  Professor 
Huxley  holds  up  to  scorn  mediaeval  educa- 
tion, with  its  neglect  of  the  knowledge 
of  nature,  its  poverty  even  of  literary 
studies,  its  formal  logic  devoted  to  [760 
"showing  how  and  why  that  which  the 
Church  said  was  true  must  be  true." 
But  the  great  mediaeval  universities  were 
not  brought  into  being,  we  may  be  sure, 
by  the  zeal  for  giving  a  jejune  and  con- 
temptible education.  Kings  have  been 
their  nursing  fathers,  and  queens  have 
been  their  nursing  mothers,  but  not  for 
this.  The  mediaeval  universities  came 
into  being,  because  the  supposed  [770 
knowledge,  delivered  by  Scripture  and 
the  Church,  so  deeply  engaged  men's 
hearts,  by  so  simply,  easily,  and  power- 
fully relating  itself  to  their  desire  for  con- 
duct, their  desire  for  beauty.  All  other 
knowledge  was  dominated  by  this  sup- 
posed knowledge  and  was  subordinated 
to  it,  because  of  the  surpassing  strength 
of  the  hold  which  it  gained  upon  the 
affections  of  men,  by  allying  itself  pro-  [780 
foundly  with  their  sense  for  conduct, 
their  sense  for  beauty. 

But  now,  says  Professor  Huxley,  con- 
ceptions of  the  universe  fatal  to  the  no- 


ARNOLD 


717 


tions  held  by  our  forefathers  have  been 
forced  upon  us  by  physical  science. 
Grant  to  him  that  they  are  thus  fatal, 
that  the  new  conceptions  must  and  will 
soon  become  current  everywhere,  and 
that  every  one  will  finally  perceive  [790 
them  to  be  fatal  to  the  beliefs  of  our  fore- 
fathers. The  need  of  humane  letters,  as 
they  are  truly  called,  because  they  serve 
the  paramount  desire  in  men  that  good 
should  be  for  ever  present  to  them, — the 
need  of  humane  letters  to  establish  a  rela- 
tion between  the  new  conceptions,  and 
our  instinct  for  beauty,  our  instinct  for 
conduct,  is  only  the  more  visible.  The 
Middle  Age  could  do  without  humane  [800 
letters,  as  it  could  do  without  the  study 
of  nature,  because  its  supposed  knowledge 
was  made  to  engage  its  emotions  so  power- 
fully. Grant  that  the  supposed  knowl- 
edge disappears,  its  power  of  being  made 
to  engage  the  emotions  will  of  course 
disappear  along  with  it, — but  the  emotions 
themselves,  and  their  claim  to  be  en- 
gaged and  satisfied,  will  remain.  Now 
if  we  find  by  experience  that  humane  [810 
letters  have  an  undeniable  power  of 
engaging  the  emotions,  the  importance 
of  humane  letters  in  a  man's  training 
becomes  not  less,  but  greater,  in  propor- 
tion to  the  success  of  modern  science 
in  extirpating  what  it  calls  "mediaeval 
thinking." 

Have  humane  letters,  then,  have  poetry 
and  eloquence,  the  power  here  attributed 
to  them  of  engaging  the  emotions,  [820 
and  do  they  exercise  it?  And  if  they  have 
it  and  exercise  it,  how  do  they  exercise  it, 
so  as  to  exert  an  influence  upon  man's 
sense  for  conduct,  his  sense  for  beauty? 
Finally,  even  if  they  both  can  and  do 
exert  an  influence  upon  the  senses  in 
question,  how  are  they  to  relate  to  them 
the  results, — the  modern  results, — of  nat- 
ural science?  All  these  questions  may 
be  asked.  First,  have  poetry  and  elo-  [830 
quence  the  power  of  calling  out  the  emo- 
tions? The  appeal  is  to  experience. 
Experience  shows  that  for  the  vast  ma- 
jority of  men,  for  mankind  in  general, 
they  have  the  power.  Next,  do  they 
exercise  it?  They  do.  But  then,  how 
do  they  exercise  it  so  as  to  affect  man's 
sense  for  conduct,  his  sense  for  beauty? 


And  this  is  perhaps  a  case  for  applying 
the  Preacher's  words:  "Though  a  [840 
man  labor  to  seek  it  out,  yet  he  shall  not 
find  it;  yea,  farther,  though  a  wise  man 
think  to  know  it,  yet  shall  he  not  be  able 
to  find  it."1  Why  should  it  be  one  thing, 
in  its  effect  upon  the  emotions,  to  say, 
"Patience  is  a  virtue,"  and  quite  another 
thing,  in  its  effect  upon  the  emotions,  to 
say  with  Homer, 

rkrjTov  yap  MoZpai  Ovfxov  dicrav  avtipuyirouriv — 2 

"for  an  enduring  heart  have  the  des-  [850 
tinies  appointed  to  the  children  of  men"? 
Why  should  it  be  one  thing,  in  its  effect 
upon  the  emotions,  to  say  with  the  philos- 
opher Spinoza,  Felicitas  in  eo  consistit 
quod  homo  suum  esse  conservare  potest — 
"Man's  happiness  consists  in  his  being 
able  to  preserve  his  own  essence,"  and 
quite  another  thing,  in  its  effect  upon  the 
emotions,  to  say  with  the  Gospel,  "What 
is  a  man  advantaged,  if  he  gain  [860 
the  whole  world,  and  lose  himself,  for- 
feit himself?"  How  does  this  difference 
of  effect  arise?  I  cannot  tell,  and  I  am 
not  much  concerned  to  know;  the  impor- 
tant thing  is  that  it  does  arise,  and  that 
we  can  profit  by  it.  But  how,  finally, 
are  poetry  and  eloquence  to  exercise  the 
power  of  relating  the  modern  results  of 
natural  science  to  man's  instinct  for  con- 
duct, his  instinct  for  beauty?  And  here  [870 
again  I  answer  that  I  do  not  know  how 
they  will  exercise  it,  but  that  they  can  and 
will  exercise  it  I  am  sure.  I  do  not  mean 
that  modern  philosophical  poets  and 
modern  philosophical  moralists  are  to 
come  and  relate  for  us,  in  express  terms, 
the  results  of  modern  scientific  research 
to  our  instinct  for  conduct,  our  instinct 
for  beauty.  But  I  mean  that  we  shall  find, 
as  a  matter  of  experience,  if  we  know  [880 
the  best  that  has  been  thought  and  uttered 
in  the  world,  we  shall  find  that  the  art 
and  poetry  and  eloquence  of  men  who 
lived,  perhaps,  long  ago,  who  had  the 
most  limited  natural  knowledge,  who 
had  the  most  erroneous  conceptions  about 
many  important  matters,  we  shall  find 
that  this  art,  and  poetry,  and  eloquence, 
have  in  fact  not  only  the  power  of  refresh- 
ing and  delighting  us,  they  have  also  [890 


1  Ecclesiastes,  viii,  17. 


-Iliad,  xxiv,  49. 


7i8 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


the  power, — such  is  the  strength  and 
worth,  in  essentials,  of  their  authors' 
criticism  of  life, — they  have  a  fortifying, 
and  elevating,  and  quickening,  and  sug- 
gestive power,  capable  of  wonderfully 
helping  us  to  relate  the  results  of  modern 
science  to  our  need  for  conduct,  our  need 
for  beauty.  Homer's  conceptions  of  the 
physical  universe  were,  I  imagine,  gro- 
tesque; but  really,  under  the  shock  [900 
of  hearing  from  modern  science  that  "the 
world  is  not  subordinated  to  man's  use, 
and  that  man  is  not  the  cynosure  of  things 
terrestrial,"  I  could,  for  my  own  part, 
desire  no  better  comfort  than  Homer's 
line  which  I  quoted  just  now, 

tA^tov  yap  Motpai  6vfibv  Oiaav  avOpwiroLcrw — 

"for  an  enduring  heart  have  the  destinies 
appointed  to  the  children  of  men"! 

And  the  more  that  men's  minds  [910 
are  cleared,  the  more  that  the  results  of 
science  are  frankly  accepted,  the  more 
that  poetry  and  eloquence  come  to  be 
received  and  studied  as  what  in  truth 
they  really  are, — the  criticism  of  life  by 
gifted  men,  alive  and  active  with  extraor- 
dinary power  at  an  unusual  number 
of  points; — so  much  the  more  will  the 
value  of  humane  letters,  and  of  art  also, 
which  is  an  utterance  having  a  like  [920 
kind  of  power  with  theirs,  be  felt  and 
acknowledged,  and  their  place  in  educa- 
tion be  secured. 

Let  us  therefore,  all  of  us,  avoid  indeed 
as  much  as  possible  any  invidious  com- 
parison between  the  merits  of  humane 
letters,  as  means  of  education,  and  the 
merits  of  the  natural  sciences.  But  when 
some  President  of  a  Section  for  Me- 
chanical Science  insists  on  making  [930 
the  comparison,  and  tells  us  that  "he 
who  in  his  training  has  substituted  litera- 
ture and  history  for  natural  science  has 
chosen  the  less  useful  alternative,"  let 
us  make  answer  to  him  that  the  student 
of  humane  letters  only,  will,  at  least, 
know  also  the  great  general  conceptions 
brought  in  by  modern  physical  science; 
for  science,  as  Professor  Huxley  says, 
forces  them  upon  us  all.  But  the  stu-  [940 
dent  of  the  natural  sciences  only,  will,  by 
our    very    hypothesis,    know    nothing    of 


humane  letters;  not  to  mention  that  in 

setting    himself    to    be    perpetually    ac- 

i  cumulating   natural    knowledge,    he   sets 

1  himself  to  do  what  only  specialists  have 

in   general    the   gift   for   doing   genially. 

And  so  he  will  probably  be  unsatisfied, 

.  or  at  any  rate  incomplete,  and  even  more 

incomplete  than  the  student  of  hu-  [950 

mane  letters  only. 

I  once  mentioned  in  a  school-report, 
how  a  young  man  in  one  of  our  English 
training  colleges  having  to  paraphrase 
the  passage  in  Macbeth  beginning, 

"Canst    thou   not   minister   to   a   mind 
diseased?" 

turned  this  line  into,  "Can  you  not  wait 
upon  the  lunatic?"  And  I  remarked 
what  a  curious  state  of  things  it  would 
be,  if  every  pupil  of  our  national  [960 
schools  knew,  let  us  say,  that  the  moon  is 
two  thousand  one  hundred  and  sixty 
miles  in  diameter,  and  thought  at  the 
same   time  that  a  good  paraphrase  for 

"Canst    thou    not    minister    to  a  mind 
diseased?  " 

was,  "Can  you  not  wait  upon  the  luna- 
tic? "  If  one  is  driven  to  choose,  I  think 
I  would  rather  have  a  young  person  ig- 
norant about  the  moon's  diameter,  but 
aware  that  "Can  you  not  wait  upon  [970 
the  lunatic?"  is  bad,  than  a  young  person 
whose  education  had  been  such  as  to 
manage  things  the  other  way. 

Or  to  go  higher  than  the  pupils  of  our 
national  schools.  I  have  in  my  mind's 
eye  a  member  of  our  British  Parliament 
who  comes  to  travel  here  in  America, 
who  afterwards  relates  his  travels,  and 
who  shows  a  really  masterly  knowledge 
of  the  geology  of  this  great  country  [980 
and  of  its  mining  capabilities,  but  who 
ends  by  gravely  suggesting  that  the 
United  States  should  borrow  a  prince 
from  our  Royal  Family,  and  should  make 
him  their  king,  and  should  create  a  House 
of  Lords  of  great  landed  proprietors  after 
the  pattern  of  ours;  and  then  America, 
he  thinks,  would  have  her  future  happily 
and  perfectly  secured.  Surely,  in  this 
case,  the  President  of  the  Section  for  [990 


ARNOLD 


719 


Mechanical  Science  would  himself  hardly 
say  that  our  member  of  Parliament,  by 
concentrating  himself  upon  geology  and 
mineralogy,  and  so  on,  and  not  attending 
to  literature  and  history,  had  "chosen  the 
more  useful  alternative." 

If  then  there  is  to  be  separation  and 
option  between  humane  letters  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  natural  sciences  on 
the  other,  the  great  majority  of  man-  [1000 
kind,  all  who  have  not  exceptional  and 
overpowering  aptitudes  for  the  study  of 
nature,  would  do  well,  I  cannot  but  think, 
to  choose  to  be  educated  in  humane  letters 
rather  than  in  the  natural  sciences.  Let- 
ters will  call  out  their  being  at  more 
points,  will  make  them  live  more. 

I  said  that  before  I  ended  I  would  just 
touch  on  the  question  of  classical  educa- 
tion, and  I  will  keep  my  word.  Even  [1010 
if  literature  is  to  retain  a  large  place  in 
our  education,  yet  Latin  and  Greek,  say 
the  friends  of  progress,  will  certainly  have 
to  go.  Greek  is  the  grand  offender  in  the 
eyes  of  these  gentlemen.  The  attackers 
of  the  established  course  of  study  think 
that  against  Greek,  at  any  rate,  they 
have  irresistible  arguments.  Literature 
may  perhaps  be  needed  in  education, 
they  say;  but  why  on  earth  should  it  [1020 
be  Greek  literature?  Why  not  French  or 
German?  Nay,  "has  not  an  Englishman 
models  in  his  own  literature  of  every  kind 
of  excellence?"  As  before,  it  is  not  on 
any  weak  pleadings  of  my  own  that  I  rely 
for  convincing  the  gainsayers;  it  is  on 
the  constitution  of  human  nature  itself, 
and  on  the  instinct  of  self-preservation 
in  humanity.  The  instinct  for  beauty  is 
set  in  human  nature,  as  surely  as  the  [1030 
instinct  for  knowledge  is  set  there,  or  the 
instinct  for  conduct.  If  the  instinct  for 
beauty  is  served  by  Greek  literature  and 
art  as  it  is  served  by  no  other  literature 
and  art,  we  may  trust  to  the  instinct  of 
self-preservation  in  humanity  for  keeping 
Greek  as  part  of  our  culture.  We  may 
trust  to  it  for  even  making  the  study  of 
Greek  more  prevalent  than  it  is  now. 
Greek  will  come,  I  hope,  some  day  [1040 
to  be  studied  more  rationally  than  at 
present;  but  it  will  be  increasingly  studied 
as  men  increasingly  feel  the  need  in  them 
for  beauty,  and  how  powerfully  Greek 


art  and  Greek  literature  can  serve  this 
need.  Women  will  again  study  Greek, 
as  Lady  Jane  Grey  did;  I  believe  that  in 
that  chain  of  forts,  with  which  the  fair 
host  of  the  Amazons  are  now  engirdling 
our  English  universities,  I  find  that  [1050 
here  in  America,  in  colleges  like  Smith 
College  in  Massachusetts,  and  Vassar 
College  in  the  State  of  New  York,  and  in 
the  happy  families  of  the  mixed  univer- 
sities out  West,  they  are  studying  it  al- 
ready. 

Defuit  una  mihi  symmetric  prisca, — 
"The  antique  symmetry  was  the  one 
thing  wanting  to  me,"  said  Leonardo  da 
Vinci;  and  he  was  an  Italian.  I  will  [1060 
not  presume  to  speak  for  the  Americans, 
but  I  am  sure  that,  in  the  Englishman, 
the  want  of  this  admirable  symmetry  of 
the  Greeks  is  a  thousand  times  more 
great  and  crying  than  in  any  Italian. 
The  results  of  the  want  show  themselves 
most  glaringly,  perhaps,  in  our  architec- 
ture, but  they  show  themselves,  also,  in 
all  our  art.  Fit  details  strictly  combined, 
in  view  of  a  large  general  result  nobly  [1070 
conceived;  that  is  just  the  beautiful  sym- 
metria  prisca  of  the  Greeks,  and  it  is 
just  where  we  English  fail,  where  all  our 
art  fails.  Striking  ideas  we  have,  and 
well-executed  details  we  have;  but  that 
high  symmetry  which,  with  satisfying 
and  delightful  effect,  combines  them,  we 
seldom  or  never  have.  The  glorious 
beauty  of  the  Acropolis  at  Athens  did 
not  come  from  single  fine  things  [1080 
stuck  about  on  that  hill,  a  statue  here, 
a  gateway  there; — no,  it  arose  from  all 
things  being  perfectly  combined  for  a 
supreme  total  effect.  What  must  not  an 
Englishman  feel  about  our  deficiencies 
in  this  respect,  as  the  sense  for  beauty, 
whereof  this  symmetry  is  an  essential 
element,  awakens  and  strengthens  within 
him!  what  will  not  one  day  be  his  re- 
spect and  desire  for  Greece  and  its  [1090 
symmetric  prisca,  when  the  scales  drop 
from  his  eyes  as  he  walks  the  London 
streets,  and  he  sees  such  a  lesson  in  mean- 
ness as  the  Strand,  for  instance,  in  its  true 
deformity!  But  here  we  are  coming  to 
our  friend  Mr.  Ruskin's  province,  and  I 
will  not  intrude  upon  it,  for  he  is  its  very 
sufficient  guardian. 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  so  we  at  last  find,  it  seems,  we  find 
flowing  in  favor  of  the  humanities  the  [uoo 
natural  and  necessary  stream  of  things, 
Avhich  seemed  against  them  when  we 
started.  The  "hairy  quadruped  furnished 
with  a  tail  and  pointed  ears,  probably 
arboreal  in  his  habits,"  this  good  fellow 
carried  hidden  in  his  nature,  apparently, 
something  destined  to  develop  into  a 
necessity  for  humane  letters.  Nay,  more; 
we  seem  finally  to  be  even  led  to  the 
further  conclusion  that  our  hairy  an-  [mo 
cestor  carried  in  his  nature,  also,  a  neces- 
sity for  Greek. 

And  therefore,  to  say  the  truth,  I  can- 
not really  think  that  humane  letters  are 
in  much  actual  danger  of  being  thrust 
out  from  their  leading  place  in  education, 
in  spite  of  the  array  of  authorities  against 
them  at  this  moment.  So  long  as  human 
nature  is  what  it  is,  their  attractions  will 
remain  irresistible.  As  with  Greek,  [1120 
so  with  letters  generally:  they  will  some 
day  come,  we  may  hope,  to  be  studied 
more  rationally,  but  they  will  not  lose 
their  place.  What  will  happen  will  rather 
be  that  there  will  be  crowded  into  educa- 
tion other  matters  besides,  far  too  many; 
there  will  be,  perhaps,  a  period  of  un- 
settlement  and  confusion  and  false  ten- 
dency; but  letters  will  not  in  the  end 
lose  their  leading  place.  If  they  lose  [1130 
it  for  a  time,  they  will  get  it  back  again. 
We  shall  be  brought  back  to  them  by  our 
wants  and  aspirations.  And  a  poor 
humanist  may  possess  his  soul  in  patience, 
neither  strive  nor  cry,  admit  the  energy 
and  brilliancy  of  the  partisans  of  physical 
science,  and  their  present  favor  with  the 
public,  to  be  far  greater  than  his  own, 
and  still  have  a  happy  faith  that  the 
nature  of  things  works  silently  on  [1140 
behalf  of  the  studies  which  he  loves, 
and  that,  while  we  shall  all  have  to  ac- 
quaint ourselves  with  the  great  results 
reached  by  modern  science,  and  to  give 
ourselves  as  much  training  in  its  dis- 
ciplines as  we  can  conveniently  carry, 
yet  the  majority  of  men  will  always  re- 
quire humane  letters;  and  so  much  the 
more,  as  they  have  the  more  and  the 
greater  results  of  science  to  relate  [1150 
to  the  need  in  man  for  conduct,  and  to 
the  need  in  him  for  beauty. 


THOMAS  HENRY  HUXLEY  (1825-1895) 

ON  THE  ADVISABLENESS  OF  IM- 
PROVING NATURAL  KNOWLEDGE 

This  time  two  hundred  years  ago — in 
the  beginning  of  January,  1666 — those 
of  our  forefathers  who  inhabited  this  great 
and  ancient  city,  took  breath  between 
the  shocks  of  two  fearful  calamities:  one 
not  quite  past,  although  its  fury  had 
abated ;  the  other  to  come. 

Within  a  few  yards  of  the  very  spot  on 
which  we  are  assembled,  so  the  tradition 
runs,  that  painful  and  deadly  malady,  [10 
the  plague,  appeared  in  the  latter  months 
of  1664;  and,  though  no  new  visitor, 
smote  the  people  of  England,  and  es- 
pecially of  her  capital,  with  a  violence 
unknown  before,  in  the  course  of  the 
following  year.  The  hand  of  a  master 
has  pictured  what  happened  in  those 
dismal  months;  and  in  that  truest  of 
fictions,  The  History  of  the  Plague  Year, 
Defoe  shows  death,  with  every  accom-  [20 
paniment  of  pain  and  terror,  stalking 
through  the  narrow  streets  of  old  London, 
and  changing  their  busy  hum  into  a 
silence  broken  only  by  the  wailing  of  the 
mourners  of  fifty  thousand  dead;  by  the 
woful  denunciations  and  mad  prayers  of 
fanatics;  and  by  the  madder  yells  of 
despairing  profligates. 

But,  about  this  time,  in  1666,  the  death- 
rate  had  sunk  to  nearly  its  ordinary  [30 
amount;  a  case  of  plague  occurred  only 
here  and  there,  and  the  richer  citizens 
who  had  flown  from  the  pest  had  returned 
to  their  dwellings.  The  remnant  of  the 
people  began  to  toil  at  the  accustomed 
round  of  duty,  or  of  pleasure;  and  the 
stream  of  city  life  bid  fair  to  flow  back 
along  its  old  bed,  with  renewed  and  un- 
interrupted vigor. 

The  newly-kindled  hope  was  deceit-  [40 
ful.  The  great  plague,  indeed,  returned 
no  more;  but  what  it  had  done  for  the 
Londoners,  the  great  fire,  which  broke  out 
in  the  autumn  of  1666,  did  for  London; 
and,  in  September  of  that  year,  a  heap 
of  ashes  and  the  indestructible  energy 
of  the  people  were  all  that  remained  of 
the  glory  of  five-sixths  of  the  city  within 
the  walls. 


HUXLEY 


721 


Our  forefathers  had  their  own  ways  [50 
of  accounting  for  each  of  these  calamities. 
They  submitted  to  the  plague  in  humility 
and  in  penitence,  for  they  believed  it  to 
be  the  judgment  of  God.  But  towards 
the  fire  they  were  furiously  indignant, 
interpreting  it  as  the  effect  of  the  malice  of 
man, — as  the  work  of  the  Republicans, 
or  of  the  Papists,  according  as  their  pre- 
possessions ran  in  favor  of  loyalty  or  of 
Puritanism.  [60 

It  would,  I  fancy,  have  fared  but  ill 
with  one  who,  standing  where  I  now 
stand,  in  what  was  then  a  thickly-peopled 
and  fashionable  part  of  London,  should 
have  broached  to  our  ancestors  the  doc- 
trine which  I  now  propound  to  you — 
that  all  their  hypotheses  were  alike 
wrong;  that  the  plague  was  no  more,  in 
their  sense,  Divine  judgment,  than  the 
fire  was  the  work  of  any  political,  or  [70 
of  any  religious,  sect;  but  that  they  were 
themselves  the  authors  of  both  plague 
and  fire,  and  that  they  must  look  to  them- 
selves to  prevent  the  recurrence  of  calami- 
ties, to  all  appearance  so  peculiarly  be- 
yond the  reach  of  human  control — so 
evidently  the  result  of  the  wrath  of  God, 
or  of  the  craft  and  subtlety  of  an  enemy. 

And  one  may  picture  to  one's  self  how 
harmoniously  the  holy  cursing  of  the  [80 
Puritan  of  that  day  would  have  chimed 
in  with  the  unholy  cursing  and  the  crack- 
ling wit  of  the  Rochesters  and  Sedleys, 
and  with  the  revilings  of  the  political  fa- 
natics, if  my  imaginary  plain  dealer  had 
gone  on  to  say  that,  if  the  return  of  such 
misfortunes  were  ever  rendered  impos- 
sible, it  would  not  be  in  virtue  of  the  vic- 
tory of  the  faith  of  Laud,  or  of  that  of 
Milton;  and,  as  little,  by  the  triumph  [90 
of  republicanism,  as  by  that  of  monarchy. 
But  that  the  one  thing  needful  for  com- 
passing this  end  was,  that  the  people  of 
England  should  second  the  efforts  of  an 
insignificant  corporation,  the  establish- 
ment of  which,  a  few  years  before  the 
epoch  of  the  great  plague  and  the  great 
fire,  had  been  as  little  noticed,  as  they 
were  conspicuous. 

Some  twenty  years  before  the  out-  [100 
break  of  the  plague  a  few  calm  and 
thoughtful    students    banded    themselves 


together  for  the  purpose,  as  they  phrased 
it,  of  "improving  natural  knowledge." 
The  ends  they  proposed  to  attain  cannot 
be  stated  more  clearly  than  in  the  words  of 
one  of  the  founders  of  the  organisation : — 

"Our  business  was  (precluding  matters 
of  theology  and  state  affairs)  to  discourse 
and  consider  of  philosophical  en-  [no 
quiries,  and  such  as  related  thereunto: — 
as  Physick,  Anatomy,  Geometry,  As- 
tronomy, Navigation,  Staticks,  Magnet- 
icks,  Chymicks,  Mechanicks,  and  Nat- 
ural Experiments;  with  the  state  of  these 
studies  and  their  cultivation  at  home  and 
abroad.  We  then  discoursed  of  the  circu- 
lation of  the  blood,  the  valves  in  the 
veins,  the  venae  lacteae,  the  lymphatic 
vessels,  the  Copernican  hypothesis,  [120 
the  nature  of  comets  and  new  stars,  the 
satellites  of  Jupiter,  the  oval  shape  (as 
it  then  appeared)  of  Saturn,  the  spots  on 
the  sun  and  its  turning  on  its  own  axis, 
the  inequalities  and  selenography  of  the 
moon,  the  several  phases  of  Venus  and 
Mercury,  the  improvement  of  telescopes 
and  grinding  of  glasses  for  that  purpose, 
the  weight  of  air,  the  possibility  or  im- 
possibility of  vacuities  and  nature's  [130 
abhorrence  thereof,  the  Torricellian  ex- 
periment in  quicksilver,  the  descent  of 
heavy  bodies  and  the  degree  of  accelera- 
tion therein,  with  divers  other  things  of 
like  nature,  some  of  which  were  then  but 
new  discoveries,  and  others  not  so  gen- 
erally known  and  embraced  as  now  they 
are;  with  other  things  appertaining  to 
what  hath  been  called  the  New  Philos- 
ophy, which  from  the  times  of  Galileo  [140 
at  Florence,  and  Sir  Francis  Bacon  (Lord 
Verulam)  in  England,  hath  been  much 
cultivated  in  Italy,  France,  Germany, 
and  other  parts  abroad,  as  well  as  with 
us  in  England." 

The  learned  Dr.  Wallis,  writing  in  1696, 
narrates  in  these  words  what  happened 
half  a  century  before,  or  about  1645. 
The  associates  met  at  Oxford,  in  the  rooms 
of  Dr.  Wilkins,  who  was  destined  to  [150 
become  a  bishop;  and  subsequently  com- 
ing together  in  London,  they  attracted 
the  notice  of  the  king.  And  it  is  a 
strange  evidence  of  the  taste  for  knowledge 
which  the  most  obviously  worthless  of  the 
Stuarts  shared  with  his  father  and  grand- 


722 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


father,  that  Charles  the  Second  was  not 
content  with  saying  witty  things  about 
his  philosophers,  but  did  wise  things  with 
regard  to  them.  For  he  not  only  be-  [160 
stowed  upon  them  such  attention  as  he 
could  spare  from  his  poodles  and  his 
mistresses,  but,  being  in  his  usual  state 
of  impecuniosity,  begged  for  them  of  the 
Duke  of  Ormond;  and,  that  step  being 
without  effect,  gave  them  Chelsea  Col- 
lege, a  charter,  and  a  mace:  crowning  his 
favors  in  the  best  way  they  could  be 
crowned,  by  burdening  them  no  further 
with  royal  patronage  or  state  inter-  [170 
ference. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  half-dozen  young 
men,  studious  of  the  "New  Philosophy," 
who  met  in  one  another's  lodgings  in 
Oxford  or  in  London,  in  the  middle  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  grew  in  numer- 
ical and  in  real  strength,  until,  in  its  latter 
part,  the  "Royal  Society  for  the  Improve- 
ment of  Natural  Knowledge"  had  already 
become  famous,  and  had  acquired  a  [180 
claim  upon  the  veneration  of  English- 
men, which  it  has  ever  since  retained,  as 
the  principal  focus  of  scientific  activity 
in  our  islands,  and  the  chief  champion  of 
the  cause  it  was  formed  to  support. 

It  was  by  the  aid  of  the  Royal  Society 
that  Newton  published  his  Principia.  If 
all  the  books  in  the  world,  except  the  Phil- 
osophical Transactions,  were  destroyed, 
it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  founda-  [190 
tions  of  physical  science  would  remain 
unshaken,  and  that  the  vast  intellectual 
progress  of  the  last  two  centuries  would 
be  largely,  though  incompletely,  recorded. 
Nor  have  any  signs  of  halting  or  of  de- 
crepitude manifested  themselves  in  our 
own  times.  As  in  Dr.  Wallis's  days,  so 
in  these,  "our  business  is,  precluding 
theology  and  state  affairs,  to  discourse 
and  consider  of  philosophical  en-  [200 
quiries."  But  our  "  Mathematick "  is 
one  which  Newton  would  have  to  go  to 
school  to  learn;  our  "Staticks,  Mechan- 
icks,  Magneticks,  Chymicks,  and  Nat- 
ural Experiments"  constitute  a  mass  of 
physical  and  chemical  knowledge,  a 
glimpse  at  which  would  compensate 
Galileo  for  the  doings  of  a  score  of  in- 
quisitorial cardinals,  our  "Physick"  and 
"Anatomy"     have    embraced     such  [210 


infinite  varieties  of  being,  have  laid  open 
such  new  worlds  in  time  and  space,  have 
grappled,  not  unsuccessfully,  with  such 
complex  problems,  that  the  eyes  of  Vesa- 
lius  and  of  Harvey  might  be  dazzled  by 
the  sight  of  the  tree  that  has  grown  out 
of  their  grain  of  mustard  seed. 

The  fact  is  perhaps  rather  too  much, 
than  too  little,  forced  upon  one's  notice, 
nowadays,  that  all  this  marvellous  [220 
intellectual  growth  has  a  no  less  wonder- 
ful expression  in  practical  life;  and  that, 
in  this  respect,  if  in  no  other,  the  move- 
ment symbolized  by  the  progress  of  the 
Royal  Society  stands  without  a  parallel 
in  the  history  of  mankind. 

A  series  of  volumes  as  bulky  as  the 
Transactions  of  the  Royal  Society  might 
possibly  be  filled  with  the  subtle  specula- 
tions of  the  Schoolmen;  not  improb-  [230 
ably  the  obtaining  a  mastery  over  the 
products  of  mediaeval  thought  might 
necessitate  an  even  greater  expenditure 
of  time  and  of  energy  than  the  acquire- 
ment of  the  "New  Philosophy";  but 
though  such  work  engrossed  the  best 
intellects  of  Europe  for  a  longer  time  than 
has  elapsed  since  the  great  fire,  its  effects 
were  "writ  in  water,"  so  far  as  our  social 
state  is  concerned.  [240 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  noble  first 
President  of  the  Royal  Society  could  re- 
visit the  upper  air  and  once  more  gladden 
his  eyes  with  a  sight  of  the  familiar  mace, 
he  would  find  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
material  civilization  more  different  from 
that  of  his  day,  than  that  of  the  seven- 
teenth was  from  that  of  the  first  century. 
And  if  Lord  Brouncker's  native  saga- 
city had  not  deserted  his  ghost,  he  [250 
would  need  no  long  reflection  to  discover 
that  all  these  great  ships,  these  railways, 
these  telegraphs,  these  factories,  these 
printing-presses,  without  which  the  whole 
fabric  of  modern  English  society  would 
collapse  into  a  mass  of  stagnant  and 
starving  pauperism, — that  all  these  pillars 
of  our  State  are  but  the  ripples  and  the 
bubbles  upon  the  surface  of  that  great 
spiritual  stream,  the  springs  of  which  [260 
only,  he  and  his  fellows  were  privileged  to 
see;  and  seeing,  to  recognize  as  that 
which  it  behoved  them  above  all  things 
to  keep  pure  and  undefiled. 


HUXLEY 


723 


It  may  not  be  too  great  a  flight  of  im- 
agination to  conceive  our  noble  revenant 
not  forgetful  of  the  great  troubles  of  his 
own  day,  and  anxious  to  know  how  often 
London  had  been  burned  down  since  his 
time,  and  how  often  the  plague  had  [270 
carried  off  its  thousands.  He  would  have 
to  learn  that,  although  London  contains 
tenfold  the  inflammable  matter  that  it 
did  in  1666;  though,  not  content  with 
filling  our  rooms  with  woodwork  and 
light  draperies,  we  must  needs  lead  in- 
flammable and  explosive  gases  into  every 
corner  of  our  streets  and  houses,  we  never 
allow  even  a  street  to  burn  down.  And 
if  he  asked  how  this  had  come  about,  [280 
we  should  have  to  explain  that  the  im- 
provement of  natural  knowledge  has  fur- 
nished us  with  dozens  of  machines  for 
throwing  water  upon  fires,  any  one  of 
which  would  have  furnished  the  ingenious 
Mr.  Hooke,  the  first  "curator  and  ex- 
perimenter" of  the  Royal  Society,  with 
ample  materials  for  discourse  before  half 
a  dozen  meetings  of  that  body;  and  that, 
to  say  truth,  except  for  the  progress  [290 
of  natural  knowledge,  we  should  not  have 
been  able  to  make  even  the  tools  by  which 
these  machines  are  constructed.  And, 
further,  it  would  be  necessary  to  add, 
that  although  severe  fires  sometimes  oc- 
cur and  inflict  great  damage,  the  loss  is 
very  generally  compensated  by  societies, 
the  operations  of  which  have  been  ren- 
dered possible  only  by  the  progress  of 
natural  knowledge  in  the  direction  of  [300 
mathematics,  and  the  accumulation  of 
wealth  in  virtue  of  other  natural  knowl- 
edge. 

But  the  plague?  My  Lord  Brouncker's 
observation  would  not,  I  fear,  lead  him 
to  think  that  Englishmen  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  are  purer  in  life,  or  more 
fervent  in  religious  faith,  than  the  genera- 
tion which  could  produce  a  Boyle,  an 
Evelyn,  and  a  Milton.  He  might  [310 
find  the  mud  of  society  at  the  bottom, 
instead  of  at  the  top,  but  I  fear  that  the 
sum  total  would  be  as  deserving  of  swift 
judgment  as  at  the  time  of  the  Restora- 
tion. And  it  would  be  our  duty  to  ex- 
plain once  more,  and  this  time  not  with- 
out shame,  that  we  have  no  reason  to 
believe   that   it   is   the   improvement   of 


our  faith,  nor  that  of  our  morals,  which 
keeps  the  plague  from  our  city;  but,  [320 
again,  that  it  is  the  improvement  of  our 
natural  knowledge. 

We  have  learned  that  pestilences  will 
only  take  up  their  abode  among  those 
who  have  prepared  unswept  and  ungar- 
nished  residences  for  them.  Their  cities 
must  have  narrow,  unwatered  streets, 
foul  with  accumulated  garbage.  Their 
houses  must  be  ill-drained,  ill-lighted, 
ill-ventilated.  Their  subjects  must  [330 
be  ill-washed,  ill-fed,  ill-clothed.  The 
London  of  1655  was  such  a  city.  The 
cities  of  the  East,  where  plague  has  an 
enduring  dwelling,  are  such  cities.  We, 
in  later  times,  have  learned  somewhat  of 
Nature,  and  partly  obey  her.  Because 
of  this  partial  improvement  of  our  natu- 
ral knowledge  and  of  that  fractional 
obedience,  we  have  no  plague;  because 
that  knowledge  is  still  very  imperfect  [340 
and  that  obedience  yet  incomplete,  ty- 
phoid is  our  companion  and  cholera  our 
visitor.  But  it  is  not  presumptuous  to 
express  the  belief  that,  when  our  knowl- 
edge is  more  complete  and  our  obedience 
the  expression  of  our  knowledge,  London 
will  count  her  centuries  of  freedom  from 
typhoid  and  cholera,  as  she  now  grate- 
fully reckons  her  two  hundred  years  of  ig- 
norance of  that  plague  which  swooped  [350 
upon  her  thrice  in  the  first  half  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 

Surely,  there  is  nothing  in  these  ex- 
planations which  is  not  fully  borne  out 
by  the  facts?  Surely,  the  principles 
involved  in  them  are  now  admitted  among 
the  fixed  beliefs  of  all  thinking  men? 
Surely,  it  is  true  that  our  countrymen 
are  less  subject  to  fire,  famine,  pestilence, 
and  all  the  evils  which  result  from  a  [360 
want  of  command  over  and  due  antici- 
pation of  the  course  of  Nature,  than 
were  the  countrymen  of  Milton;  and 
health,  wealth,  and  well-being  are  more 
abundant  with  us  than  with  them?  But 
no  less  certainly  is  the  difference  due  to 
the  improvement  of  our  knowledge  of 
Nature,  and  the  extent  to  which  that 
improved  knowledge  has  been  incor- 
porated with  the  household  words  of  [370 
men,  and  has  supplied  the  springs  of  their 
daily  actions. 


724 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Granting  for  a  moment,  then,  the  truth 
of  that  which  the  depreciators  of  natural 
knowledge  are  so  fond  of  urging,  that  its 
improvement  can  only  add  to  the  resources 
of  our  material  civilization;  admitting  it 
to  be  possible  that  the  founders  of  the 
Royal  Society  themselves  looked  for  no 
other  reward  than  this,  I  cannot  con-  [380 
fess  that  I  was  guilty  of  exaggeration 
when  I  hinted,  that  to  him  who  had  the 
gift  of  distinguishing  between  prominent 
events  and  important  events,  the  origin 
of  a  combined  effort  on  the  part  of  man- 
kind to  improve  natural  knowledge  might 
have  loomed  larger  than  the  Plague  and 
have  outshone  the  glare  of  the  Fire;  as 
a  something  fraught  with  a  wealth  of 
beneficence  to  mankind,  in  compari-  [390 
son  with  which  the  damage  done  by  those 
ghastly  evils  would  shrink  into  insignifi- 
cance. 

It  is  very  certain  that  for  every  victim 
slain  by  the  plague,  hundreds  of  mankind 
exist  and  find  a  fair  share  of  happiness  in 
the  world  by  the  aid  of  the  spinning  jenny. 
And  the  great  fire,  at  its  worst,  could  not 
have  burned  the  supply  of  coal,  the  daily 
working  of  which,  in  the  bowels  of  the  [400 
earth,  made  possible  by  the  steam  pump, 
gives  rise  to  an  amount  of  wealth  to  which 
the  millions  lost  in  old  London  are  but  as 
an  old  song. 

But  spinning  jenny  and  steam  pump 
are,  after  all,  but  toys,  possessing  an  acci- 
dental value;  and  natural  knowledge  creates 
multitudes  of  more  subtle  contrivances, 
the  praises  of  which  do  not  happen  to  be 
sung  because  they  are  not  directly  con-  [410 
vertible  into  instruments  for  creating 
wealth.  When  I  contemplate  natural 
knowledge  squandering  such  gifts  among 
men,  the  only  appropriate  comparison  I 
can  find  for  her  is,  to  liken  her  to  such  a 
peasant  woman  as  one  sees  in  the  Alps, 
striding  ever  upward,  heavily  burdened, 
and  with  mind  bent  only  on  her  home;  but 
yet  without  effort  and  without  thought, 
knitting  for  her  children.  Now  stock-  [420 
ings  are  good  and  comfortable  things,  and 
the  children  will  undoubtedly  be  much 
the  better  for  them;  but  surely  it  would 
be  short-sighted,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  to 
depreciate  this  toiling  mother  as  a  mere 


stocking-machine — a  mere  provider  of  phys- 
ical comforts? 

However,  there  are  blind  leaders  of  the 
blind,  and  not  a  few  of  them,  who  take 
this  view  of  natural  knowledge,  and  [430 
can  see  nothing  in  the  bountiful  mother  of 
humanity  but  a  sort  of  comfort-grinding 
machine.  According  to  them,  the  improve- 
ment of  natural  knowledge  always  has 
been,  and  always  must  be,  synonymous 
with  no  more  than  the  improvement  of 
the  material  resources  and  the  increase  of 
the  gratifications  of  men. 

Natural  knowledge  is,  in  their  eyes,  no 
real  mother  of  mankind,  bringing  [440 
them  up  with  kindness,  and,  if  need  be, 
with  sternness,  in  the  way  they  should  go, 
and  instructing  them  in  all  things  needful 
for  their  welfare;  but  a  sort  of  fairy  god- 
mother, ready  to  furnish  her  pets  with 
shoes  of  swiftness,  swords  of  sharpness,  and 
omnipotent  Aladdin's  lamps,  so  that  they 
may  have  telegraphs  to  Saturn,  and  see 
the  other  side  of  the  moon,  and  thank 
God  they  are  better  than  their  be-  [450 
nighted  ancestors. 

If  this  talk  were  true,  I,  for  one,  should 
not  greatly  care  to  toil  in  the  service  of 
natural  knowledge.  I  think  I  would  just 
as  soon  be  quietly  chipping  my  own  flint 
axe,  after  the  manner  of  my  forefathers  a 
few  thousand  years  back,  as  be  troubled 
with  the  endless  malady  of  thought  which 
now  infests  us  all,  for  such  reward.  But 
I  venture  to  say  that  such  views  are  [460 
contrary  alike  to  reason  and  to  fact.  Those 
who  discourse  in  such  fashion  seem  to  me 
to  be  so  intent  upon  trying  to  see  what  is 
above  Nature,  or  what  is  behind  her,  that 
they  are  blind  to  what  stares  them  in  the 
face  in  her. 

I  should  not  venture  to  speak  thus 
strongly  if  my  justification  were  not  to  be 
found  in  the  simplest  and  most  obvious 
facts, — if  it  needed  more  than  an  ap-  [470 
peal  to  the  most  notorious  truths  to  justify 
my  assertion,  that  the  improvement  of 
natural  knowledge,  whatever  direction  it 
has  taken,  and  however  low  the  aims  of 
those  who  may  have  commenced  it — has 
not  only  conferred  practical  benefits  on 
men,  but,  in  so  doing,  has  effected  a  revolu- 
tion in  their  conceptions  of  the  universe 
and   of   themselves,    and   has   profoundly 


HUXLEY 


725 


altered  their  modes  of  thinking  and  [480 
their  views  of  right  and  wrong.  I  say 
that  natural  knowledge,  seeking  to  satisfy 
natural  wants,  has  found  the  ideas  which 
can  alone  still  spiritual  cravings.  I  say 
that  natural  knowledge,  in  desiring  to 
ascertain  the  laws  of  comfort,  has  been 
driven  to  discover  those  of  conduct,  and 
to  lay  the  foundations  of  a  new  moral- 
ity. 

Let  us  take  these  points  separately;  [490 
and  first,  what  great  ideas  has  natural 
knowledge  introduced  into  men's  minds? 

I  cannot  but  think  that  the  foundations 
of  all  natural  knowledge  were  laid  when 
the  reason  of  man  first  came  face  to  face 
with  the  facts  of  Nature;  when  the  savage 
first  learned  that  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
are  fewer  than  those  of  both;  that  it  is 
shorter  to  cross  a  stream  than  to  head  it; 
that  a  stone  stops  where  it  is  unless  [500 
it  be  moved,  and  that  it  drops  from  the 
hand  which  lets  it  go;  that  light  and  heat 
come  and  go  with  the  sun ;  that  sticks  burn 
away  in  a  fire;  that  plants  and  animals 
grow  and  die;  that  if  he  struck  his  fellow 
savage  a  blow  he  would  make  him  angry, 
and  perhaps  get  a  blow  in  return,  while  if 
he  offered  him  a  fruit  he  would  please 
him,  and  perhaps  receive  a  fish  in  exchange. 
When  men  had  acquired  this  much  [510 
knowledge,  the  outlines,  rude  though  they 
were,  of  mathematics,  of  physics,  of  chemis- 
try, of  biology,  of  moral,  economical,  and 
political  science,  were  sketched.  Nor  did 
the  germ  of  religion  fail  when  science 
began  to  bud.  Listen  to  words  which, 
though  new,  are  yet  three  thousand  years 
old:— 

"...  When  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 

moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are 

laid,  [520 

And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting 

peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  shepherd  gladdens  in  his 

heart."  l 

If  the  half  savage  Greek  could  share  our 
feelings  thus  far,  it  is  irrational  to  doubt 

1  Need  it  be  said  that  this  is  Tennyson's  English  for  Homer's 
Greek?     [Huxley] 


that  he  went  further,  to  find  as  we  do,  that 
upon  that  brief  gladness  there  follows  a 
certain  sorrow, — the  little  light  of  awak- 
ened human  intelligence  shines  so  mere  [530 
a  spark  amidst  the  abyss  of  the  unknown 
and  unknowable;  seems  so  insufficient  to 
do  more  than  illuminate  the  imperfections 
that  cannot  be  remedied,  the  aspirations 
that  cannot  be  realized,  of  man's  own  na- 
ture. But  in  this  sadness,  this  conscious- 
ness of  the  limitation  of  man,  this  sense  of 
an  open  secret  which  he  cannot  penetrate, 
lies  the  essence  of  all  religion;  and  the  at- 
tempt to  embody  it  in  the  forms  fur-  [540 
nished  by  the  intellect  is  the  origin  of  the 
higher  theologies. 

Thus  it  seems  impossible  to  imagine  but 
that  the  foundations  of  all  knowledge — 
secular  or  sacred — were  laid  when  intelli- 
gence dawned,  though  the  superstructure 
remained  for  long  ages  so  slight  and  feeble 
as  to  be  compatible  with  the  existence  of 
almost  any  general  view  respecting  the 
mode  of  governance  of  the  universe.  [550 
No  doubt,  from  the  first,  there  were  cer- 
tain phenomena  which,  to  the  rudest  mind, 
presented  a  constancy  of  occurrence,  and 
suggested  that  a  fixed  order  ruled,  at  any 
rate,  among  them.  I  doubt  if  the  grossest 
of  Fetish  worshippers  ever  imagined  that  a 
stone  must  have  a  god  within  it  to  make  it 
fall,  or  that  a  fruit  had  a  god  within  it  to 
make  it  taste  sweet.  With  regard  to  such 
matters  as  these,  it  is  hardly  question-  [560 
able  that  mankind  from  the  first  took 
strictly  positive  and  scientific  views. 

But,  with  respect  to  all  the  less  familiar 
occurrences  which  present  themselves,  un- 
cultured man,  no  doubt,  has  always  taken 
himself  as  the  standard  of  comparison,  as 
the  centre  and  measure  of  the  world;  nor 
could  he  well  avoid  doing  so.  And  finding 
that  his  apparently  uncaused  will  has  a 
powerful  effect  in  giving  rise  to  many  [570 
occurrences,  he  naturally  enough  ascribed 
other  and  greater  events  to  other  and 
greater  volitions,  and  came  to  look  upon 
the  world  and  all  that  therein  is,  as  the 
product  of  the  volitions  of  persons  like 
himself,  but  stronger,  and  capable  of  being 
appeased  or  angered,  as  he  himself  might 
be  soothed  or  irritated.  Through  such 
conceptions  of  the  plan  and  working  of 
the  universe  all  mankind  have  passed,  [580 


726 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


or  are  passing.  And  we  may  now  consider 
what  has  been  the  effect  of  the  improvement 
of  natural  knowledge  on  the  views  of  men 
who  have  reached  this  stage,  and  who  have 
begun  to  cultivate  natural  knowledge  with 
no  desire  but  that  of  "increasing  God's 
honor  and  bettering  man's  estate." 

For  example,  what  could  seem  wiser, 
from  a  mere  material  point  of  view,  more 
innocent,  from  a  theological  one,  to  [590 
an  ancient  people,  than  that  they  should 
learn  the  exact  succession  of  the  seasons, 
as  warnings  for  their  husbandmen;  or  the 
position  of  the  stars,  as  guides  to  their 
rude  navigators?  But  what  has  grown  out 
of  this  search  for  natural  knowledge  of  so 
merely  useful  a  character?  You  all  know 
the  reply.  Astronomy, — which  of  all 
sciences  has  filled  men's  minds  with  gen- 
eral ideas  of  a  character  most  foreign  [600 
to  their  daily  experience,  and  has,  more 
than  any  other,  rendered  it  impossible  for 
them  to  accept  the  beliefs  of  their  fathers. 
Astronomy, — which  tells  them  that  this 
so  vast  and  seemingly  solid  earth  is  but 
an  atom  among  atoms,  whirling,  no  man 
knows  whither,  through  illimitable  space; 
which  demonstrates  that  what  we  call  the 
peaceful  heaven  above  us,  is  but  that  space, 
filled  by  an  infinitely  subtle  matter  [610 
whose  particles  are  seething  and  surging, 
like  the  waves  of  an  angry  sea;  which  opens 
up  to  us  infinite  regions  where  nothing  is 
known,  or  ever  seems  to  have  been  known, 
but  matter  and  force,  operating  according 
to  rigid  rules;  which  leads  us  to  contem- 
plate phenomena  the  very  nature  of  which 
demonstrates  that  they  must  have  had 
a  beginning,  and  that  they  must  have  an 
end,  but  the  very  nature  of  which  also  [620 
proves  that  the  beginning  was,  to  our  con- 
ceptions of  time,  infinitely  remote,  and 
that  the  end  is  as  immeasurably  distant. 

But  it  is  not  alone  those  who  pursue 
astronomy  who  ask  for  bread  and  receive 
ideas.  What  more  harmless  than  the 
attempt  to  lift  and  distribute  water  by 
pumping  it;  what  more  absolutely  and 
grossly  utilitarian?  Yet  out  of  pumps 
grew  the  discussions  about  Nature's  [630 
abhorrence  of  a  vacuum;  and  then  it  was 
discovered  that  Nature  does  not  abhor  a 
vacuum,  but  that  air  has  weight;  and 
that  notion  paved  the  way  for  the  doc- 


trine that  all  matter  has  weight,  and  that 
the  force  which  produces  weight  is  co- 
extensive with  the  universe, — in  short, 
to  the  theory  of  universal  gravitation 
and  endless  force.  While  learning  how 
to  handle  gases  led  to  the  discovery  of  [640 
oxygen,  and  to  modern  chemistry,  and 
to  the  notion  of  the  indestructibility  of 
matter. 

Again,  what  simpler,  or  more  absolutely 
practical,  than  the  attempt  to  keep  the 
axle  of  a  wheel  from  heating  when  the 
wheel  turns  around  very  fast?  How  useful 
for  carters  and  gig  drivers  to  know  some- 
thing about  this;  and  how  good  were  it, 
if  any  ingenious  person  would  find  out  [650 
the  cause  of  such  phenomena,  and  thence 
educe  a  general  remedy  for  them.  Such 
an  ingenious  person  was  Count  Rumford; 
and  he  and  his  successors  have  landed  us 
in  the  theory  of  the  persistence,  or  inde- 
structibility, of  force.  And  in  the  infinitely 
minute,  as  in  the  infinitely  great,  the 
seekers  after  natural  knowledge  of  the 
kinds  called  physical  and  chemical,  have 
everywhere  found  a  definite  order  and  [660 
succession  of  events  which  seem  never  to 
be  infringed. 

And  how  has  it  fared  with  "Physick" 
and  Anatomy?  Have  the  anatomist,  the 
physiologist,  or  the  physician,  whose 
business  it  has  been  to  devote  themselves 
assiduously  to  that  eminently  practical 
and  direct  end,  the  alleviation  of  the 
sufferings  of  mankind, — have  they  been 
able  to  confine  their  vision  more  ab-  [670 
solutely  to  the  strictly  useful?  I  fear 
they  are  the  worst  offenders  of  all.  For 
if  the  astronomer  has  set  before  us  the 
infinite  magnitude  of  space,  and  the  prac- 
tical eternity  of  the  duration  of  the  uni- 
verse; if  the  physical  and  chemical 
philosophers  have  demonstrated  the  in- 
finite minuteness  of  its  constituent  parts, 
and  the  practical  eternity  of  matter  and 
of  force;  and  if  both  have  alike  pro-  [680 
claimed  the  universality  of  a  definite  and 
predicable  order  and  succession  of  events, 
the  workers  in  biology  have  not  only  ac- 
cepted all  these,  but  have  added  more 
startling  theses  of  their  own.  For,  as 
the  astronomers  discover  in  the  earth  no 
centre  of  the  universe,  but  an  eccentric 
speck,  so  the  naturalists  find  man  to  be 


HUXLEY 


727 


no  centre  of  the  living  world,  but  one 
amidst  endless  modifications  of  life;  [690 
and  as  the  astronomer  observes  the  mark 
of  practically  endless  time  set  upon  the 
arrangements  of  the  solar  system,  so  the 
student  of  life  finds  the  records  of  ancient 
forms  of  existence  peopling  the  world  for 
ages,  which,  in  relation  to  human  expe- 
rience, are  infinite. 

Furthermore,  the  physiologist  finds  life 
to  be  as  dependent  for  its  manifestation  on 
particular  molecular  arrangements  as  [700 
any  physical  or  chemical  phenomenon ;  and 
wherever  he  extends  his  researches,  fixed  or- 
der and  unchanging  causation  reveal  them- 
selves, as  plainly  as  in  the  rest  of  Nature. 

Nor  can  I  find  that  any  other  fate  has 
awaited  the  germ  of  Religion.  Arising, 
like  all  other  kinds  of  knowledge,  out  of 
the  action  and  interaction  of  man's  mind, 
with  that  which  is  not  man's  mind,  it 
has  taken  the  intellectual  coverings  of  [710 
Fetishism  or  Polytheism;  of  Theism  or 
Atheism;  of  Superstition  or  Rationalism. 
With  these,  and  their  relative  merits  and 
demerits,  I  have  nothing  to  do;  but  this 
it  is  needful  for  my  purpose  to  say,  that 
if  the  religion  of  the  present  differs  from 
that  of  the  past,  it  is  because  the  theology 
of  the  present  has  become  more  scientific 
than  that  of  the  past;  because  it  has  not 
only  renounced  idols  of  wood  and  [720 
idols  of  stone,  but  begins  to  see  the  neces- 
sity of  breaking  in  pieces  the  idols  built 
up  of  books  and  traditions  and  finespun  ec- 
clesiastical cobwebs:  and  of  cherishing  the 
noblest  and  most  human  of  man's  emotions, 
by  worship  "for  the  most  part  of  the  silent 
sort"  at  the  altar  of  the  Unknown. 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  new  conceptions 
implanted  in  our  minds  by  the  improve- 
ment of  natural  knowledge.  Men  [730 
have  acquired  the  ideas  of  the  practically 
infinite  extent  of  the  universe  and  of  its 
practical  eternity;  they  are  familiar  with 
the  conception  that  our  earth  is  but  an 
infinitesimal  fragment  of  that  part  of  the 
universe  which  can  be  seen;  and  that, 
nevertheless,  its  duration  is,  as  compared 
with  our  standards  of  time,  infinite.  They 
have  further  acquired  the  idea  that 
man  is  but  one  of  innumerable  forms  [740 
of  life  now  existing  on  the  globe,  and  that 
the  present  existences  are  but  the  last  of 


an  immeasurable  series  of  predecessors. 
Moreover,  every  step  they  have  made  in 
natural  knowledge  has  tended  to  extend 
and  rivet  in  their  minds  the  conception 
of  a  definite  order  of  the  universe — which 
is  embodied  in  what  are  called,  by  an  un- 
happy metaphor,  the  laws  of  Nature — and 
to  narrow  the  range  and  loosen  the  [750 
force  of  men's  belief  in  spontaneity,  or 
in  changes  other  than  such  as  arise  out 
of  that  definite  order  itself. 

Whether  these  ideas  are  well  or  ill 
founded  is  not  the  question.  No  one 
can  deny  that  they  exist,  and  have  been 
the  inevitable  outgrowth  of  the  improve- 
ment of  natural  knowledge.  And  if  so,  it 
cannot  be  doubted  that  they  are  changing 
the  form  of  men's  most  cherished  and  [760 
most  important  convictions. 

And  as  regards  the  second  point — the 
extent  to  which  the  improvement  of 
natural  knowledge  has  remodelled  and 
altered  what  may  be  termed  the  intel- 
lectual ethics  of  men, — what  are  among  the 
moral  convictions  most  fondly  held  by 
barbarous  and  semi-barbarous  people? 

They  are  the  convictions  that  authority 
is  the  soundest  basis  of  belief;  that  [770 
merit  attaches  to  a  readiness  to  believe; 
that  the  doubting  disposition  is  a  bad  one, 
and  scepticism  a  sin;  that  when  good  au- 
thority has  pronounced  what  is  to  be 
believed,  and  faith  has  accepted  it,  reason 
has  no  further  duty.  There  are  many  ex- 
cellent persons  who  yet  hold  by  these 
principles,  and  it  is  not  my  present  busi- 
ness, or  intention,  to  discuss  their  views. 
All  I  wish  to  bring  clearly  before  your  [780 
minds  is  the  unquestionable  fact,  that  the 
improvement  of  natural  knowledge  is  ef- 
fected by  methods  which  directly  give  the 
lie  to  all  these  convictions,  and  assume 
the  exact  reverse  of  each  to  be  true. 

The  improver  of  natural  knowledge 
absolutely  refuses  to  acknowledge  au- 
thority, as  such.  For  him,  scepticism  is 
the  highest  of  duties;  blind  faith  the  one 
unpardonable  sin.  And  it  cannot  be  [790 
otherwise,  for  every  great  advance  in 
natural  knowledge  has  involved  the  ab- 
solute rejection  of  authority,  the  cherish- 
ing of  the  keenest  scepticism,  the  annihila- 
tion of  the  spirit  of  blind  faith;  and  the 


728 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


most  ardent  votary  of  science  holds  his 
firmest  convictions,  not  because  the  men 
he  most  venerates  hold  them;  not  because 
their  verity  is  testified  by  portents  and 
wonders;  but  because  his  experience  [800 
teaches  him  that  whenever  he  chooses 
to  bring  these  convictions  into  contact 
with  their  primary  source,  Nature — 
whenever  he  thinks  fit  to  test  them  by 
appealing  to  experiment  and  to  observa- 
tion— Nature  will  confirm  them.  The  man 
of  science  has  learned  to  believe  in  justi- 
fication, not  by  faith,  but  by  verification. 

Thus,  without  for  a  moment  pretend- 
ing to  despise  the  practical  results  of  [810 
improvement  of  natural  knowledge,  and 
its  beneficial  influence  on  material  civiliza- 
tion, it  must,  I  think,  be  admitted  that 
the  great  ideas,  some  of  which  I  have 
indicated,  and  the  ethical  spirit  which 
I  have  endeavored  to  sketch,  in  the  few 
moments  which  remained  at  my  disposal, 
constitute  the  real  and  permanent  sig- 
nificance of  natural  knowledge. 

If  these  ideas  be  destined,  as  I  be-  [820 
lieve  they  are,  to  be  more  and  more  firmly 
established  as  the  world  grows  older; 
if  that  spirit  be  fated,  as  I  believe  it  is, 
to  extend  itself  into  all  departments 
of  human  thought,  and  to  become  co- 
extensive with  the  range  of  knowledge; 
if,  as  our  race  approaches  its  maturity,  it 
discovers,  as  I  believe  it  will,  that  there 
is  but  one  kind  of  knowledge  and  but  one 
method  of  acquiring  it;  then  we,  who  [830 
are  still  children,  may  justly  feel  it  our 
highest  duty  to  recognize  the  advisable- 
ness  of  improving  natural  knowledge,  and 
so  to  aid  ourselves  and  our  successors 
in  our  course  towards  the  noble  goal 
which  lies  before  mankind. 


JOHN  HENRY,  CARDINAL  NEWMAN 
(1801-1890) 

THE   IDEA  OF  A  UNIVERSITY 

DISCOURSE  VI 

KNOWLEDGE     VIEWED     IN     RELATION     TO 

LEARNING 

It  were  well  if  the  English,  like  the 
Greek  language,  possessed  some  definite 
word  to  express,  simply  and  generally, 
intellectual  proficiency  or  perfection,  such 


as  "health,"  as  used  with  reference  to 
the  animal  frame,  and  "virtue,"  with 
reference  to  our  moral  nature.  I  am  not 
able  to  find  such  a  term; — talent,  ability, 
genius,  belong  distinctly  to  the  raw  ma- 
terial, which  is  the  subject-matter,  [10 
not  to  that  excellence  which  is  the  result 
of  exercise  and  training.  When  we  turn, 
indeed,  to  the  particular  kinds  of  intel- 
lectual perfection,  words  are  forthcoming 
for  our  purpose,  as,  for  instance,  judg- 
ment, taste,  and  skill;  yet  even  these 
belong,  for  the  most  part,  to  powers  or 
habits  bearing  upon  practice  or  upon  art, 
and  not  to  any  perfect  condition  of  the 
intellect,  considered  in  itself.  Wisdom,  [20 
again,  is  certainly  a  more  comprehensive 
word  than  any  other,  but  it  has  a  direct 
relation  to  conduct,  and  to  human  life. 
Knowledge,  indeed,  and  science,  express 
purely  intellectual  ideas,  but  still  not  a 
state  or  quality  of  the  intellect;  for  knowl- 
edge, in  its  ordinary  sense,  is  but  one  of 
its  circumstances,  denoting  a  possession 
or  a  habit;  and  science  has  been  appro- 
priated to  the  subject-matter  of  the  [30 
intellect,  instead  of  belonging  in  English, 
as  it  ought  to  do,  to  the  intellect  itself. 
The  consequence  is  that,  on  an  occasion 
like  this,  many  words  are  necessary,  in 
order,  first,  to  bring  out  and  convey  what 
surely  is  no  difficult  idea  in  itself, — that  of 
the  cultivation  of  the  intellect  as  an  end; 
next,  in  order  to  recommend  what  surely 
is  no  unreasonable  object;  and  lastly,  to 
describe  and  make  the  mind  realize  [40 
the  particular  perfection  in  which  that 
object  consists.  Every  one  knows  prac- 
tically what  are  the  constituents  of  health 
or  of  virtue;  and  every  one  recognizes 
health  and  virtue  as  ends  to  be  pursued; 
it  is  otherwise  with  intellectual  excel- 
lence, and  this  must  be  my  excuse,  if  I 
seem  to  anyone  to  be  bestowing  a  good 
deal  of  labor  on  a  preliminary  matter. 

In  default  of  a  recognized  term,  I  [50 
have  called  the  perfection  or  virtue  of 
the  intellect  by  the  name  of  philosophy, 
philosophical  knowledge,  enlargement  of 
mind,  or  illumination;  terms  which  are 
not  uncommonly  given  to  it  by  writers 
of  this  day:  but,  whatever  name  we  be- 
stow on  it,  it  is,  I  believe,  as  a  matter 
of  history,   the  business  of  a  university 


NEWMAN 


720 


to  make  this  intellectual  culture  its  di- 
rect scope,  or  to  employ  itself  in  the  [60 
education  of  the  intellect, — just  as  the 
work  of  a  hospital  lies  in  healing  the  sick 
or  wounded,  of  a  riding  or  fencing  school, 
or  of  a  gymnasium,  in  exercising  the 
limbs,  of  an  almshouse,  in  aiding  and 
solacing  the  old,  of  an  orphanage,  in 
protecting  innocence,  of  a  penitentiary, 
in  restoring  the  guilty.  I  say,  a  univer- 
sity, taken  in  its  bare  idea,  and  before 
we  view  it  as  an  instrument  of  the  [70 
church,  has  this  object  and  this  mission; 
it  contemplates  neither  moral  impression 
nor  mechanical  production;  it  professes 
to  exercise  the  mind  neither  in  art  nor  in 
duty;  its  function  is  intellectual  culture; 
here  it  may  leave  its  scholars,  and  it  has 
done  its  work  when  it  has  done  as  much 
as  this.  It  educates  the  intellect  to  reason 
well  in  all  matters,  to  reach  out  towards 
truth,  and  to  grasp  it.  [80 

•  This,  I  said  in  my  foregoing  discourse, 
was  the  object  of  a  university,  viewed  in 
itself,  and  apart  from  the  Catholic  Church, 
or  from  the  state,  or  from  any  other 
power  which  may  use  it;  and  I  illustrated 
this  in  various  ways.  I  said  that  the 
intellect  must  have  an  excellence  of  its 
own,  for  there  was  nothing  which  had  not 
its  specific  good;  that  the  word  "educate" 
would  not  be  used  of  intellectual  cul-  [90 
ture,  as  it  is  used,  had  not  the  intellect 
had  an  end  of  its  own;  that,  had  it  not 
such  an  end,  there  would  be  no  meaning 
in  calling  certain  intellectual  exercises 
"liberal,"  in  contrast  with  "useful,"  as 
is  commonly  done;  that  the  very  notion 
of  a  philosophical  temper  implied  it,  for 
it  threw  us  back  upon  research  and  sys- 
tem as  ends  in  themselves,  distinct  from 
effects  and  works  of  any  kind;  that  a  [100 
philosophical  scheme  of  knowledge,  or 
system  of  sciences,  could  not,  from  the 
nature  of  the  case,  issue  in  any  one 
definite  art  or  pursuit,  as  its  end;  and 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  the  discovery  and 
contemplation  of  truth,  to  which  research 
and  systematizing  led,  were  surely  suf- 
ficient ends,  though  nothing  beyond  them 
were  added,  and  that  they  had  ever  been 
accounted  sufficient  by  mankind.  [no 
Here  then  I  take  up  the  subject;  and, 
having   determined   that   the  cultivation 


of  the  intellect  is  an  end  distinct  and 
sufficient  in  itself,  and  that,  so  far  as 
words  go,  it  is  an  enlargement  or  illumi- 
nation, I  proceed  to  inquire  what  this 
mental  breath,  or  power,  or  light,  or  phi- 
losophy consists  in.  A  hospital  heals  a 
broken  limb  or  cures  a  fever:  what  does 
an  institution  effect,  which  professes  [120 
the  health,  not  of  the  body,  not  of  the 
soul,  but  of  the  intellect?  What  is  this 
good,  which  in  former  times,  as  well  as 
our  own,  has  been  found  worth  the  notice, 
the  appropriation,  of  the  Catholic  Church? 


I  suppose  the  prima-facie  view  which 
the  public  at  large  would  take  of  a  uni- 
versity, considering  it  as  a  place  of  educa- 
tion, is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  place 
for  acquiring  a  great  deal  of  knowl-  [130 
edge  on  a  great  many  subjects.  Memory 
is  one  of  the  first  developed  of  the  men- 
tal faculties;  a  boy's  business  when  he 
goes  to  school  is  to  learn,  that  is,  to  store 
up  things  in  his  memory.  For  some  years 
his  intellect  is  little  more  than  an  instru- 
ment for  taking  in  facts,  or  a  receptacle 
for  storing  them;  he  welcomes  them  as 
fast  as  they  come  to  him ;  he  lives  on  what 
is  without;  he  has  his  eyes  ever  about  [140 
him;  he  has  a  lively  susceptibility  of 
impressions;  he  imbibes  information  of 
every  kind;  and  little  does  he  make  his 
own  in  a  true  sense  of  the  word,  living 
rather  upon  his  neighbors  all  around 
him.  He  has  opinions,  religious,  political 
and  literary,  and,  for  a  boy,  is  very  posi- 
tive in  them  and  sure  about  them;  but  he 
gets  them  from  his  schoolfellows,  or  his 
masters,  or  his  parents,  as  the  case  [150 
may  be.  Such  as  he  is  in  his  other  rela- 
tions, such  also  is  he  in  his  school  exer- 
cises; his  mind  is  observant,  sharp,  ready, 
retentive;  he  is  almost  passive  in  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge.  I  say  this  in 
no  disparagement  of  the  idea  of  a  clever 
boy.  Geography,  chronology,  history, 
language,  natural  history,  he  heaps  up 
the  matter  of  these  studies  as  treasures 
for  a  future  day.  It  is  the  seven  [160 
years  of  plenty  with  him:  he  gathers  in 
by  handfuls,  like  the  Egyptians,  without 
counting;  and  though,  as  time  goes  on, 
there   is   exercise   for   his   argumentative 


73° 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


powers  in  the  elements  of  mathematics, 
and  for  his  taste  in  the  poets  and  orators, 
still,  while  at  school,  or  at  least  till  quite 
the  last  years  of  his  time,  he  acquires, 
and  little  more;  and  when  he  is  leaving 
for  the  university,  he  is  mainly  the  [170 
creature  of  foreign  influences  and  circum- 
stances, and  made  up  of  accidents,  homo- 
geneous or  not,  as  the  case  may  be. 
Moreover,  the  moral  habits,  which  are 
a  boy's  praise,  encourage  and  assist  this 
result;  that  is,  diligence,  assiduity,  regu- 
larity, despatch,  persevering  application; 
for  these  are  the  direct  conditions  of  ac- 
quisition, and  naturally  lead  to  it.  Ac- 
quirements, again,  are  emphatically  [180 
producible,  and  at  a  moment;  they  are  a 
something  to  show,  both  for  master  and 
scholar;  an  audience,  even  though  igno- 
rant themselves  of  the  subjects  of  an 
examination,  can  comprehend  when  ques- 
tions are  answered  and  when  they  are 
not.  Here  again  is  a  reason  why  mental 
culture  is  in  the  minds  of  men  identified 
with  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 

The  same  notion  possesses  the  [190 
public  mind,  when  it  passes  on  from  the 
thought  of  a  school  to  that  of  a  university: 
and  with  the  best  of  reasons  so  far  as  this, 
that  there  is  no  true  culture  without 
acquirements,  and  that  philosophy  pre- 
supposes knowledge.  It  requires  a  great 
deal  of  reading,  or  a  wide  range  of  in- 
formation, to  warrant  us  in  putting  forth 
our  opinions  on  any  serious  subject;  and 
without  such  learning  the  most  ori-  [200 
ginal  mind  may  be  able  indeed  to  dazzle, 
to  amuse,  to  refute,  to  perplex,  but  not  to 
come  to  any  useful  result  or  any  trust- 
worthy conclusion.  There  are  indeed 
persons  who  profess  a  different  view  of 
the  matter,  and  even  act  upon  it.  Every 
now  and  then  you  will  find  a  person  of 
vigorous  or  fertile  mind,  who  relies  upon 
his  own  resources,  despises  all  former 
authors,  and  gives  the  world,  with  [210 
the  utmost  fearlessness,  his  views  upon 
religion,  or  history,  or  any  other  popular 
subject.  And  his  works  may  sell  for  a 
while;  he  may  get  a  name  in  his  day;  but 
this  will  be  all.  His  readers  are  sure  to 
find  on  the  long  run  that  his  doctrines  are 
mere  theories,  and  not  the  expression  of 
facts,  that  they  are  chaff  instead  of  bread, 


and  then  his  popularity  drops  as  suddenly 
as  it  rose.  [220 

Knowledge,  then,  is  the  indispensable 
condition  of  expansion  of  mind,  and  the 
instrument  of  attaining  to  it;  this  can- 
not be  denied;  it  is  ever  to  be  insisted  on; 
I  begin  with  it  as  a  first  principle;  how- 
ever, the  very  truth  of  it  carries  men  too 
far,  and  confirms  to  them  the  notion  that 
it  is  the  whole  of  the  matter.  A  narrow 
mind  is  thought  to  be  that  which  contains 
little  knowledge;  and  an  enlarged  [230 
mind,  that  which  holds  a  great  deal;  and 
what  seems  to  put  the  matter  beyond 
dispute  is  the  fact  of  the  great  number  of 
studies  which  are  pursued  in  a  university, 
by  its  very  profession.  Lectures  are 
given  on  every  kind  of  subject;  examina- 
tions are  held;  prizes  awarded.  There 
are  moral,  metaphysical,  physical  pro- 
fessors; professors  of  languages,  of  his- 
tory, of  mathematics,  of  experimental  [240 
science.  Lists  of  questions  are  published, 
wonderful  for  their  range  and  depth,  vari- 
ety and  difficulty;  treatises  are  written, 
which  carry  upon  their  very  face  the  evi- 
dence of  extensive  reading  or  multifarious 
information;  what  then  is  wanting  for 
mental  culture  to  a  person  of  large  read- 
ing and  scientific  attainments?  what  is 
grasp  of  mind  but  acquirement?  where 
shall  philosophical  repose  be  found,  [250. 
but  in  the  consciousness  and  enjoyment 
of  large  intellectual  possessions? 

And  yet  this  notion  is,  I  conceive,  a 
mistake,  and  my  present  business  is  to 
show  that  it  is  one,  and  that  the  end  of 
a  liberal  education  is  not  mere  knowl- 
edge, or  knowledge  considered  in  its 
matter;  and  I  shall  best  attain  my  object, 
by  actually  setting  down  some  cases, 
which  will  be  generally  granted  to  be  [260 
instances  of  the  process  of  enlightenment 
or  enlargement  of  mind,  and  others  which 
are  not,  and  thus,  by  the  comparison,  you 
will  be  able  to  judge  for  yourselves,  gen- 
tlemen, whether  knowledge,  that  is,  ac- 
quirement, is  after  all  the  real  principle 
of  the  enlargement,  or  whether  that  prin- 
ciple is  not  rather  something  beyond  it. 

For  instance,  let  a  person,  whose  ex- 
perience has  hitherto  been  confined  [270 
to  the  more  calm  and  unpretending 
scenery  of  these  islands,  whether  here  or 


NEWMAN 


73i 


in  England,  go  for  the  first  time  into 
parts  where  physical  nature  puts  on  her 
wilder  and  more  awful  forms,  whether 
at  home  or  abroad,  as  into  mountainous 
districts;  or  let  one,  who  has  ever  lived  in 
a  quiet  village,  go  for  the  first  time  to  a 
great  metropolis, — then  I  suppose  he  will 
have  a  sensation  which  perhaps  he  [280 
never  had  before.  He  has  a  feeling  not  in 
addition  or  increase  of  former  feelings, 
but  of  something  different  in  its  nature. 
He  will  perhaps  be  borne  forward,  and 
find  for  a  time  that  he  has  lost  his  bear- 
ings. He  has  made  a  certain  progress, 
and  he  has  a  consciousness  of  mental 
enlargement;  he  does  not  stand  where  he 
did,  he  has  a  new  center,  and  a  range  of 
thoughts  to  which  he  was  before  a  [290 
stranger. 

Again,  the  view  of  the  heavens  which 
the  telescope  opens  upon  us,  if  allowed 
to  fill  and  possess  the  mind,  may  almost 
whirl  it  around  and  make  it  dizzy.  It 
brings  in  a  flood  of  ideas,  and  is  rightly 
called  an  intellectual  enlargement,  what- 
ever is  meant  by  the  term. 

And  so  again,  the  sight  of  beasts  of  prey 
and  other  foreign  animals,  their  [300 
strangeness,  the  originality  (if  I  may  use 
the  term)  of  their  forms  and  gestures 
and  habits,  and  their  variety  and  inde- 
pendence of  each  other,  throw  us  out  of 
ourselves  into  another  creation,  and  as 
if  under  another  Creator,  if  I  may  so 
express  the  temptation  which  may  come 
on  the  mind.  We  seem  to  have  new 
faculties,  or  a  new  exercise  for  our  facul- 
ties, by  this  addition  to  our  knowl-  [310 
edge;  like  a  prisoner,  who,  having  been 
accustomed  to  wear  manacles  or  fetters, 
suddenly  finds  his  arms  and  legs  free. 

Hence  physical  science  generally,  in 
all  its  departments,  as  bringing  before 
us  the  exuberant  riches  and  resources, 
yet  the  orderly  course,  of  the  universe, 
elevates  and  excites  the  student,  and  at 
first,  I  may  say,  almost  takes  away  his 
breath,  while  in  time  it  exercises  a  [320 
tranquilizing  influence  upon  him. 

Again,  the  study  of  history  is  said  to 

i    enlarge    and    enlighten    the    mind;    and 

why?  because,  as  I  conceive,  it  gives  it  a 

power  of  judging  of  passing  events,  and 

j   of  all  events,  and  a  conscious  superiority 


over  them,  which  before  it  did  not  pos- 
sess. 

And  in  like  manner,  what  is  called 
seeing  the  world,  entering  into  active  [330 
life,  going  into  society,  traveling,  gain- 
ing acquaintance  with  the  various  classes 
of  the  community,  coming  into  contact 
with  the  principles  and  modes  of  thought 
of  various  parties,  interests,  and  races, 
their  views,  aims,  habits  and  manners, 
their  religious  creeds  and  forms  of  worship, 
— gaining  experience  how  various  yet  how 
alike  men  are,  how  low-minded,  how  bad, 
how  opposed,  yet  how  confident  in  [340 
their  opinions;  all  this  exerts  a  perceptible 
influence  upon  the  mind,  which  it  is  impos- 
sible to  mistake,  be  it  good  or  be  it  bad, 
and  is  popularly  called  its  enlargement. 

And  then  again,  the  first  time  the  mind 
comes  across  the  arguments  and  specula- 
tions of  unbelievers,  and  feels  what  a 
novel  light  they  cast  upon  what  he  has 
hitherto  accounted  sacred;  and  still  more, 
if  it  gives  in  to  them  and  embraces  [350 
them,  and  throws  off  as  so  much  prej- 
udice what  it  has  hitherto  held,  and,  as 
if  waking  from  a  dream,  begins  to  realize 
to  its  imagination  that  there  is  now  no 
such  thing  as  law  and  the  transgression 
of  law,  that  sin  is  a  phantom,  and  punish- 
ment a  bugbear,  that  it  is  free  to  sin,  free 
to  enjoy  the  world  and  the  flesh;  and  still 
further,  when  it  does  enjoy  them,  and 
reflects  that  it  may  think  and  hold  [360 
just  what  it  will,  that  "the  world  is  all 
before  it  where  to  choose,"  and  what  sys- 
tem to  build  up  as  its  own  private  per- 
suasion; when  this  torrent  of  wilful 
thoughts  rushes  over  and  inundates  it, 
who  will  deny  that  the  fruit  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  or  what  the  mind  takes 
for  knowledge,  has  made  it  one  of  the 
gods,  with  a  sense  of  expansion  and 
elevation, — an  intoxication  in  reality,  [370 
still,  so  far  as  the  subjective  state  of 
the  mind  goes,  an  illumination?  Hence 
the  fanaticism  of  individuals  or  nations, 
who  suddenly  cast  off  their  Maker.  Their 
eyes  are  opened;  and,  like  the  judgment- 
stricken  king  in  the  tragedy,  they  see  two 
suns,  and  a  magic  universe,  out  of  which 
they  look  back  upon  their  former  state 
of  faith  and  innocence  with  a  sort  of 
contempt  and  indignation,  as  if  they  [380 


732 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


were  then  but  fools,  and  the  dupes  of 
imposture. 

On  the  other  hand,  religion  has  its 
own  enlargement,  and  an  enlargement 
not  of  tumult,  but  of  peace.  It  is  often 
remarked  of  uneducated  persons,  who 
have  hitherto  thought  little  of  the  unseen 
world,  that,  on  their  turning  to  God, 
looking  into  themselves,  regulating  their 
hearts,  reforming  their  conduct,  and  [390 
meditating  on  death  and  judgment, 
heaven  and  hell,  they  seem  to  become,  in 
point  of  intellect,  different  beings  from 
what  they  were.  Before,  they  took  things 
as  they  came,  and  thought  no  more  of 
one  thing  than  another.  But  now  every 
event  has  a  meaning ;  they  have  their  own 
estimate  of  whatever  happens  to  them; 
they  are  mindful  of  times  and  seasons, 
and  compare  the  present  with  the  [400 
past;  and  the  world,  no  longer  dull,  monot- 
onous, unprofitable,  and  hopeless,  is  a 
various  and  complicated  drama,  with 
parts  and  an  object,  and  an  awful  moral. 

Now  from  these  instances,  to  which 
many  more  might  be  added,  it  is  plain, 
first,  that  the  communication  of  knowl- 
edge certainly  is  either  a  condition  or 
the  means  of  that  sense  of  enlargement, 
or  enlightenment,  of  which  at  this  [410 
day  we  hear  so  much  in  certain  quarters: 
this  cannot  be  denied;  but  next,  it  is 
equally  plain,  that  such  communication 
is  not  the  whole  of  the  process.  The 
enlargement  consists,  not  merely  in  the 
passive  reception  into  the  mind  of  a  num- 
ber of  ideas  hitherto  unknown  to  it,  but 
in  the  mind's  energetic  and  simultaneous 
action  upon  and  towards  and  among 
those  new  ideas,  which  are  rushing  [420 
in  upon  it.  It  is  the  action  of  a  forma- 
tive power,  reducing  to  order  and  mean- 
ing the  matter  of  our  acquirements;  it  is 
a  making  the  objects  of  our  knowledge 
subjectively  our  own,  or,  to  use  a  familiar 
word,  it  is  a  digestion  of  what  we  receive, 
into  the  substance  of  our  previous  state  of 
thought;  and  without  this  no  enlargement 
is  said  to  follow.  There  is  no  enlarge- 
ment, unless  there  be  a  comparison  [430 
of  ideas  one  with  another,  as  they  come 
before  the  mind,  and  a  systematizing  of 
them.  We  feel  our  minds  to  be  growing 
and  expanding  then,  when  we  not  only 


learn,  but  refer  what  we  learn  to  what 
we  know  already.  It  is  not  the  mere  addi- 
tion to  our  knowledge  that  is  the  illumina- 
tion; but  the  locomotion,  the  movement 
onwards,  of  that  mental  center,  to  which 
both  what  we  know,  and  what  we  [440 
are  learning,  the  accumulating  mass  of 
our  acquirements,  gravitates.  And  there- 
fore a  truly  great  intellect,  and  recognized 
to  be  such  by  the  common  opinion  of 
mankind,  such  as  the  intellect  of  Aristotle, 
or  of  St.  Thomas,  or  of  Newton,  or  of 
Goethe  (I  purposely  take  instances  within 
and  without  the  Catholic  pale,  when  I 
would  speak  of  the  intellect  as  such),  is 
one  which  takes  a  connected  view  of  [450 
old  and  new,  past  and  present,  far  and 
near,  and  which  has  an  insight  into  the  in- 
fluence of  all  these  one  on  another;  with- 
out which  there  is  no  whole,  and  no  cen- 
ter. It  possesses  the  knowledge,  not  only 
of  things,  but  also  of  their  mutual  and 
true  relations;  knowledge,  not  merely  con- 
sidered as  acquirement,  but  as  philosophy. 

Accordingly,  when  this  analytical,  dis- 
tributive, harmonizing  process  is  [460 
away,  the  mind  experiences  no  enlarge- 
ment, and  is  not  reckoned  as  enlightened 
or  comprehensive,  whatever  it  may  add 
to  its  knowledge.  For  instance,  a  great 
memory,  as  I  have  already  said,  does  not 
make  a  philosopher,  any  more  than  a  dic- 
tionary can  be  called  a  grammar.  There 
are  men  who  embrace  in  their  minds  a 
vast  multitude  of  ideas,  but  with  little 
sensibility  about  their  real  relations  [470 
towards  each  other.  These  may  be  an- 
tiquarians, annalists,  naturalists;  they 
may  be  learned  in  the  law;  they  may  be 
versed  in  statistics;  they  are  most  useful 
in  their  own  place;  I  should  shrink  from 
speaking  disrespectfully  of  them;  still, 
there  is  nothing  in  such  attainments  to 
guarantee  the  absence  of  narrowness  of 
mind.  If  they  are  nothing  more  than 
well-read  men,  or  men  of  informa-  [480 
tion,  they  have  not  what  specially  de- 
serves the  name  of  culture  of  mind,  or 
fulfils  the  type  of  liberal  education. 

In  like  manner,  we  sometimes  fall  in 
with  persons  who  have  seen  much  of  the 
world,  and  of  the  men  who,  in  their  day, 
have  played  a  conspicuous  part  in  it, 
but  who  generalize  nothing,  and  have  no 


NEWMAN 


733 


observation,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word.  They  abound  in  information  [490 
in  detail,  curious  and  entertaining,  about 
men  and  things;  and,  having  lived  under 
the  influence  of  no  very  clear  or  settled 
principles,  religious  or  political,  they 
speak  of  every  one  and  every  thing,  only 
as  so  many  phenomena,  which  are  com- 
plete in  themselves,  and  lead  to  nothing, 
not  discussing  them,  or  teaching  any 
truth,  or  instructing  the  hearer,  but 
simply  talking.  No  one  would  say  [500 
that  these  persons,  well  informed  as  they 
are,  had  attained  to  any  great  culture  of 
intellect  or  to  philosophy. 

The  case  is  the  same  still  more  strikingly 
where  the  persons  in  question  are  be- 
yond dispute  men  of  inferior  powers 
and  deficient  education.  Perhaps  they 
have  been  much  in  foreign  countries,  and 
they  receive,  in  a  passive,  otiose,  un- 
fruitful way,  the  various  facts  which  [510 
are  forced  upon  them  there.  Seafaring 
men,  for  example,  range  from  one  end  of 
the  earth  to  the  other;  but  the  multi- 
plicity of  external  objects,  which  they 
have  encountered,  forms  no  symmetrical 
and  consistent  picture  upon  their  imag- 
ination; they  see  the  tapestry  of  human 
life,  as  it  were  on  the  wrong  side,  and  it 
tells  no  story.  They  sleep,  and  they  rise 
up,  and  they  find  themselves,  now  in  [520 
Europe,  now  in  Asia;  they  see  visions  of 
great  cities  and  wild  regions;  they  are  in 
the  marts  of  commerce,  or  amid  the 
islands  of  the  South;  they  gaze  on  Pom- 
pey's  Pillar,  or  on  the  Andes;  and  noth- 
ing which  meets  them  carries  them  for- 
ward or  backward,  to  any  idea  beyond 
itself.  Nothing  has  a  drift  or  relation; 
nothing  has  a  history  or  a  promise. 
Every  thing  stands  by  itself,  and  [530 
conies  and  goes  in  its  turn,  like  the  shift- 
ing scenes  of  a  show,  which  leave  the 
spectator  where  he  was.  Perhaps  you 
are  near  such  a  man  on  a  particular  oc- 
casion, and  expect  him  to  be  shocked  or 
perplexed  at  something  which  occurs; 
but  one  thing  is  much  the  same  to  him 
as  another,  or,  if  he  is  perplexed,  it  is  as 
not  knowing  what  to  say,  whether  it  is 
right  to  admire,  or  to  ridicule,  or  to  [540 
disapprove,  while  conscious  that  some 
expression  of    opinion    is    expected  from 


him;  for  in  fact  he  has  no  standard  of 
judgment  at  all,  and  no  landmarks  to 
guide  him  to  a  conclusion.  Such  is  mere 
acquisition,  and,  I  repeat,  no  one  would 
dream  of  calling  it  philosophy. 

Instances  such  as  these  confirm,  by 
the  contrast,  the  conclusion  I  have  al- 
ready drawn  from  those  which  pre-  [550 
ceded  them.  That  only  is  true  enlarge- 
ment of  mind  which  is  the  power  of  view- 
ing many  things  at  once  as  one  whole,  of 
referring  them  severally  to  their  true 
place  in  the  universal  system,  of  under- 
standing their  respective  values,  and 
determining  their  mutual  dependence. 
Thus  is  that  form  of  universal  knowledge, 
of  which  I  have  on  a  former  occasion 
spoken,  set  up  in  the  individual  in-  [560 
tellect,  and  constitutes  its  perfection. 
Possessed  of  this  real  illumination,  the 
mind  never  views  any  part  of  the  ex- 
tended subject-matter  of  knowledge  with- 
out recollecting  that  it  is  but  a  part,  or 
without  the  associations  which  spring 
from  this  recollection.  It  makes  every- 
thing in  some  sort  lead  to  everything 
else;  it  would  communicate  the  image 
of  the  whole  to  every  separate  por-  [570 
tion,  till  that  whole  becomes  in  im- 
agination like  a  spirit,  everywhere  per- 
vading and  penetrating  its  component 
parts,  and  giving  them  one  definite  mean- 
ing. Just  as  our  bodily  organs,  when 
mentioned,  recall  their  function  in  the 
body,  as  the  word  "creation"  suggests 
the  Creator,  and  "subjects"  a  sovereign, 
so,  in  the  mind  of  the  philosopher,  as  we 
are  abstractedly  conceiving  of  him,  [580 
the  elements  of  the  physical  and  moral 
world,  sciences,  arts,  pursuits,  ranks, 
offices,  events,  opinions,  individualities, 
are  all  viewed  as  one,  with  correlative 
functions,  and  as  gradually  by  successive 
combinations  converging,  one  and  all,  to 
the  true  center. 

To  have  even  a  portion  of  this  illumi- 
native reason  and  true  philosophy  is  the 
highest  state  to  which  nature  can  [590 
aspire,  in  the  way  of  intellect;  it  puts  the 
mind  above  the  influences  of  chance  and 
necessity,  above  anxiety,  suspense,  un- 
settlement,  and  superstition,  which  is  the 
lot  of  the  many.  Men  whose  minds  are 
possessed    with    some    one    object,    take 


734 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


exaggerated  views  of  its  importance,  are 
feverish  in  the  pursuit  of  it,  make  it  the 
measure  of  things  which  are  utterly 
foreign  to  it,  and  are  startled  and  [600 
despond  if  it  happens  to  fail  them.  They 
are  ever  in  alarm  or  in  transport.  Those 
on  the  other  hand  who  have  no  object 
or  principle  whatever  to  hold  by,  lose 
their  way  every  step  they  take.  They 
are  thrown  out,  and  do  not  know  what  to 
think  or  say,  at  every  fresh  juncture; 
they  have  no  view  of  persons,  or  occur- 
rences, or  facts,  which  come  suddenly 
upon  them,  and  they  hang  upon  [610 
the  opinion  of  others  for  want  of  internal 
resources.  But  the  intellect,  which  has 
been  disciplined  to  the  perfection  of  its 
powers,  which  knows,  and  thinks  while 
it  knows,  which  has  learned  to  leaven 
the  dense  mass  of  facts  and  events  with 
the  elastic  force  of  reason,  such  an  intel- 
lect cannot  be  partial,  cannot  be  exclusive, 
cannot  be  impetuous,  cannot  be  at  a  loss, 
cannot  but  be  patient,  collected,  [620 
and  majestically  calm,  because  it  discerns 
the  end  in  every  beginning,  the  origin 
in  every  end,  the  law  in  every  interrup- 
tion, the  limit  in  each  delay;  because  it 
ever  knows  where  it  stands,  and  how  its 
path  lies  from  one  point  to  another. 
It  is  the  Tcr/oaywvos  of  the  Peripatetic, 
and  has  the  nil  admirari  of  the 
Stoic, — 

"  Felix  qui  potuit  rerum  cognoscere  [630 

causas, 
Atque  metus  omnes,  et  inexorabile  fatum 
Subjecit    pedibus,    strepitumque   Acher- 

ontis  avari." 

There  are  men  who,  when  in  difficulties, 
originate  at  the  moment  vast  ideas  or 
dazzling  projects;  who,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  excitement,  are  able  to  cast  a 
light,  almost  as  if  from  inspiration,  on  a 
subject  or  course  of  action  which  comes 
before  them;  who  have  a  sudden  presence 
of  mind  equal  to  any  emergency,  ris-  [640 
ing  with  the  occasion,  and  an  undaunted 
magnanimous  bearing,  and  an  energy  and 
keenness  which  is  but  made  intense  by 
opposition.  This  is  genius,  this  is  hero- 
ism; it  is  the  exhibition  of  a  natural  gift, 
which  no  culture  can  teach,  at  which 
no  institution  can  aim:  here,  on  the  con- 


trary, we  are  concerned  not  with  mere 
nature,  but  with  training  and  teaching. 
That  perfection  of  the  intellect,  which  [650 
is  the  result  of  education,  and  its  beau 
ideal,  to  be  imparted  to  individuals,  in 
their  respective  measures,  is  the  clear, 
calm,  accurate  vision  and  comprehension 
of  all  things,  as  far  as  the  finite  mind  can 
embrace  them,  each  in  its  place,  and  with 
its  own  characteristics  upon  it.  It  is 
almost  prophetic  from  its  knowledge  of 
history;  it  is  almost  heart-searching  from 
its  knowledge  of  human  nature;  it  [660 
has  almost  supernatural  charity  from  its 
freedom  from  littleness  and  prejudice; 
it  has  almost  the  repose  of  faith,  because 
nothing  can  startle  it;  it  has  almost  the 
beauty  and  harmony  of  heavenly  con- 
templation, so  intimate  is  it  with  the 
eternal  order  of  things  and  the  music  of 
the  spheres. 

And  now,  if  I  may  take  for  granted  that 
the  true  and  adequate  end  of  in-  [670 
tellectual  training  and  of  a  university  is 
not  learning  or  acquirement,  but  rather 
is  thought  or  reason  exercised  upon  knowl- 
edge, or  what  may  be  called  philosophy, 
I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  explain  the 
various  mistakes  which  at  the  present 
day  beset  the  subject  of  university  educa- 
tion. 

I  say  then,  if  we  would  improve  the 
intellect,  first  of  all,  we  must  ascend;  [680 
we  cannot  gain  real  knowledge  on  a  level; 
we  must  generalize,  we  must  reduce  to 
method,  we  must  have  a  grasp  of  prin- 
ciples, and  group  and  shape  our  acquisi- 
tions by  means  of  them.  It  matters  not 
whether  our  field  of  operation  be  wide  or 
limited;  in  every  case,  to  command  it,  is 
to  mount  above  it.  Who  has  not  felt 
the  irritation  of  mind  and  impatience 
created  by  a  deep,  rich  country,  [690 
visited  for  the  first  time,  with  winding 
lanes,  and  high  hedges,  and  green  steeps, 
and  tangled  woods,  and  every  thing 
smiling  indeed,  but  in  a  maze?  The  same 
feeling  comes  upon  us  in  a  strange  city, 
where  we  have  no  map  of  its  streets. 
Hence  you  hear  of  practised  travelers, 
when  they  first  come  into  a  place,  mount- 
ing some  high  hill  or  church  tower,  by 
way  of  reconnoitering  its  neighbor-  [700 
hood.    In  like  manner,  you  must  be  above 


; 


NEWMAN 


735 


your  knowledge,  not  under  it,  or  it  will 
oppress  you;  and  the  more  you  have  of  it, 
the  greater  will  be  the  load.  The  learning 
of  a  Salmasius  or  a  Burman,  unless  you 
are  its  master,  will  be  your  tyrant.  Im- 
perat  aut  servit;  if  you  can  wield  it  with 
a  strong  arm,  it  is  a  great  weapon;  other- 
wise, 

"  Vis  consili  expers  [710 

Mole  ruit  sua." 

You  will  be  overwhelmed,  like  Tarpeia, 
by  the  heavy  wealth  which  you  have  ex- 
acted from  tributary  generations. 

Instances  abound;  there  are  authors 
who  are  as  pointless  as  they  are  inex- 
haustible in  their  literary  resources.  They 
measure  knowledge  by  bulk,  as  it  lies 
in  the  rude  block,  without  symmetry, 
without  design.  How  many  com-  [720 
mentators  are  there  on  the  classics,  how 
many  on  Holy  Scripture,  from  whom 
we  rise  up,  wondering  at  the  learning 
which  has  passed  before  us,  and  wonder- 
ing why  it  passed!  How  many  writers 
are  there  of  Ecclesiastical  history,  such 
as  Mosheim  or  Du  Pin,  who,  breaking 
up  their  subject  into  details,  destroy  its 
life,  and  defraud  us  of  the  whole  by  their 
anxiety  about  the  parts!  The  ser-  [730 
mons,  again,  of  the  English  divines  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  how  often  are 
they  mere  repertories  of  miscellaneous 
and  officious  learning!  Of  course  Cath- 
olics also  may  read  without  thinking;  and 
in  their  case,  equally  as  with  Protestants, 
it  holds  good,  that  such  knowledge  is  un- 
worthy of  the  name,  knowledge  which 
they  have  not  thought  through,  and 
thought  out.  Such  readers  are  only  [740 
possessed  by  their  knowledge,  not  pos- 
sessed of  it;  nay,  in  matter  of  fact  they 
are  often  even  carried  away  by  it,  with- 
out any  volition  of  their  own.  Recollect, 
the  memory  can  tyrannize,  as  well  as 
the  imagination.  Derangement,  I  be- 
lieve, has  been  considered  as  a  loss  of 
control  over  the  sequence  of  ideas.  The 
mind,  once  set  in  motion,  is  henceforth 
deprived  of  the  power  of  initiation,  [750 
and  becomes  the  victim  of  a  train  of 
associations,  one  thought  suggesting  an- 
other, in  the  way  of  cause  and  effect,  as 
if    by    a    mechanical    process,    or    some 


physical  necessity.  No  one,  who  has  had 
experience  of  men  of  studious  habits,  but 
must  recognize  the  existence  of  a  parallel 
phenomenon  in  the  case  of  those  who 
have  over-stimulated  the  memory.  In 
such  persons  reason  acts  almost  as  [760 
feebly  and  as  impotently  as  in  the  mad- 
man; once  fairly  started  on  any  subject 
whatever,  they  have  no  power  of  self- 
control;  they  passively  endure  the  suc- 
cession of  impulses  which  are  evolved 
out  of  the  original  exciting  cause;  they 
are  passed  on  from  one  idea  to  another 
and  go  steadily  forward,  plodding  along 
one  line  of  thought  in  spite  of  the  amplest 
concessions  of  the  hearer,  or  wander-  [770 
ing  from  it  in  endless  digression  in  spite 
of  his  remonstrances.  Now,  if,  as  is  very 
certain,  no  one  would  envy  the  madman 
the  glow  and  originality  of  his  concep- 
tions, why  must  we  extol  the  cultivation 
of  that  intellect,  which  is  the  prey,  not 
indeed  of  barren  fancies  but  of  barren 
facts,  of  random  intrusions  from  with- 
out, though  not  of  morbid  imaginations 
from  within?  And  in  thus  speaking,  [780 
I  am  not  denying  that  a  strong  and  ready 
memory  is  in  itself  a  real  treasure;  I  am 
not  disparaging  a  well-stored  mind, 
though  it  be  nothing  besides,  provided 
it  be  sober,  any  more  than  I  would  despise 
a  bookseller's  shop: — it  is  of  great  value 
to  others,  even  when  not  so  to  the  owner. 
Nor  am  I  banishing,  far  from  it,  the  pos- 
sessors of  deep  and  multifarious  learning 
from  my  ideal  University;  they  adorn  [790 
it  in  the  eyes  of  men;  I  do  but  say  that 
they  constitute  no  type  of  the  results  at 
which  it  aims;  that  it  is  no  great  gain  to 
the  intellect  to  have  enlarged  the  memory 
at  the  expense  of  faculties  which  are  in- 
disputably higher. 

Nor  indeed  am  I  supposing  that  there 
is  any  great  danger,  at  least  in  this  day, 
of  over-education;  the  danger  is  on  the 
other  side.  I  will  tell  you,  gentle-  [800 
men,  what  has  been  the  practical  error 
of  the  last  twenty  years, — not  to  load  the 
memory  of  the  student  with  a  mass  of  un- 
digested knowledge,  but  to  force  upon  him 
so  much  that  he  has  rejected  all.  It  has 
been  the  error  of  distracting  and  enfeeb- 
ling the  mind  by  an  unmeaning  profusion 
of  subjects;  of  implying  that  a  smattering 


73b 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


in  a  dozen  branches  of  study  is  not  shal- 
lowness, which  it  really  is,  but  en-  [810 
largement,  which  it  is  not;  of  considering 
an  acquaintance  with  the  learned  names 
of  things  and  persons  and  the  possession 
of  clever  duodecimos,  and  attendance  on 
eloquent  lecturers,  and  membership  with 
scientific  institutions,  and  the  sight  of 
the  experiments  of  a  platform  and  the 
specimens  of  a  museum,  that  all  this  was 
not  dissipation  of  mind,  but  progress. 
All  things  now  are  to  be  learned  at  [820 
once,  not  first  one  thing,  then  another; 
not  one  well,  but  many  badly.  Learning 
is  to  be  without  exertion,  without  atten- 
tion, without  toil;  without  grounding, 
without  advance,  without  finishing.  There 
is  to  be  nothing  individual  in  it;  and  this, 
forsooth,  is  the  wonder  of  the  age.  What 
the  steam  engine  does  with  matter,  the 
printing  press  is  to  do  with  the  mind;  it 
is  to  act  mechanically,  and  the  popula-  [830 
tion  is  to  be  passively,  almost  uncon- 
sciously enlightened,  by  the  mere  mul- 
tiplication and  dissemination  of  volumes. 
Whether  it  be  the  school  boy,  or  the  school 
girl,  or  the  youth  at  college,  or  the  me- 
chanic in  the  town,  or  the  politician  in  the 
senate,  all  have  been  the  victims  in  one 
way  or  other  of  this  most  preposterous 
and  pernicious  of  delusions.  Wise  men 
have  lifted  up  their  voices  in  vain;  [840 
and  at  length,  lest  their  own  institutions 
should  be  outshone  and  should  disappear 
in  the  folly  of  the  hour,  they  have  been 
obliged,  as  far  as  they  could  with  a  good 
conscience,  to  humor  a  spirit  which  they 
could  not  withstand,  and  make  tem- 
porizing concessions  at  which  they  could 
not  but  inwardly  smile. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that,  because 
I  so  speak,  therefore  I  have  some  [850 
sort  of  fear  of  the  education  of  the  people : 
on  the  contrary,  the  more  education  they 
have,  the  better,  so  that  it  is  really  edu- 
cation. Nor  am  I  an  enemy  to  the  cheap 
publication  of  scientific  and  literary  works, 
which  is  now  in  vogue:  on  the  contrary, 
I  consider  it  a  great  advantage,  conven- 
ience, and  gain;  that  is,  to  those  to  whom 
education  has  given  a  capacity  for  using 
them.  Further,  I  consider  such  [860 
innocent  recreations  as  science  and  litera- 
ture are  able  to  furnish  will  be  a  very  fit 


occupation  of  the  thoughts  and  the 
leisure  of  young  persons,  and  may  be 
made  the  means  of  keeping  them  from 
bad  employments  and  bad  companions. 
Moreover,  as  to  that  superficial  acquaint- 
ance with  chemistry,  and  geology,  and 
astronomy,  and  political  economy,  and 
modern  history,  and  biography,  and  [870 
other  branches  of  knowledge,  which  period- 
ical literature  and  occasional  lectures 
and  scientific  institutions  diffuse  through 
the  community,  I  think  it  a  graceful 
accomplishment,  and  a  suitable,  nay,  in 
this  day  a  necessary  accomplishment,  in 
the  case  of  educated  men.  Nor,  lastly, 
am  I  disparaging  or  discouraging  the 
thorough  acquisition  of  any  one  of  these 
studies,  or  denying  that,  as  far  as  it  [880 
goes,  such  thorough  acquisition  is  a  real 
education  of  the  mind.  All  I  say  is,  call 
things  by  their  right  names,  and  do  not 
confuse  together  ideas  which  are  essen- 
tially different.  A  thorough  knowledge 
of  one  science  and  a  superficial  acquaint- 
ance with  many,  are  not  the  same  thing; 
a  smattering  of  a  hundred  things  or  a 
memory  for  detail,  is  not  a  philosophical 
or  comprehensive  view.  Recrea-  [890 
tions  are  not  education;  accomplishments 
are  not  education.  Do  not  say,  the  people 
must  be  educated,  when,  after  all,  you 
only  mean,  amused,  refreshed,  soothed, 
put  into  good  spirits  and  good  humor, 
or  kept  from  vicious  excesses.  I  do  not 
say  that  such  amusements,  such  occupa- 
tions of  mind,  are  not  a  great  gain;  but 
they  are  not  education.  You  may  as 
well  call  drawing  and  fencing  educa-  [900 
tion  as  a  general  knowledge  of  botany  or 
conchology.  Stuffing  birds  or  playing 
stringed  instruments  is  an  elegant  pas- 
time, and  a  resource  to  the  idle,  but  it  is 
not  education;  it  does  not  form  or  culti- 
vate the  intellect.  Education  is  a  high 
word;  it  is  the  preparation  for  knowledge, 
and  it  is  the  imparting  of  knowledge  in 
proportion  to  that  preparation.  We 
require  intellectual  eyes  to  know  [910 
withal,  as  bodily  eyes  for  sight.  We  need 
both  objects  and  organs  intellectual;  we 
cannot  gain  them  without  setting  about 
it;  we  cannot  gain  them  in  our  sleep,  or 
by  haphazard.  The  best  telescope  does 
not  dispense  with  eyes;  the  printing  press 


NEWMAN 


737 


or  the  lecture  room  will  assist  us  greatly, 
but  we  must  be  true  to  ourselves,  we  must 
be  parties  in  the  work.  A  university  is, 
according  to  the  usual  designation,  [920 
an  alma  mater,  knowing  her  children  one 
by  one,  not  a  foundry,  or  a  mint,  or  a 
treadmill. 

I  protest  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  if  I 
had  to  choose  between  a  so-called  uni- 
versity, which  dispensed  with  residence 
and  tutorial  superintendence,  and  gave 
its  degrees  to  any  person  who  passed  an 
examination  in  a  wide  range  of  subjects, 
and  a  university  which  had  no  pro-  [930 
fessors  or  examinations  at  all,  but  merely 
brought  a  number  of  young  men  together 
for  three  or  four  years,  and  then  sent 
them  away  as  the  University  of  Oxford 
is  said  to  have  done  some  sixty  years 
since,  if  I  were  asked  which  of  these  two 
methods  was  the  better  discipline  of  the 
intellect, — mind,  I  do  not  say  which  is 
morally  the  better,  for  it  is  plain  that 
compulsory  study  must  be  a  good  [940 
and  idleness  an  intolerable  mischief, — 
but  if  I  must  determine  which  of  the  two 
courses  was  the  more  successful  in  train- 
ing, molding,  enlarging  the  mind,  which 
sent  out  men  the  more  fitted  for  their 
secular  duties,  which  produced  better 
public  men,  men  of  the  world,  men  whose 
names  would  descend  to  posterity,  I  have 
no  hesitation  in  giving  the  preference  to 
that  university  which  did  nothing,  [950 
over  that  which  exacted  of  its  members 
an  acquaintance  with  every  science  under 
the  sun.  And,  paradox  as  this  may  seem, 
still  if  results  be  the  test  of  systems,  the 
influence  of  the  public  schools  and  col- 
leges of  England,  in  the  course  of  the  last 
century,  at  least  will  bear  out  one  side 
of  the  contrast  as  I  have  drawn  it.  What 
would  come,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the 
ideal  systems  of  education  which  [960 
have  fascinated  the  imagination  of  this 
age,  could  they  ever  take  effect,  and 
whether  they  would  not  produce  a  genera- 
tion frivolous,  narrow-minded,  and  re- 
sourceless,  intellectually  considered,  is  a 
fair  subject  for  debate;  but  so  far  is  cer- 
tain, that  the  universities  and  scholastic 
establishments,  to  which  I  refer,  and 
which  did  little  more  than  bring  together 
first  boys  and  then  youths  in  large  [970 


numbers,  these  institutions,  with  miser- 
able deformities  on  the  side  of  morals, 
with  a  hollow  profession  of  Christianity, 
and  a  heathen  code  of  ethics, — I  say,  at 
least  they  can  boast  of  a  succession  of 
heroes  and  statesmen,  of  literary  men 
and  philosophers,  of  men  conspicuous  for 
great  natural  virtues,  for  habits  of  busi- 
ness, for  knowledge  of  life,  for  practical 
judgment,  for  cultivated  tastes,  for  [980 
accomplishments,  who  have  made  Eng- 
land what  it  is, — able  to  subdue  the  earth, 
able  to  domineer  over  Catholics. 

How  is  this  to  be  explained?  I  sup- 
pose as  follows:  When  a  multitude  of 
young  men,  keen,  open-hearted,  sympa- 
thetic, and  observant,  as  young  men  are, 
come  together  and  freely  mix  with  each 
other,  they  are  sure  to  learn  one  from 
another,  even  if  there  be  no  one  to  [990 
teach  them;  the  conversation  of  all  is  a 
series  of  lectures  to  each,  and  they  gain 
for  themselves  new  ideas  and  views,  fresh 
matter  of  thought,  and  distinct  principles 
for  judging  and  acting,  day  by  day.  An 
infant  has  to  learn  the  meaning  of  the 
information  which  its  senses  convey  to 
it,  and  this  seems  to  be  its  employment. 
It  fancies  all  that  the  eye  presents  to  it 
to  be  close  to  it,  till  it  actually  learns  [1000 
the  contrary,  and  thus  by  practice  does 
it  ascertain  the  relations  and  uses  of  those 
first  elements  of  knowledge  which  are 
necessary  for  its  animal  existence.  A 
parallel  teaching  is  necessary  for  our  social 
being,  and  it  is  secured  by  a  large  school 
or  a  college;  and  this  effect  may  be  fairly 
called  in  its  own  department  an  enlarge- 
ment of  mind.  It  is  seeing  the  world  on  a 
small  field  with  little  trouble;  for  the  [1010 
pupils  or  students  come  from  very  dif- 
ferent places,  and  with  widely  different 
notions,  and  there  is  much  to  generalize, 
much  to  adjust,  much  to  eliminate;  there 
are  inter-relations  to  be  defined,  and  con- 
ventional rules  to  be  established,  in  the 
process  by  which  the  whole  assemblage 
is  molded  together,  and  gains  one  tone 
and  one  character. 

Let  it  be  clearly  understood,  I  re-  [1020 
peat  it,  that  I  am  not  taking  into  account 
moral  or  religious  considerations;  I  am 
but  saying  that  that  youthful  community 
will  constitute  a  whole,  it  will  embody  a 


738 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


specific  idea,  it  will  represent  a  doctrine, 
it  will  administer  a  code  of  conduct,  and 
it  will  furnish  principles  of  thought  and 
action.  It  will  give  birth  to  a  living 
teaching,  which  in  course  of  time  will 
take  the  shape  of  a  self-perpetuating  [1030 
tradition,  or  a  genius  loci,  as  it  is  some- 
times called;  which  haunts  the  home 
where  it  has  been  born,  and  which  im- 
bues and  forms  more  or  less,  and  one  by 
one,  every  individual  who  is  successively 
brought  under  its  shadow.  Thus  it  is 
that,  independent  of  direct  instruction  on 
the  part  of  superiors,  there  is  a  sort  of 
self-education  in  the  academic  institu- 
tions of  protestant  England;  a  char-  [1040 
acteristic  tone  of  thought,  a  recognized 
standard  of  judgment  is  found  in  them, 
which  as  developed  in  the  individual  who 
is  submitted  to  it,  becomes  a  twofold 
source  of  strength  to  him,  both  from  the 
distinct  stamp  it  impresses  on  his  mind, 
and  from  the  bond  of  union  which  it 
creates  between  him  and  others, — effects 
which  are  shared  by  the  authorities  of 
the  place,  for  they  themselves  have  [1050 
been  educated  in  it,  and  at  all  times  are 
exposed  to  the  influence  of  its  ethical  at- 
mosphere. Here  then  is  a  real  teaching, 
whatever  be  its  standards  and  principles, 
true  or  false;  and  it  at  least  tends  towards 
cultivation  of  the  intellect;  it  at  least 
recognizes  that  knowledge  is  something 
more  than  a  sort  of  passive  reception  of 
scraps  and  details;  it  is  a  something,  and 
it  does  a  something,  which  never  will  [1060 
issue  from  the  most  strenuous  efforts  of  a 
set  of  teachers,  with  no  mutual  sympathies 
and  no  intercommunion,  of  a  set  of  ex- 
aminers with  no  opinions  which  they 
dare  profess,  and  with  no  common  prin- 
ciples, who  are  teaching  or  questioning  a 
set  of  youths  who  do  not  know  them,  and 
do  not  know  each  other,  on  a  large  num- 
ber of  subjects,  different  in  kind,  and 
connected  by  no  wide  philosophy,  [1070 
three  times  a  week,  or  three  times  a  year, 
or  once  in  three  years,  in  chill  lecture 
rooms  or  on  a  pompous  anniversary.     . 

Nay,  self-education  in  any  shape,  in 
the  most  restricted  sense,  is  preferable  to 
a  system  of  teaching  which,  professing 
so  much,  really  does  so  little  for  the 
mind.     Shut  your  college  gates  against 


the  votary  of  knowledge,  throw  him  back 
upon  the  searchings  and  the  efforts  [1080 
of  his  own  mind;  he  will  gain  by  being 
spared  an  entrance  into  your  babel.  Few 
indeed  there  are  who  can  dispense  with 
the  stimulus  and  support  of  instructors,  or 
will  do  anything  at  all,  if  left  to  them- 
selves. And  fewer  still  (though  such 
great  minds  are  to  be  found,)  who  will 
not,  from  such  unassisted  attempts,  con- 
tract a  self-reliance  and  a  self-esteem, 
which  are  not  only  moral  evils,  but  [1090 
serious  hindrances  to  the  attainment  of 
truth.  And  next  to  none,  perhaps,  or 
none,  who  will  not  be  reminded  from  time 
to  time  of  the  disadvantage  under  which 
they  lie,  by  their  imperfect  grounding, 
by  the  breaks,  deficiencies,  and  irregulari- 
ties of  their  knowledge,  by  the  eccen- 
tricity of  opinion  and  the  confusion  of 
principle  which  they  exhibit.  They  will 
be  too  often  ignorant  of  what  every  [noo 
one  knows  and  takes  for  granted,  of  that 
multitude  of  small  truths  which  fall  upon 
the  mind  like  dust,  impalpable  and  ever 
accumulating;  they  may  be  unable  to 
converse,  they  may  argue  perversely,  they 
may  pride  themselves  on  their  worst 
paradoxes  or  their  grossest  truisms,  they 
may  be  full  of  their  own  mode  of  viewing 
things,  unwilling  to  be  put  out  of  their 
way,  slow  to  enter  into  the  minds  [mo 
of  others; — but,  with  these  and  what- 
ever other  liabilities  upon  their  heads, 
they  are  likely  to  have  more  thought, 
more  mind,  more  philosophy,  more  true 
enlargement,  than  those  earnest  but  ill- 
used  persons,  who  are  forced  to  load  their 
minds  with  a  score  of  subjects  against 
an  examination,  who  have  too  much  on 
their  hands  to  indulge  themselves  in 
thinking  or  investigation,  who  devour  [1120 
premise  and  conclusion  together  with  in- 
discriminate greediness,  who  hold  whole 
sciences  on  faith,  and  commit  demon- 
strations to  memory,  and  who  too  often, 
as  might  be  expected,  when  their  period 
of  education  is  passed,  throw  up  all  they 
have  learned  in  disgust,  having  gained 
nothing  really  by  their  anxious  labors, 
except  perhaps  the  habit  of  application. 

Yet  such  is  the  better  specimen  of  [1130 
the  fruit  of  that  ambitious  system  which 
has  of  late  years  been  making  way  among 


NEWMAN 


739 


us;  for  its  result  on  ordinary  minds,  and 
on  the  common  run  of  students,  is  less 
satisfactory  still;  they  leave  their  place 
of  education  simply  dissipated  and  re- 
laxed by  the  multiplicity  of  subjects  which 
they  have  never  really  mastered,  and 
so  shallow  as  not  even  to  know  their 
shallowness.  How  much  better,  I  [1140 
say,  is  it  for  the  active  and  thoughtful  in- 
tellect, where  such  is  to  be  found,  to 
eschew  the  college  and  the  university 
altogether,  than  to  submit  to  a  drudgery 
so  ignoble,  a  mockery  so  contumelious! 
How  much  more  profitable  for  the  in- 
dependent mind,  after  the  mere  rudi- 
ments of  education,  to  range  through 
a  library  at  random,  taking  down  books 
as  they  meet  him,  and  pursuing  the  [1150 
trains  of  thought  which  his  mother  wit 
suggests!  How  much  healthier  to  wander 
into  the  fields,  and  there  with  the  exiled 
prince  to  find  "tongues  in  the  trees,  books 
in  the  running  brooks  " !  How  much  more 
genuine  an  education  is  that  of  the  poor 
boy  in  the  poem — a  poem,  whether  in  con- 
ception or  in  execution,  one  of  the  most 
touching  in  our  language — who,  not  in  the 
wide  world,  but  ranging  day  by  day  [1160 
around  his  widowed  mother's  home,  "a 
dexterous  gleaner"  in  a  narrow  field,  and 
with  only  such  slender  outfit 

"  As  the  village  school  and  books  a  few 
Supplied," 

contrived  from  the  beach,  and  the  quay, 
and  the  fisher's  boat,  and  the  urn's  fire- 
side, and  the  tradesman's  shop,  and  the 
shepherd's  walk,  and  the  smuggler's  hut, 
and  the  mossy  moor,  and  the  scream-  [1170 
ing  gulls,  and  the  restless  waves,  to  fashion 
for  himself  a  philosophy  and  a  poetry 
of  his  own! 

But  in  a  large  subject,  I  am  exceeding 
my  necessary  limits.  Gentlemen,  I  must 
conclude  abruptly;  and  postpone  any 
summing  up  of  my  argument,  should  that 
be  necessary,  to  another  day. 


From  the  APOLOGIA  PRO  VITA  SUA 

KlNGSLEY   AND   NEWMAN 

Mr.  Kingsley  begins  then  by  exclaim- 
ing,— "O    the    chicanery,    the    wholesale 


fraud,  the  vile  hypocrisy,  the  conscience- 
killing  tyranny  of  Rome!  We  have  not 
far  to  seek  for  an  evidence  of  it!  There's 
Father  Newman,  to  wit:  one  living  speci- 
men is  worth  a  hundred  dead  ones.  He, 
a  priest,  writing  of  priests,  tells  us  that 
lying  is  never  any  harm." 

I  interpose:  "You  are  taking  a  most  [10 
extraordinary  liberty  with  my  name.  If 
I  have  said  this,  tell  me  when  and 
where." 

Mr.  Kingsley  replies:  "You  said  it, 
Reverend  Sir,  in  a  sermon  which  you 
preached,  when  a  Protestant,  as  Vicar  of 
St.  Mary's,  and  published  in  1844;  and  I 
could  read  you  a  very  salutary  lecture  on 
the  effects  which  that  sermon  had  at  the 
time  on  my  own  opinion  of  you."  [20 

I  make  answer:  "Oh  ....  Not,  it 
seems,  as  a  priest  speaking  of  priests;  but 
let  us  have  the  passage." 

Mr.  Kingsley  relaxes:  "Do  you  know, 
I  like  your  tone.  From  your  tone,  I  rejoice, 
greatly  rejoice,  to  be  able  to  believe  that 
you  did  not  mean  what  you  said." 

I  rejoin:  "Mean  it!  I  maintain  I  never 
said  it,  whether  as  a  Protestant  or  as  a 
Catholic."  [30 

Mr.  Kingsley  replies:  "I  waive  that 
point." 

I  object:  "Is  it  possible?  What?  waive 
the  main  question!  I  either  said  it  or  I 
didn't.  You  have  made  a  monstrous 
charge  against  me:  direct,  distinct,  pub- 
lic. You  are  bound  to  prove  it  as  directly, 
as  distinctly,  as  publicly; — or  to  own  you 
can't!" 

"Well,"  says  Mr.  Kingsley,  "if  you  [40 
are  quite  sure  you  did  not  say  it,  I'll  take 
your  word  for  it;  I  really  will." 

My  word!  I  am  dumb.  Somehow  I 
thought  that  it  was  my  word  that  hap- 
pened to  be  on  trial.  The  word  of  a 
Professor  of  lying,  that  he  does  not 
lie! 

But  Mr.  Kinglsey  reassures  me:  "We 
are  both  gentlemen,"  he  says:  "I  have 
done  as  much  as  one  English  gentle-  [50 
man  can  expect  from  another." 

I  begin  to  see:  he  thought  me  a  gen- 
tleman at  the  very  time  that  he  said  I 
taught  lying  on  system.  After  all,  it  is 
not  I,  but  Mr.  Kingsley  who  did  not  mean 
what  he  said. 


740 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 
(1828-1882) 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand,  5 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn;  10 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone         15 

From  that  still  look  of  hers; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.  .  .  Yet  now,  and  in  this  place,  20 

Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 
Nothing:  the  autumn-fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 


It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 


25 


30 


It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth         35 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names;  40 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 


And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  chafm; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made  45 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 
Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce  50 

Through  all   the  world.     Her  gaze  still 
strove 
Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 

Its  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 
The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now;  the  curled  moon  55 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together.  60 

(Ah    sweet!    Even    now,    in    that    bird's 
song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened?  When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side     65 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?) 

"I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed?  70 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him         75 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 
Occult,  withheld,  untrod,  80 

Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 
With  prayer  sent  up  to  God; 

And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 
Each  like  a  little  cloud. 


:  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 
That  living  mystic  tree 


85 


ROSSETTI 


74i 


Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 


90 


"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause,  95 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas!  We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.    But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity  100 

The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

"We  two,"  she  said,  "will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies,  106 

Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 
And  foreheads  garlanded;  no 

Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 
Weaving  the  golden  thread, 

To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 
Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb:     115 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak: 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak.  120 

"Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles: 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing  125 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me: — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love, — only  to  be,  130 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 


She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, —        134 

"All  this  is  when  he  comes."    She  ceased. 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  filled 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)  But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres:         140 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 


SISTER   HELEN 

"Why  did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 
Sister  Helen? 

To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 

"The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother."     5 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright, 

Sister  Helen, 
You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might." 
"Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night,     n 
Little  brother." 
(O  mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Third   night,    to-night,    between   Hell   and 
Heaven!) 

"You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell,  15 
Sister  Helen ; 

If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 

"Even  so, — nay,  peace!  you  cannot  tell, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  20 

Oh  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 
Sister  Helen; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away ! " 

"Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say, 

Little  brother?  "  26 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen,        30 
Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as 
blood!" 


742 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood,      "Oh,    it's    Keith    of    Eastholm    rides    so 


Little  brother?  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick 
and  sore,  36 

Sister  Helen, 
And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door." 
"Aye,  let  me  rest, — I'll  lie  on  the  floor, 

Little  brother."   40 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    rest     to-night     between    Hell    and 
Heaven?) 

"Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 
The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me."     45 
"Aye,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 
Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    sight    to-night,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven?) 

"  Outside  it's  merry  in  the  wind's  wake,  50 

Sister  Helen ; 
In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake." 
"Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you 
spake, 

Little  brother?  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  55 
What    sound   to-night,    between   Hell    and 
Heaven?) 

"I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 
Sister  Helen, 
Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 
"Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three,  60 
Little  brother?  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Whence  should  they  come,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven?) 

"They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne 
Bar, 

Sister  Helen,        65 
And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 
"Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they 
are, 

Little  brother?  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Who   should   they   be,   between   Hell    and 
Heaven?)  70 


fast, 

Sister  Helen, 
For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 
"  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 

Little  brother!"  75 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo! 

Sister  Helen, 
And  he  says  that  he  would  speak  with 
you."  80 

"Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laughs  she  thus,   between  Hell  and 
Heaven?) 

"The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry,     85 
Sister  Helen, 

That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die." 

"And  he  and  thou,  and  thou  and  I, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  90 

And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Three  days  ago,  on  his  marriage-morn, 

Sister  Helen, 

He  sickened,  and  lies  since  then  forlorn." 

"For   bridegroom's   side   is   the   bride   a 

thorn,  95 

Little  brother?  " 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Cold  bridal  cheer,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed, 

Sister  Helen,       100 

And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 

"The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed, 

Little  brother!" 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day,    106 

Sister  Helen, 
That  you  should  take  your  curse  away." 
uMy   prayer  was   heard, — he   need   but 
pray, 

Little  brother!"  no 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Shall   God    not    hear,    between   Hell    and 
Heaven?) 


ROSSETTI 


743 


"But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban, 
Sister  Helen, 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can."     115 

"Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven/) 

"But  he  calls  forever  on  your  name,     120 
Sister  Helen, 

And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 

"My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 
Little  brother." 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  125 

Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 
Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 

"The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast,  130 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen;       135 

But  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's 

course." 
"Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  per- 
force, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  word  now  heard,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven?)  140 

"Oh,  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 
Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 
"In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 

Little  brother!"  145 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  soul's    one   sight,    between   Hell   and 
Heaven!) 

"He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 
Sister  Helen, 

And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne." 

"What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join,  151 
Little  brother?" 
(OMother,  Mary  Mother, 

No,  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 
Sister  Helen,      156 


You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 
"What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again, 
Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  160 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 
Sister  Helen, 
That  even  dead  Love  must  weep  to  see." 
"Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he,     165 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Love   turned    to    hate,    between    Hell    and 
Heaven!) 

"Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides 
fast, 

Sister  Helen,       170 

For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast." 

"The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 

Little  brother!" 

(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Will    soon    be    past,    between    Hell    and 

Heaven!)  175 

"He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 
Sister  Helen, 

But  oh!  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak!" 

"What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek, 

Little  brother?"  180 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 
Sister  Helen, 

The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live."i8s 

"Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would 
rive,  19° 

Sister  Helen, 
To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 
"Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 

Little  brother! " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  195 
Alas,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 

Sister  Helen, 
To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God!" 


744 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode,     200  I  "They've    caught     her    to    Westholm's 


Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 
Sister  Helen,       205 
So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 
"See  her  now  or  never  see  aught, 

Little  brother!  " 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What    more    to    see,    between    Hell     and 
Heaven?)  210 

"Her  hood  falls  back,  and  the  moon  shines 
fair, 

Sister  Helen, 
On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 
"Blest  hour  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 
Little  brother! "  215 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Hour  blest  and  banned,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven!) 

"Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did 
glow, 

Sister  Helen, 
'Neath  the  bridal- wreath  three  days  ago." 
"One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for 
woe,  221 

Little  brother! " 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven!) 

"Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bend- 
ing head,  225 
Sister  Helen; 
With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are 

wed." 
"What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal- 
bed, 

Little  brother?" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  230 
What  strain  but  death's,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven?) 

"  She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon, 

Sister  Helen, — 
She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 
"Oh!  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe 
tune,  235 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Her   woe's    dumb    cry,  between    Hell   and 
Heaven!) 


saddle-bow, 

Sister  Helen,      240 
And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its 

flow." 
"Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow, 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
W  oe-withered     gold,     between     Hell     and 
Heaven!)  245 

"O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 
Sister  Helen! 

More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 

"No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother! "  250 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

His  dying  knell,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Alas!  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 
Sister  Helen; 
Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground?"     255 
"  Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 
Little  brother?" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and 
Heaven?) 

"They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his 
knee,  260 

Sister  Helen, 
And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily." 
"More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 
Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother,  265 
The  naked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone, 

Sister  Helen, 
But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 
"And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath 
flown,  270 

Little  brother." 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 

Sister  Helen,       275 

And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 

"But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother!" 
(0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 


ROSSETTI 


745 


"See,  see  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its 
place,  281 

Sister  Helen, 
And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace!" 
"Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space, 

Little  brother!  "285 

(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven/) 

"Ah!  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has 
crossed, 

Sister  Helen, 
Ah!  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost?"29o 
"A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 

Little  brother!" 
(O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 


From  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE 

THE   SONNET 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, — 

Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity, 

To  one  dead  deathless  hour.    Look  that  it 

be, 
Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 
Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent:     5 
Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 
As  Day  or  Night  may  rule;  and  let  Time 

see 
Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 
A  Sonnet  is  a  coin:  its  face  reveals 
The  soul, — its  converse,  to  what  Power 
't  is  due: —  10 

Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 
Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve;  or,  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  cav- 
ernous breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

IV.    LOVESIGHT 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee 

made  known? 
Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies,  6 
Thy    twilight-hidden    glimmering    visage 

lies, 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own? 


0  love,  my  love!  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of 

thee,  10 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  dark- 
ening slope, 
The  ground- whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of 

Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing? 

XIX.      SILENT  NOON 

Your  hands   lie   open  in  the  long  fresh 

grass, — 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy 

blooms: 
Your    eyes    smile    peace.      The    pasture 

gleams  and  glooms 
'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and 

amass. 
All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can 

pass,  5 

Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where   the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  haw- 
thorn-hedge. 
'T  is  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 
Deep   in    the   sun-searched   growths   the 

dragon-fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the 

sky: —  10 

So  this  winged  hour  is  dropped  to  us  from 

above. 
Oh!  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless 

dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 
When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 

XCVTI.     A  SUPERSCRIPTION 

Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been; 

1  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Fare- 

well; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 

Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  be- 
tween ; 

Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is 
seen  5 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by 
my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 

Of  ultimate  things  unuttered  the  frail 
screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am!  But  should 
there  dart 


746 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  sur- 
prise 10 

Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the 
breath  of  sighs, — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn 
apart 

Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart, 

Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS  (1834-1896) 
From  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE 

AN   APOLOGY 

Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to 

sing, 
I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget  your 

tears,  5 

Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth, 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth,     io 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet 

days  die — 
Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn 

our  bread,  16 

These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because   they,  living  not,  can   ne'er  be 

dead, 
Or  long   time  take  their  memory  quite 

away  20 

From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due 

time, 
Why  should  I  strive  to  set  the  crooked 

straight? 
Let   it   suffice   me   that   my   murmuring 

rhyme 
Beats  with  light  wing  against  the  ivory 

gate,  25 

Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 


To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lulled  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At  Christmas-tide  such  wondrous  things 

did  show,  30 

That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the 

spring, 
And   through   another   saw   the   summer 

glow, 
And  through  a  third  the  fruited  vines  a- 

row, 
While  still,  unheard,  but  in  its  wonted  way, 
Piped  the  drear  wind  of  that  December 

day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where   tossed   about   all   hearts   of   men 

must  be;  40 

Whose    ravening    monsters    mighty   men 

shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

PROLOGUE 

Forget    six    counties    overhung    with 

smoke, 
Forget    the    snorting    steam    and    piston 

stroke, 
Forget  the  spreading  of  the  hideous  town ; 
Think   rather  of  the  pack-horse  on   the 

down, 
And  dream  of  London,  small,  and  white, 

and  clean,  5 

The  clear  Thames  bordered  by  its  gardens 

green; 
Think,  that  below  bridge  the  green  lapping 

waves 
Smite  some  few  keels  that  bear  Levantine 

staves, 
Cut  from  the  yew  wood  on  the  burnt-up 

hill, 
And  pointed  jars  that  Greek  hands  toiled 

to  fill,  10 

And  treasured  scanty  spice  from  some  far 

sea, 
Florence  gold  cloth,  and  Ypres  napery, 
And  cloth  of  Bruges,  and  hogsheads  of 

Guienne; 
While  nigh  the  thronged  wharf  Geoffrey 

Chaucer's  pen 


MORRIS 


747 


Moves   over   bills   of   lading — 'mid   such 

times  is 

Shall   dwell   the  hollow   puppets   of  my 

rhymes. 
A  nameless  city  in  a  distant  sea, 
White  as  the  changing  walls  of  faerie, 
Thronged  with  much  people  clad  in  an- 
cient guise 
I  now  am  fain  to  set  before  your  eyes;     20 
There,  leave  the  clear  green  water  and 

the  quays, 
And  pass  betwixt  its  marble  palaces, 
Until  ye  come  unto  the  chief  est  square; 
A  bubbling  conduit  is  set  midmost  there, 
And   round   about   it   now   the   maidens 

throng,  25 

With  jest  and  laughter,  and  sweet  broken 

song, 
Making  but  light  of  labor  new  begun 
While  in  their  vessels  gleams  the  morning 

sun. 
On  one  side  of  the  square  a  temple 

stands, 
Wherein  the  gods  worshipped  in  ancient 

lands  30 

Still  have  their  altars;  a  great  market-place 
Upon  two  other  sides  fills  all  the  space, 
And  thence  the  busy  hum  of  men  comes 

forth; 
But  on  the  cold  side  looking  toward  the 

north 
A  pillared  council-house  may  you  behold, 
Within  whose  porch  are  images  of  gold,  36 
Gods  of  the  nations  who  dwelt  anciently 
About  the  borders  of  the  Grecian  sea. 
Pass  now  between  them,  push  the  brazen 

door, 
And  standing  on  the  polished  marble  floor 
Leave  all  the  noises  of  the  square  behind; 
Most  calm  that  reverent  chamber  shall 

ye  find,  42 

Silent  at  first,  but  for  the  noise  you  made 
When  on  the  brazen  door  your  hand  you 

laid 
To  shut  it  after  you, — but  now  behold    45 
The  city  rulers  on  their  thrones  of  gold, 
Clad  in  most  fair  attire,  and  in  their  hands 
Long  carven  silver-banded  ebony  wands; 
Then  from  the  dais  drop  your  eyes  and 

see 
Soldiers  and  peasants  standing  reverently 
Before  those  elders,  round  a  little  band     51 
Who  bear  such  arms  as  guard  the  English 

land, 


But  battered,  rent,  and  rusted  sore,  and 

they, 
The  men  themselves,  are  shrivelled,  bent, 

and  gray; 
And  as  they  lean  with  pain  upon  their 

spears  55 

Their   brows   seem   furrowed   deep   with 

more  than  years; 
For  sorrow  dulls  their  heavy  sunken  eyes; 
Bent  are  they  less  with  time  than  miseries. 

ATALANTA'S  RACE 

Atalanta,  daughter  of  King  Schceneus,  not 
willing  to  lose  her  virgin's  estate,  made  it  a 
law  to  all  suitors  that  they  should  run  a  race 
with  her  in  the  public  place,  and  if  they 
failed  to  overcome  her  should  die  unre- 
venged;  and  thus  many  brave  men  perished. 
At  last  came  Milanion,  the  son  of  Amphi- 
damus,  who,  outrunning  her  with  the  help 
of  Venus,  gained  the  virgin  and  wedded 
her. 

Through  thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter 
went, 

Following  the  beasts  up,  on  a  fresh  spring 
day; 

But  since  his  horn-tipped  bow,  but  seldom 
bent, 

Now  at  the  noontide  naught  had  happed 
to  slay, 

Within  a  vale  he  called  his  hounds  away,  5 

Hearkening  the  echoes  of  his  lone  voice 
cling 

About  the  cliffs  and  through  the  beech- 
trees  ring. 

But  when  they  ended,  still  awhile  he  stood, 
And  but  the  sweet  familiar  thrush  could 

hear, 
And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood,  10 
And  o'er  the  dry  leaves  of  the  vanished 

year 
His  hounds'  feet  pattering  as  they  drew 

anear, 
And  heavy  breathing  from  their  heads  low 

hung, 
To  see  the  mighty  cornel  bow  unstrung. 

Then  smiling  did  he  turn  to  leave  the 
place,  15 

But  with  his  first  step  some  new  fleeting 
thought 

A  shadow  cast  across  his  sunburnt  face: 


748 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


I  think  the  golden  net  that  April  brought 
From  some  warm  world  his  wavering  soul 

had  caught; 
For,  sunk  in  vague  sweet  longing,  did  he 

go  20 

Betwixt  the  trees  with  doubtful  steps  and 

slow. 

Yet  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 

The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the  wood  was 
done; 

Whereon  one  farewell,  backward  look  he 
cast, 

Then,  turning  round  to  see  what  place  was 
won,  25 

With  shaded  eyes  looked  underneath  the 
sun, 

And  o'er  green  meads  and  new-turned  fur- 
rows brown 

Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Schceneus' 
town. 

So  thitherward  he  turned,  and  on  each 

side 
The  folk  were  busy  on  the  teeming  land,  30 
And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  fur- 
rows cried, 
Or  midst  the  newly  blossomed  vines  did 

stand, 
And  as  the  rustic  weapon  pressed  the  hand 
Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-filled 
ear, 


Which  at  the  first  of  folk  were  wellnigh 

bare; 
But  pressing  on,  and  going  more  hastily, 
Men  hurrying  too  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these,  he  still  pressed 

on,  50 

Until  an  open  space  he  came  unto, 
Where  wreaths  of  fame  had  oft  been  lost 

and  won, 
For  feats  of  strength  folk  there  were  wont 

to  do. 
And  now  our  hunter  looked  for  something 

new, 
Because  the  whole  wide  space  was  bare, 

and  stilled  55 

The  high  seats  were,  with  eager  people 

filled. 

There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat, 
Whence  he  beheld  a  broidered  canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Schceneus 

sat 
Upon  his  throne  with  councillors  thereby; 
And  underneath  his  well- wrought  seat  and 

high,  61 

He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  Sun, 
A  silver  image  of  the  Fleet-foot  One. 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame  flickered  in  the  wind; 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet    66 


Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should  j  Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 


shear. 


35 


Merry  it  was:  about  him  sung  the  birds, 
The  spring  flowers  bloomed  along  the  firm 

dry  road, 
The  sleek-skinned  mothers  of  the  sharp- 
horned  herds 
Now    for    the   barefoot    milking-maidens 

lowed; 
While  from  the  freshness  of  his  blue  abode, 
Glad  his  death-bearing  arrows  to  forget,  41 
The    broad    sun    blazed,    nor    scattered 
plagues  as  yet. 

Through  such  fair  things  unto  the  gates 

he  came, 
And  found  them  open,  as  though  peace 

were  there; 
Wherethrough,  unquestioned  of  his  race  or 

name,  45 

He  entered,  and  along  the  streets  'gan  fare, 


By  whom  a  huge  man  held  a  sword,  in- 
twined 

With  yellow  flowers;  these  stood  a  little 
space 

From  off  the  altar,  nigh  the  starting- 
place.  70 

And  there  two  runners  did  the  sign  abide, 
Foot  set  to  foot, — a  young  man  slim  and 

fair, 
Crisp-haired,   well-knit,   with  firm   limbs 

often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may 

spare ; 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair  75 
A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  con- 
tend? 
A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 


MORRIS 


749 


When  in  the  woods  she  lists  her  bow  to 
bend,  80 

Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had, 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  world  live  free  from 
war. 

She  seemed  all  earthly  matters  to  for- 
get; 85 

Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear, 

Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were 
set 

Calm  and  unmoved  as  though  no  soul 
were  near. 

But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 

Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment 
turned  90 

His  anxious  face  with  fierce  desire  that 
burned. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the 

trumpet's  clang 
Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there 

sprang, 
And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by 

side ;  95 

But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reached  at  last, 
And   round   about   it   still   abreast   they 

passed. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they 

ran, 
When  half-way  to  the  starting-point  they 

were,  100 

A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew 

near 
Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet  the  ground 

could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhoped-for  o'er  his  heart  'gan 

steal.  105 

But  midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he 

heard 
Her   footsteps   drawing   nearer,   and   the 

sound 
Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His   flushed   and   eager   face   he    turned 

around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 


Fleet  as  the  wind,  but  scarcely  saw  her 
there  m 

Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood  she  breathing  like  a  little 

child 
Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep, 
For    no    victorious     joy    her    red     lips 

smiled,  115 

Her  cheek  its  wonted  freshness  did  but 

keep; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and 

deep, 
Though  some  divine  thought  softened  all 

her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through 

the  place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopped  short  amidst  his 

course,  120 

One  moment  gazed  upon  her  piteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did 

force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could 

see; 
And,   changed  like   one   who   knows   his 

time  must  be 
But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word  125 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly 

blade, 
Bared   of   its   flowers,   and   through   the 

crowded  place 
Was   silence   now,  and   midst   of  it   the 

maid 
Went  by   the  poor  wretch  at  a  gentle 

pace,  130 

And  he  to  hers  upturned  his  sad  white 

face; 
Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 


So  was  the  pageant  ended,  and  all  folk 
Talking  of  this  and  that  familiar  thing 
In  little  groups  from  that  sad  concourse 
broke;  136 

For  now  the  shrill   bats  were   upon  the 

wing, 
And  soon  dark  night  would  slay  the  even- 
ing, 
And  in  dark  gardens  sang  the  nightingale 
Her  little-heeded,  oft-repeated  tale.        140 


7SO 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And  with  the  last  of  all  the  hunter  went, 
Who,  wondering  at  the  strange  sight  he 

had  seen, 
Prayed  an  old  man  to  tell  him  what  it 

meant, 
Both  why  the  vanquished  man  so  slain 

had  been, 
And  if  the  maiden  were  an  earthly  queen, 
Or  rather  what  much  more  she  seemed  to 

be,  146 

No  sharer  in  the  world's  mortality. 

"Stranger,"   said  he,   "I  pray  she  soon 

may  die 
Whose  lovely  youth  has  slain  so  many  an 

one! 
King  Schceneus'  daughter  is  she  verily,   1 50 
Who  when  her  eyes  first  looked  upon  the 

sun 
Was  fain  to  end  her  life  but  new  begun, 
For  he  had  vowed  to  leave  but  men  alone 
Sprung  from  his  loins  when  he  from  earth 

was  gone. 

"Therefore  he  bade  one  leave  her  in  the 

wood,  155 

And  let  wild  things  deal  with  her  as  they 

might ; 
But    this    being    done,    some    cruel    god 

thought  good 
To  save  her  beauty  in  the  world's  despite: 
Folk  say  that  her,  so  delicate  and  white 
As   now   she   is,   a   rough   root-grubbing 

bear  160 

Amidst  her  shapeless  cubs  at  first  did  rear. 

"In  course  of  time  the  woodfolk  slew  her 
nurse, 

And  to  their  rude  abode  the  youngling 
brought, 

And  reared  her  up  to  be  a  kingdom's  curse, 

Who,  grown  a  woman,  of  no  kingdom 
thought,  165 

But  armed  and  swift,  'mid  beasts  destruc- 
tion wrought, 

Nor  spared  two  shaggy  centaur  kings  to 
slay, 

To  whom  her  body  seemed  an  easy  prey. 

"  So  to  this  city,  led  by  fate,  she  came, 
Whom,  known  by  signs,  whereof  I  cannot 

tell,  170 

King  Schceneus  for  his  child  at  last  did 

claim ; 


Nor  otherwhere  since  that  day  doth  she 

dwell, 
Sending  too  many  a  noble  soul  to  hell. — 
What!   thine   eyes    glisten?    what    then, 

thinkest  thou 
Her  shining  head  unto  the  yoke  to  bow?  1 75 

"Listen,  my  son,  and   love   some  other 

maid, 
For  she  the  saffron  gown  will  never  wear, 
And  on  no  flower-strewn  couch  shall  she 

be  laid, 
Nor  shall  her  voice  make  glad  a  lover's  ear; 
Yet  if  of  Death  thou  hast  not  any  fear,  180 
Yea,  rather,  if  thou  lovest  him  utterly, 
Thou  still  may'st  woo  her  ere  thou  com'st 

to  die, 

"Like  him  that  on  this  day  thou  sawest 

lie  dead; 
For,  fearing  as  I  deem  the  sea-born  one, 
The  maid  has  vowed  e'en  such  a  man  to 
wed  185 

As  in  the  course  her  swift  feet  can  out- 
run, 
But  whoso  fails  herein,  his  days  are  done: 
He  came  the  nighest  that  was  slain  to-day, 
Although  with  him  I  deem  she  did  but 
play. 

"Behold,  such  mercy  Atalanta  gives     190 
To  those  that  long  to  win  her  loveliness; 
Be  wise!  be  sure  that  many  a  maid  there 

lives 
Gentler  than  she,  of  beauty  little  less, 
Whose  swimming  eyes  thy  loving  words 

shall  bless, 
When  in  some  garden,  knee  set  close  to 

knee,  195 

Thou  sing'st  the  song  that  love  may  teach 

to  thee." 

So  to  the  hunter  spake  that  ancient  man, 

And  left  him  for  his  own  home  presently; 

But  he  turned  round,  and  through  the 
moonlight  wan 

Reached  the  thick  wood,  and  there  'twixt 
tree  and  tree  200 

Distraught  he  passed  the  long  night  fever- 
ishly, 

'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  and  at  dawn 
arose 

To  wage  hot  war  against  his  speechless 
foes. 


MORRIS 


75J 


There  to  the  hart's  flank  seemed  his  shaft 

to  grow, 
As  panting  down  the  broad  green  glades  he 

flew,  205 

There  by  his  horn  the  Dryads  well  might 

know 
His  thrust  against  the  bear's  heart  had 

been  true, 
And  there  Adonis'  bane  his  javelin  slew; 
But  still  in  vain  through  rough  and  smooth 

he  went, 
For  none  the  more  his  restlessness  was 

spent.  210 

So  wandering,  he  to  Argive  cities  came, 
And  in  the  lists  with  valiant  men  he  stood, 
And  by  great  deeds  he  won  him  praise  and 

fame, 
And  heaps  of  wealth  for  little- valued  blood ; 
But  none  of  all  these  things,  or  life,  seemed 

good  215 

Unto  his  heart,  where  still  unsatisfied 
A  ravenous  longing  warred  with  fear  and 

pride. 

Therefore  it  happed  when  but  a  month  had 

gone 
Since  he  had  left  King  Schceneus'  city  old, 
In  hunting-gear  again,  again  alone  220 
The  forest-bordered  meads  did  he  behold, 
Where  still  mid  thoughts  of  August's  quiv- 
ering gold 
Folk  hoed  the  wheat,  and  clipped  the  vine 

in  trust 
Of  faint  October's  purple-foaming  must.1 

And  once  again  he  passed  the  peaceful 
gate,  #  225 

While  to  his  beating  heart  his  lips  did  lie, 
That,  owning  not  victorious  love  and  fate, 
Said,  half  aloud,  "And  here  too  must  I 

fry 

To  win  of  alien  men  the  mastery, 
And  gather  for  my  head  fresh  meed  of 
fame,  230 

And  cast  new  glory  on  my  father's  name." 

In  spite  of  that,  how  beat  his  heart  when 
first 

Folk  said  to  him,  "And  art  thou  come  to 
see 

That  which  still  makes  our  city's  name  ac- 
cursed 

1  new,  unfermented  wine. 


Among  all  mothers  for  its  cruelty?        235 
Then  know  indeed  that  fate  is  good  to 

thee, 
Because  to-morrow  a  new  luckless  one 
Against  the  white-foot  maid  is  pledged  to 

run." 

So  on  the  morrow  with  no  curious  eyes, 
As  once  he  did,  that  piteous  sight  he  saw, 
Nor  did  that  wonder  in  his  heart  arise     241 
As  toward  the  goal  the  conquering  maid 

'gan  draw, 
Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  her  eyes  with  awe, — 
Too  full  the  pain  of  longing  filled  his  heart 
For    fear    or    wonder    there    to    have    a 

part.  245 

But  0,  how  long  the  night  was  ere  it  went! 
How  long  it  was  before  the  dawn  begun 
Showed  to  the  wakening  birds  the  sun's 

intent 
That  not  in  darkness  should  the  world  be 

done! 
And  then,  and  then,  how  long  before  the 

sun  -  250 

Bade  silently  the  toilers  of  the  earth 
Get  forth  to  fruitless  cares  or  empty  mirth ! 

And  long  it  seemed  that  in  the  market- 
place 
He  stood  and  saw  the  chaffering  folk  go 

by, 

Ere  from  the  ivory  throne  King  Schceneus' 
face  255 

Looked  down  upon  the  murmur  royally; 

But  then  came  trembling  that  the  time 
was  nigh 

When  he  midst  pitying  looks  his  love  must 
claim, 

And  jeering  voices  must  salute  his  name. 

But  as  the  throng  he  pierced  to  gain  the 
throne,  260 

His  alien  face  distraught  and  anxious 
told 

What  hopeless  errand  he  was  bound  upon, 

And,  each  to  each,  folk  whispered  to  be- 
hold 

His  godlike  limbs;  nay,  and  one  woman 
old, 

As  he  went  by,  must  pluck  him  by  the 
sleeve  265 

And  pray  him  yet  that  wretched  love  to 
leave. 


752 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


For  sidling  up  she  said,  "Canst  thou  live 

twice, 
Fair  son?  Canst  thou  have  joyful  youth 

again, 
That  thus  thou  goest  to  the  sacrifice, 
Thyself   the   victim?    Nay,    then,    all   in 

vain  270 

Thy  mother  bore  her  longing  and  her  pain, 
And  one  more  maiden  on  the  earth  must 

dwell 
Hopeless  of  joy,  nor  fearing  death  and  hell. 

"O  fool,  thou  knowest  not  the  compact 

then 
That  with  the  three-formed  goddess  she 

has  made  275 

To  keep  her  from  the  loving  lips  of  men, 
And  in  no  saffron  gown  to  be  arrayed, 
And  therewithal  with  glory  to  be  paid, 
And  love  of  her  the  moonlit  river  sees 
White  'gainst  the  shadow  of  the  formless 

trees.  280 

"  Come  back,  and  I  myself  will  pray  for 

thee 
Unto  the  sea-born  framer  of  delights, 
To  give  thee  her  who  on  the  earth  may  be 
The  fairest  stirrer-up  to  death  and  fights, 
To  quench  with  hopeful  days  and  joyous 

nights  285 

The  flame  that  doth  thy  youthful  heart 

consume: 
Come  back,  nor  give  thy  beauty  to  the 

tomb." 

How  should  he  listen  to  her  earnest 
speech, — 

Words  such  as  he  not  once  or  twice  had 
said 

Unto  himself,  whose  meaning  scarce  could 
reach  290 

The  firm  abode  of  that  sad  hardihead? 

He  turned  about,  and  through  the  market- 
stead 

Swiftly  he  passed,  until  before  the  throne 

In  the  cleared  space  he  stood  at  last  alone. 

Then  said  the  king,  "Stranger,  what  dost 
thou  here?  295 

Have  any  of  my  folk  done  ill  to  thee? 

Or  art  thou  of  the  forest  men  in  fear? 

Or  art  thou  of  the  sad  fraternity 

Who  still  will  strive  my  daughter's  mates 
to  be, 


Staking  their  lives  to  win  to  earthly  bliss  300 
The  lonely  maid,  the  friend  of  Artemis?" 

"O   King,"   he   said,    "thou   sayest   the 

word  indeed; 
Nor  will  I  quit  the  strife  till  I  have  won 
My  sweet  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  need. 
And  know  that  I  am  called  Milanion,  305 
Of  King  Amphidamas  the  well-loved  son; 
So  fear  not  that  to  thy  old  name,  O  King, 
Much    loss    or    shame    my    victory    will 

bring." 

"Nay,  Prince,"  said  Schceneus,  "welcome 
to  this  land 

Thou  wert  indeed,  if  thou  wert  here  to 
try  310 

Thy  strength  'gainst  some  one  mighty  of 
his  hand; 

Nor  would  we  grudge  thee  well-won  mas- 
tery. 

But  now,  why  wilt  thou  come  to  me  to 
die, 

And  at  my  door  lay  down  thy  luckless 
head, 

Swelling  the  band  of  the  unhappy  dead, 

"Whose  curses  even  now  my  heart  doth 
fear?  316 

Lo,  I  am  old,  and  know  what  life  can  be, 

And  what  a  bitter  thing  is  death  anear. 

0  son!  be  wise,  and  hearken  unto  me; 

And  if  no  other  can  be  dear  to  thee,    320 

At  least  as  now,  yet  is  the  world  full 
wide, 

And  bliss  in  seeming  hopeless  hearts  may 
hide: 

"But  if  thou  losest  life,  then  all  is  lost." 
"Nay,  King,"  Milanion  said,  "thy  words 

are  vain. 
Doubt  not  that  I  have  counted  well  the 

cost.  325 

But  say,  on  what  day  wilt  thou  that  I 

gain 
Fulfilled  delight,  or  death  to  end  my  pain? 
Right  glad  were  I  if  it  could  be  to-day, 
And  all  my  doubts  at  rest  forever  lay." 

"Nay,"  said  King  Schceneus,  "thus  it  shall 

not  be,  330 

But   rather   shalt   thou   let  a  month  go 

by, 
And  weary  with  thy  prayers  for  victory 


MORRIS 


753 


What  god  thou  know'st  the  kindest  and 

most  nigh. 
So  doing,  still  perchance  thou  shalt  not  die; 
And  with  my  good-will  wouldst  thou  have 

the  maid,  335 

For  of  the  equal1  gods  I  grow  afraid. 

"And  until  then,  O  Prince,  be  thou  my 
guest, 

And  all  these  troublous  things  awhile  for- 
get." 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "couldst  thou  give  my 
soul  good  rest, 

And  on  mine  head  a  sleepy  garland  set,  340 

Then  had  I  'scaped  the  meshes  of  the  net, 

Nor  shouldst  thou  hear  from  me  another 
word; 

But  now,  make  sharp  thy  fearful  heading 
sword. 

"Yet  will  I  do  what  son  of  man  may  do, 
And  promise  all  the  gods  may  most  desire, 
That  to  myself  I  may  at  least  be  true;  346 
And  on  that  day  my  heart  and  limbs  so 

tire, 
With  utmost  strain  and  measureless  desire, 
That,  at  the  worst,  I  may  but  fall  asleep 
When  in  the  sunlight  round  that  sword 

shall  sweep."  350 

He  went  with  that,  nor  anywhere  would 

bide, 
But  unto  Argos  restlessly  did  wend; 
And  there,  as  one  who  lays  all  hope  aside, 
Because  the  leech  has  said  his  life  must  end, 
Silent  farewell  he  bade  to  foe  and  friend, 
And  took  his  way  unto  the  restless  sea,  356 
For  there  he  deemed  his  rest  and  help 

might  be. 


Upon  the  shore  of  Argolis  there  stands 
A  temple  to  the  goddess  that  he  sought, 
That,  turned  unto  the  lion-bearing  lands,2 
Fenced  from  the  east,  of  cold  winds  hath 
no  thought,  361 

Though  to  no  homestead  there  the  sheaves 

are  brought, 
No   groaning    press    torments  the  close- 
clipped  murk,3 
Lonely  the  fane  stands,  far  from  all  men's 
work. 

1  just.  2  Africa. 

3  marc,  what  remains  of  grapes  or  other  fruit  after  the 
juice  has  been  pressed  out. 


Pass  through  a  close,  set  thick  with  myrtle- 
trees,  365 

Through  the  brass  doors  that  guard  the 
holy  place, 

And,  entering,  hear  the  washing  of  the 
seas 

That  twice  a  day  rise  high  above  the  base, 

And,  with  the  southwest  urging  them, 
embrace 

The  marble  feet  of  her  that  standeth  there, 

That  shrink  not,  naked  though  they  be 
and  fair.  371 

Small  is  the  fane  through  which  the  sea- 
wind  sings 
About  Queen  Venus'  well-wrought  image 

white; 
But  hung  around  are  many  precious  things, 
The  gifts,  of  those  who,  longing  for  delight, 
Have  hung  them  there  within  the  goddess ' 
sight,  376 

And  in  return  have  taken  at  her  hands 
The  living  treasures  of  the  Grecian  lands. 

And  thither  now  has  come  Milanion, 

And  showed  unto  the  priests'  wide-open 
eyes  380 

Gifts  fairer  than  all  those  that  there  have 
shown, — 

Silk  cloths,  inwrought  with  Indian  fan- 
tasies, 

And  bowls  inscribed  with  sayings  of  the 
wise 

Above  the  deeds  of  foolish  living  things, 

And  mirrors  fit  to  be  the  gifts  of  kings.    385 

And  now  before  the  Sea-born  One  he 
stands, 

By  the  sweet  veiling  smoke  made  dim  and 
soft; 

And  while  the  incense  trickles  from  his 
hands, 

And  while  the  odorous  smoke-wreaths 
hang  aloft, 

Thus  doth  he  pray  to  her:  "O  Thou,  who 
oft  390 

Hast  holpen  man  and  maid  in  their  dis- 
tress, 

Despise  me  not  for  this  my  wretchedness! 

"O  goddess,  among  us  who  dwell  below. 
Kings  and  great  men,  great  for  a  little 

while, 
Have  pity  on  the  lowly  heads  that  bow, 


754 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Nor  hate  the  hearts  that  love  them  with- 
out guile;  396 

Wilt  thou  be  worse  than  these,  and  is  thy 
smile 

A  vain  device  of  him  who  set  thee  here, 

An  empty  dream  of  some  artificer? 

"O  great  one,  some  men  love,  and  are 

ashamed;  4co 

Some  men  are  weary  of  the  bonds  of  love; 
Yea,  and  by  some  men  lightly  art  thou 

blamed, 
That  from  thy  toils  their  lives  they  cannot 

move, 
And  'mid  the  ranks  of  men  their  manhood 

prove. 
Alas!  O  goddess,  if  thou  slayest  me       405 
What  new  immortal  can  I  serve  but  thee? 

"Think  then,  will  it  bring  honor  to  thy 

head 
If  folk  say,  '  Everything  aside  he  cast, 
And  to  all  fame  and  honor  was  he  dead, 
And  to  his  one  hope  now  is  dead  at  last, 
Since  all  unholpen  he  is  gone  and  past:  411 
Ah!  the  gods  love  not  man,  for  certainly 
He  to  his  helper  did  not  cease  to  cry.' 

"Nay,  but  thou  wilt  help:  they  who  died 

before 
Not  single-hearted,  as  I  deem,  came  here; 
Therefore  unthanked  they  laid  their  gifts 

before  416 

Thy   stainless   feet,    still    shivering   with 

their  fear, 
Lest  in  their  eyes  their  true  thought  might 

appear, 
Who  sought  to  be  the  lords  of  that  fair 

town, 
Dreaded  of  men  and  winners  of  renown.  420 

"O  Queen,  thou  knowest  I  pray  not  for 

this: 
Oh,  set  us  down  together  in  some  place 
Where  not  a  voice  can  break  our  heaven  of 

bliss, 
Where  naught  but  rocks  and  I  can  see  her 

face, 
Softening    beneath    the    marvel    of    thy 

grace,  425 

Where  not  a  foot  our  vanished  steps  can 

track, — 
The   golden   age,   the  golden   age   come 

back! 


"O  fairest,  hear  me  now,  who  do  thy  will, 
Plead  for  thy  rebel  that  she  be  not  slain, 
But   live   and   love  and  be  thy  servant 

still :  430 

Ah!  give  her  joy  and  take  away  my  pain, 
And    thus    two    long-enduring    servants 

gain. 
An  easy  thing  this  is  to  do  for  me, 
What  need  of  my  vain  words  to  weary 

thee? 

"But  none  the  less  this  place  will  I  not 
leave  435 

Until  I  needs  must  go  my  death  to  meet, 

Or  at  thy  hands  some  happy  sign  re- 
ceive 

That  in  great  joy  we  twain  may  one  day 
greet 

Thy  presence  here  and  kiss  thy  silver  feet, 

Such  as  we  deem  thee,  fair  beyond  all 
words,  440 

Victorious  o'er  our  servants  and  our  lords." 

Then  from  the  altar  back  a  space  he  drew, 
But  from  the  Queen  turned  not  his  face 

away, 
But  'gainst  a  pillar  leaned,  until  the  blue 
That  arched  the  sky,  at  ending  of  the  day, 
Was  turned  to  ruddy  gold  and  changing 
gray,  _  446 

And  clear,  but  low,  the  nigh-ebbed  wind- 
less sea 
In  the  still  evening  murmured  ceaselessly. 

And  there  he  stood  when  all  the  sun  was 
down ; 

Nor  had  he  moved  when  the  dim  golden 
light,  450 

Like  the  far  luster  of  a  godlike  town, 

Had  left  the  world  to  seeming  hopeless 
night; 

Nor  would  he  move  the  more  when  wan 
moonlight 

Streamed  through  the  pillars  for  a  little 
while, 

And  lighted  up  the  white  Queen's  change- 
less smile.  455 

Naught  noted  he  the  shallow  flowing  sea, 
As  step  by  step  it  set  the  wrack1  a-swim; 
The  yellow  torchlight  nothing  noted  he 
Wherein  with  fluttering  gown  and  half- 
bared  limb 

1  sea-weed  cast  ashore  by  the  waves. 


MORRIS 


755 


The  temple  damsels  sung  their  midnight 
hymn ;  460 

And  naught  the  doubled  stillness  of  the 
fane 

When  they  were  gone  and  all  was  hushed 
again. 

But   when   the  waves  had   touched   the 

marble  base, 
And  steps  the  fish  swim  over  twice  a  day, 
The    dawn    beheld   him    sunken    in    his 

place  465 

Upon  the  floor;  and  sleeping  there  he  lay, 
Not  heeding  aught  the  little  jets  of  spray 
The  roughened  sea  brought  nigh,  across 

him  cast, 
For  as  one  dead  all  thought  from  him  had 

passed. 

Yet  long  before  the  sun  had  showed  his 

head,  470 

Long   ere   the    varied    hangings    on    the 

wall 
Had  gained  once  more  their  blue  and  green 

and  red, 
He  rose  as  one  some  well-known  sign  doth 

call 
When  war  upon  the  city's  gates  doth  fall, 
And    scarce   like  one  fresh  risen  out  of 

sleep,  475 

He  'gan  again  his  broken  watch  to  keep. 

Then  he  turned  round;  not  for  the  sea- 
gull's cry 

That  wheeled  above  the  temple  in  his 
flight, 

Not  for  the  fresh  south-wind  that  lovingly 

Breathed  on  the  new-born  day  and  dying 
night,  480 

But  some  strange  hope  'twixt  fear  and 
great  delight 

Drew  round  his  face,  now  flushed,  now 
pale  and  wan, 

And  still  constrained  his  eyes  the  sea  to 
scan. 

Now   a  faint   light   lit   up   the   southern 

sky- 
Not  sun  or  moon,  for  all  the  world  was 

gray,       _  485 

But  this  a  bright  cloud  seemed,  that  drew 

anigh, 
Lighting  the  dull  waves  that  beneath  it  lay 
As  toward  the  temple  still  it  took  its  way, 


And  still  grew  greater,  till  Milanion 
Saw  naught  for  dazzling  light  that  round 
him  shone.  490 

But  as  he  staggered  with  his  arms  out- 
spread, 
i  Delicious  unnamed  odors  breathed  around ; 
For  languid  happiness  he  bowed  his  head, 
And  with  wet  eyes  sank  down  upon  the 

ground, 
Nor  wished  for  aught,  nor  any  dream  he 
found  495 

To  give  him  reason  for  that  happiness, 
Or  make  him  ask  more  knowledge  of  his 
bliss. 

At  last  his  eyes  were  cleared,  and  he  could 

see 
Through  happy  tears  the  goddess  face  to 

face 
With  that  faint  image  of  divinity,         500 
Whose    well-wrought    smile    and    dainty 

changeless    grace 
Until  that  morn  so  gladdened  all  the  place; 
Then  he  unwitting  cried  aloud  her  name, 
And   covered-  up  his  eyes  for  fear  and 

shame. 

But  through  the  stillness  he  her  voice 
could  hear  505 

Piercing  his  heart  with  joy  scarce  bear- 
able, 

That  said,  "Milanion,  wherefore  dost 
thou  fear? 

I  am  not  hard  to  those  who  love  me  well; 

List  to  what  I  a  second  time  will  tell, 

And  thou  mayest  hear  perchance,  and 
live  to  save  510 

The  cruel  maiden  from  a  loveless  grave. 

"  See,  by  my  feet  three  golden  apples  lie, — 
Such  fruit  among  the  heavy  roses  falls, 
Such  fruit  my  watchful  damsels  carefully 
Store  up  within  the   best   loved   of  my 

walls,  515 

Ancient  Damascus,  where  the  lover  calls 
Above  my  unseen  head,  and  faint  and 

light 
The  rose-leaves  flutter  round  me  in  the 

night. 

"And  note  that  these  are  not  alone  most 

fair 
With  heavenly  gold,  but  longing  strange 

they  bring  520 

Unto  the  hearts  of  men,  who  will  not  care, 


75^ 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Beholding  these,  for  any  once-loved  thing 
Till  round  the  shining  sides  their  fingers 

cling. 
And  thou  shalt  see  thy  well-girt  swiftfoot 

maid 
By  sight  of  these  amid  her  glory  stayed. 

"For  bearing  these  within  a  scrip  with 
thee,  526 

When  first  she  heads  thee  from  the  starting- 
place 
Cast  down  the  first  one  for  her  eyes  to  see, 
And  when  she  turns  aside  make  on  apace, 
And  if  again  she  heads  thee  in  the  race 
Spare  not  the  other  two  to  cast  aside  531 
If  she  not  long  enough  behind  will  bide. 

"Farewell,  and  when  has  come  the  happy 

time 
That  she  Diana's  raiment  must  unbind, 
And    all   the   world   seems   blessed   with 

Saturn's  clime,  535 

And    thou    with    eager   arms   about   her 

twined 
Beholdest    first    her   gray   eyes    growing 

•  kind, 
Surely,  O  trembler,  thou  shalt  scarcely 

then 
Forget  the  Helper  of  unhappy  men." 

Milanion  raised  his  head  at  this  last 
word,  540 

For  now  so  soft  and  kind  she  seemed  to  be 
No  longer  of  her  godhead  was  he  feared ; 
Too  late  he  looked,  for  nothing  could  he 

see 
But  the  white  image  glimmering  doubtfully 
In  the  departing  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
And  those  three  apples  on  the  steps  that 
lay.  546 

These  then  he  caught  up,  quivering  with 
delight, 

Yet  fearful  lest  it  all  might  be  a  dream, 

And  though  aweary  with  the  watchful 
night, 

And  sleepless  nights  of  longing,  still  did 
deem  550 

He  could  not  sleep;  but  yet  the  first  sun- 
beam 

That  smote  the  fane  across  the  heaving 
deep 

Shone  on  him  laid  in  calm  untroubled 
sleep. 


But  little  ere  the  noontide  did  he  rise, 
And  why  he  felt  so  happy  scarce  could 

tell  555 

Until  the  gleaming  apples  met  his  eyes. 
Then,  leaving  the  fair  place  where  this 

befell, 
Oft  he  looked  back  as  one  who  loved  it 

well, 
Then  homeward  to  the  haunts  of  men  'gan 

wend 
To  bring  all  things  unto  a  happy  end.     560 


Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone 

by, 

Again  are  all  folk  around  the  running- 
place. 
Nor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for 
the  race,  565 

For  now,  beheld  of  all.  Milanion 
Stands  on  the  spot  he  twice  has  looked 
upon. 

But  yet — what  change  is  this  that  holds 

the  maid? 
Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing 

blade,  570 

Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory? 
The  others  seemed  to  say,  "We  come  to 

die; 
Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That,  dead,  we  may  bethink  us  of  thy 

smile." 

But  he — what  look  of  mastery  was  this  575 

He  cast  on  her?  Why  were  his  lips  so  red? 

Why  was  his  face  so  flushed  with  happi- 
ness? 

So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but 
dead, 

E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head; 

So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleased  to  find 

Some  earthly  damsel  fashioned  to  his 
mind.  581 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his  gaze, 
And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And  wish   that  she  were  clad   in   other 
guise?  585 

Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 


MORRIS 


757 


Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were 
heard, 

Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maid- 
en's word? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  with- 
out a  name, 

And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before,    590 

This  sudden  languor,  this  contempt  of 
fame, 

This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er, 

These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more 
and  more? 

Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows 
near, 

And  weak  defeat  and  woful  victory  fear? 

But  while  she  seemed  to  hear  her  beating 

heart,  596 

Above    their    heads    the    trumpet    blast 

rang  out, 
And  forth  they  sprang;  and  she  must  play 

her  part. 
Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a 

doubt, 
Though,  slackening  once,  she  turned  her 

head  about,  600 

But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deemed  him 

dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  raised  aloft  his  hand, 
And  thence  what  seemed  a  ray  of  light 

there  flew 
And  past  the  maid  rolled  on  along  the 

sand;  605 

Then    trembling    she    her    feet    together 

drew, 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there 

grew 
To  have  the  toy:  some  god  she  thought 

had  given 
That  gift  to  her,  to  make  of  earth  a  heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps  she 
ran,  610 

And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But  when  she  turned  again,   the   great- 
limbed  man 
Now  well  ahead  she  failed  not  to  behold, 
And,  mindful  of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang  up  and  followed  him  in  hot  pursuit, 
Though  with  one  hand  she  touched  the 
golden  fruit.  616 


Note,  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to 

bear 
She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries  621 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the  turning-post  had  wellnigh 


But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it, 
White  fingers  underneath  his  own  were  laid, 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did 

flit;  626 

Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
But  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Wavered  and  stopped,   and  turned  and 

made  no  stay 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 

Then,  as  a  troubled  glance  she  cast 
around,  631 

Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 

And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she 
wound 

To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 

Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had 
she  635 

To  win  the  day,  though  now  but  scanty 
space 

Was  left  betwixt  him  and  the  winning- 
place. 

Short  was  the  way  unto  such  winged  feet; . 
Quickly   she    gained    upon    him,   till   at 

last 
He  turned  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet, 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple 

cast.  641 

She  wavered  not,  but  turned  and  ran  so 

fast 
After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfil, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but  turned  about  to  win 
Once  more  an  unblest  woful  victory —  646 
And  yet — and  yet — why  does  her  breath 

begin 
To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is?  Why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow 

dim?  650 

Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every 

limb? 


75- 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay 

to  find, 
Else  must  she  fall,  indeed,  and  findeth  this, 
A   strong   man's    arms   about   her   body 

twined.  654 

Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss, 
So  wrapped  she  is  in  new  unbroken  bliss; 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath 

won, 
She  weeps  glad  tears  for  all  her  glory  done. 


Shatter  the  trumpet,  hew  adown  the  posts ! 
Upon  the  brazen  altar  break  the  sword,  660 
And  scatter  incense  to  appease  the  ghosts 
Of  those  who  died  here  by  their  own  award. 
Bring  forth  the  image  of  the  mighty  Lord, 
And  her  who  unseen  o'er  the  runners  hung, 
And  did  a  deed  forever  to  be  sung.        665 

Here  are  the  gathered  folk,  make  no  delay; 
Open  King  Schoeneus'  well-filled  treasury, 
Bring  out  the  gifts  long  hid  from  light  of 

day  — 
The     golden    bowls     o'erwrought     with 

imagery, 
Gold  chains,  and  unguents  brought  from 

over  sea,  670 

The    saffron    gown    the    old    Phoenician 

brought, 
Within  the  temple  of  the  goddess  wrought. 

O  ye,  O  damsels,  who  shall  never  see 
Her,  that  Love's  servant  bringeth  now  to 

you, 
Returning  from  another  victory,  675 

In  some  cool  bower  do  all  that  now  is  due ! 
Since  she  in  token  of  her  service  new 
Shall  give  to  Venus  offerings  rich  enow, — 
Her  maiden  zone,  her  arrows,  and  her  bow. 


THE  HAYSTACK  IN  THE  FLOODS 

Had  she  come  all  the  way  for  this, 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss? 
Yea,  had  she  borne  the  dirt  and  rain 
That  her  own  eyes  might  see  him  slain 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods?         5 

Along  the  dripping  leafless  woods, 
The  stirrup  touching  either  shoe, 
She  rode  astride  as  troopers  do; 
With  kirtle  kilted  to  her  knee, 


To  which  the  mud  splashed  wretchedly;  10 
And  the  wet  dripped  from  every  tree 
Upon  her  head  and  heavy  hair, 
And  on  her  eyelids  broad  and  fair; 
The  tears  and  rain  ran  down  her  face. 

By  fits  and  starts  they  rode  apace,  15 

And  very  often  was  his  place 
Far  off  from  her;  he  had  to  ride 
Ahead,  to  see  what  might  betide 
When  the  roads  crossed;  and  sometimes, 

when 
There  rose  a  murmuring  from  his  men,     20 
Had  to  turn  back  with  promises; 
Ah  me!  she  had  but  little  ease; 
And  often  for  pure  doubt  and  dread 
She  sobbed,  made  giddy  in  the  head 
By  the  swift  riding;  while,  for  cold,         25 
Her  slender  fingers  scarce  could  hold 
The  wet  reins;  yea,  and  scarcely,  too, 
She  felt  the  foot  within  her  shoe 
Against  the  stirrup:  all  for  this, 
To  part  at  last  without  a  kiss  30 

Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods. 

For  when  they  neared  that  old  soaked  hay, 
They  saw  across  the  only  way 
That  Judas,  Godmar,  and  the  three 
Red  running  lions  dismally  35 

Grinned  from  his  pennon,  under  which 
In  one  straight  line  along  the  ditch, 
They  counted  thirty  heads. 

So  then, 
While  Robert  turned  round  to  his  men, 
She  saw  at  once  the  wretched  end,        40 
And,  stooping  down,  tried  hard  to  rend 
Her  coif  the  wrong  way  from  her  head, 
And  hid  her  eyes;  while  Robert  said: 
"Nay,  love,  'tis  scarcely  two  to  one; 
At  Poictiers  where  we  made  them  run    45 
So  fast — why,  sweet  my  love,  good  cheer, 
The  Gascon  frontier  is  so  near, 
Nought  after  us." 

But,  "0,"  she  said, 
"My  God!  my  God!  I  have  to  tread 
The  long  way  back  without  you;  then     50 
The  court  at  Paris;  those  six  men; 
The  gratings  of  the  Chatelet; 
The  swift  Seine  on  some  rainy  day 
Like  this,  and  people  standing  by, 
And  laughing,  while  my  weak  hands  try  55 
To  recollect  how  strong  men  swim. 


MORRIS 


759 


All  this,  or  else  a  life  with  him, 

For  which  I  should  be  damned  at  last; 

Would  God  that  this  next  hour  were  past! " 

He  answered  not,  but  cried  his  cry,         60 
"St.  George  for  Marny!"  cheerily; 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  rein. 
Alas!  no  man  of  all  his  train 
Gave  back  that  cheery  cry  again; 
And,  while  for  rage  his  thumb  beat  fast  65 
Upon  his  sword-hilt,  some  one  cast 
About  his  neck  a  kerchief  long, 
And  bound  him. 

Then  they  went  along 
To  Godmar;  who  said:  "Now,  Jehane, 
Your  lover's  life  is  on  the  wane  70 

So  fast,  that,  if  this  very  hour 
You  yield  not  as  my  paramour, 
He  will  not  see  the  rain  leave  off — 
Nay,  keep  your  tongue  from  gibe  and  scoff, 
Sir  Robert,  or  I  slay  you  now."  75 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  brow, 
Then  gazed  upon  the  palm,  as  though 
She    thought   her   forehead    bled,  and — 

"No," 
She  said,  and  turned  her  head  away, 
As  there  were  nothing  else  to  say,  80 

And  everything  were  settled:  red 
Grew  Godmar's  face  from  chin  to  head: 
"Jehane,  on  yonder  hill  there  stands 
My  castle,  guarding  well  my  lands: 
What  hinders  me  from  taking  you,         85 
And  doing  that  I  list  to  do 
To  your  fair  wilful  body,  while 
Your  knight  lies  dead?" 

A  wicked  smile 
Wrinkled  her  face,  her  lips  grew  thin, 
A  long  way  out  she  thrust  her  chin:     90 
"You  know  that  I  should  strangle  you 
While  you  were  sleeping;  or  bite  through 
Your  throat,  by  God's  help — ah ! "  she  said, 
"Lord  Jesus,  pity  your  poor  maid! 
For  in  such  wise  they  hem  me  in,  95 

I  cannot  choose  but  sin  and  sin, 
Whatever  happens:  yet  I  think 
They  could  not  make  me  eat  or  drink, 
And  so  should  I  just  reach  my  rest." 
"Nay,  if  you  do  not  my  behest,  100 

O  Jehane!  though  I  love  you  well," 
Said  Godmar,  "would  I  fail  to  tell 
All  that  I  know?"    "Foul  lies,"  she  said. 


"Eh!  lies,  my  Jehane?  by  God's  head, 
At  Paris  folks  would  deem  them  true!    105 
Do  you  know,  Jehane,  they  cry  for  you: 
'Jehane  the  brown!  Jehane  the  brown! 
Give  us  Jehane  to  burn  or  drown ! ' — 
Eh — gag  me  Robert! — sweet  my  friend, 
This  were  indeed  a  piteous  end  no 

For  those  long  fingers,  and  long  feet, 
And   long    neck,    and   smooth   shoulders 

sweet; 
An  end  that  few  men  would  forget 
That  saw  it — So,  an  hour  yet: 
Consider,  Jehane,  which  to  take  115 

Of  life  or  death!" 

So,  scarce  awake, 
Dismounting,  did  she  leave  that  place, 
And  totter  some  yards:  with  her  face 
Turned  upward  to  the  sky  she  lay, 
Her  head  on  a  wet  heap  of  hay,  120 

And  fell  asleep:  and  while  she  slept, 
And  did  not  dream,  the  minutes  crept 
Round  to  the  twelve  again;  but  she, 
Being  waked  at  last,  sighed  quietly, 
And  strangely  childlike  came,  and  said:  125 
"  I  will  not."    Straightway  Godmar's  head, 
As  though  it  hung  on  strong  wires,  turned 
Most  sharply  round,  and  his  face  burned. 

For  Robert — both  his  eyes  were  dry, 
He  could  not  weep,  but  gloomily        130 
He  seemed  to  watch  the  rain ;  yea,  too, 
His  lips  were  firm;  he  tried  once  more 
To  touch  her  lips;  she  reached  out,  sore 
And  vain  desire  so  tortured  them, 
The  poor  gray  lips,  and  now  the  hem   135 
Of  his  sleeve  brushed  them. 

With  a  start 
Up  Godmar  rose,  thrust  them  apart; 
From  Robert's  throat  he  loosed  the  bands 
Of  silk  and  mail;  with  empty  hands 
Held  out,  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  saw,  140 
The  long  bright  blade  without  a  flaw 
Glide  out  from  Godmar's  sheath,  his  hand 
In  Robert's  hair;  she  saw  him  bend 
Back  Robert's  head;  she  saw  him  send 
The  thin  steel  down ;  the  blow  told  well,  145 
Right  backward  the  knight  Robert  fell, 
And  moaned  as  dogs  do,  being  half  dead, 
J  Unwitting,  as  I  deem:  so  then 
Godmar  turned  grinning  to  his  men, 
Who  ran,  some  five  or  six,  and  beat      150 
His  head  to  pieces  at  their  feet. 


760 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Then  Godmar  turned  again  and  said: 
"So,  Jehane,  the  first  fitte  is  read! 
Take  note,  my  lady,  that  your  way 
Lies  backward  to  the  Chatelet!"  155 

She  shook  her  head  and  gazed  awhile 
At  her  cold  hands  with  a  rueful  smile, 
As  though  this  thing  had  made  her  mad. 

This  was  the  parting  that  they  had 
Beside  the  haystack  in  the  floods.  160 

WALTER   HORATIO    PATER 
(183&-1894) 

STYLE 

Since  all  progress  of  mind  consists  for 
the  most  part  in  differentiation,  in  the 
resolution  of  an  obscure  and  complex 
object  into  its  component  aspects,  it  is 
surely  the  stupidest  of  losses  to  confuse 
things  which  right  reason  has  put  asun- 
der, to  lose  the  sense  of  achieved  distinc- 
tions, the  distinction  between  poetry 
and  prose,  for  instance,  or,  to  speak  more 
exactly,  between  the  laws  and  char-  [10 
acteristic  excellences  of  verse  and  prose 
composition.  On  the  other  hand,  those 
who  have  dwelt  most  emphatically  on  the 
distinction  between  prose  and  verse, 
prose  and  poetry,  may  sometimes  have 
been  tempted  to  limit  the  proper  func- 
tions of  prose  too  narrowly;  and  this 
again  is  at  least  false  economy,  as  being, 
in  effect,  the  renunciation  of  a  certain 
means  or  faculty,  in  a  world  where  [20 
after  all  we  must  needs  make  the  most  of 
things.  Critical  efforts  to  limit  art  a 
priori,  by  anticipations  regarding  the 
natural  incapacity  of  the  material  with 
which  this  or  that  artist  works,  as  the 
sculptor  with  solid  form,  or  the  prose- 
writer  with  the  ordinary  language  of 
men,  are  always  liable  to  be  discredited 
by  the  facts  of  artistic  production;  and 
while  prose  is  actually  found  to  be  a  [30 
colored  thing  with  Bacon,  picturesque 
with  Livy  and  Carlyle,  musical  with 
Cicero  and  Newman,  mystical  and  inti- 
mate with  Plato  and  Michelet  and  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  exalted  or  florid,  it  may 
be,  with  Milton  and  Taylor,  it  will  be 
useless  to  protest  that  it  can  be  nothing 
at  all,  except  something  very  tamely  and 


narrowly  confined  to  mainly  practical 
ends — a  kind  of  "good  round-hand;"  [40 
as  useless  as  the  protest  that  poetry 
might  not  touch  prosaic  subjects  as  with 
Wordsworth,  or  an  abstruse  matter  as 
with  Browning,  or  treat  contemporary 
life  nobly  as  with  Tennyson.  In  subor- 
dination to  one  essential  beauty  in  all 
good  literary  style,  in  all  literature  as  a 
fine  art,  as  there  are  many  beauties  of 
poetry  so  the  beauties  of  prose  are  many, 
and  it  is  the  business  of  criticism  to  [50 
estimate  them  as  such;  as  it  is  good  in 
the  criticism  of  verse  to  look  for  those 
hard,  logical  and  quasi-prosaic  excellences 
which  that  too  has,  or  needs.  To  find 
in  the  poem,  amid  the  flowers,  the  al- 
lusions, the  mixed  perspectives,  of  Lycidas 
for  instance,  the  thought,  the  logical 
structure: — how  wholesome!  how  de- 
lightful! as  to  identify  in  prose  what 
we  call  the  poetry,  the  imaginative  [60 
power,  not  treating  it  as  out  of  place 
and  a  kind  of  vagrant  intruder,  but  by 
way  of  an  estimate  of  its  rights,  that  is, 
of  its  achieved  powers,  there. 

Dryden,  with  the  characteristic  in- 
stinct of  his  age,  loved  to  emphasize  the 
distinction  between  poetry  and  prose,  the 
protest  against  their  confusion  with  each 
other  coming  with  somewhat  diminished 
effect  from  one  whose  poetry  was  so  [70 
prosaic.  In  truth,  his  sense  of  prosaic 
excellence  affected  his  verse  rather  than 
his  prose,  which  is  not  only  fervid,  richly 
figured,  poetic,  as  we  say,  but  vitiated, 
all  unconsciously,  by  many  a  scanning 
line.  Setting  up  correctness,  that  hum- 
ble merit  of  prose,  as  the  central  literary 
excellence,  he  is  really  a  less  correct 
writer  than  he  may  seem,  still  with  an 
imperfect  mastery  of  the  relative  pro-  [80 
noun.  It  might  have  been  foreseen  that, 
in  the  rotations  of  mind,  the  province 
of  poetry  in  prose  would  find  its  assertor; 
and,  a  century  after  Dryden,  amid  very 
different  intellectual  needs,  and  with  the 
need  therefore  of  great  modifications  in 
literary  form,  the  range  of  the  poetic 
force  in  literature  was  effectively  en- 
larged by  Wordsworth.  The  true  dis- 
tinction between  prose  and  poetry  he  [90 
regarded  as  the  almost  technical  or  ac- 
cidental one  of  the  absence  or  presence 


PATER 


761 


of  metrical  beauty,  or,  say!  metrical  re- 
straint; and  for  him  the  opposition  came 
to  be  between  verse  and  prose  of  course; 
but,  as  the  essential  dichotomy  in  this 
matter,  between  imaginative  and  unim- 
aginative writing,  parallel  to  De  Quin- 
cey's  distinction  between  "the  literature 
of  power  and  the  literature  of  knowl-  [100 
edge,"  in  the  former  of  which  the  com- 
poser gives  us  not  fact,  but  his  peculiar 
sense  of  fact,  whether  past  or  present. 

Dismissing  then,  under  sanction  of 
Wordsworth,  that  harsher  opposition  of 
poetry  to  prose,  as  savoring  in  fact  of  the 
arbitrary  psychology  of  the  last  century, 
and  with  it  the  prejudice  that  there  can 
be  but  one  only  beauty  of  prose  style,  I 
propose  here  to  point  out  certain  qual-  [no 
ities  of  all  literature  as  a  fine  art,  which, 
if  they  apply  to  the  literature  of  fact, 
apply  still  more  to  the  literature  of  the 
imaginative  sense  of  fact,  while  they  ap- 
ply indifferently  to  verse  and  prose,  so  far 
as  either  is  really  imaginative — certain 
conditions  of  true  art  in  both  alike,  which 
conditions  may  also  contain  in  them  the 
secret  of  the  proper  discrimination  and 
guardianship  of  the  peculiar  excel-  [120 
lences  of  either. 

The  line  between  fact  and  something 
quite  different  from  external  fact  is,  in- 
deed, hard  to  draw.  In  Pascal,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  persuasive  writers  generally, 
how  difficult  to  define  the  point  where, 
from  time  to  time,  argument  which,  if 
it  is  to  be  worth  anything  at  all,  must 
consist  of  facts  or  groups  of  facts,  be- 
comes a  pleading — a  theorem  no  [130 
longer,-  but  essentially  an  appeal  to  the 
reader  to  catch  the  writer's  spirit,  to 
think  with  him,  if  one  can  or  will — an 
expression  no  longer  of  fact  but  of  his 
sense  of  it,  his  peculiar  intuition  of  a 
world  prospective,  or  discerned  below 
the  faulty  conditions  of  the  present,  in 
either  case  changed  somewhat  from  the 
actual  world.  In  science,  on  the  other 
hand,  in  history  so  far  as  it  conforms  [140 
to  scientific  rule,  we  have  a  literary  do- 
main where  the  imagination  may  be 
thought  to  be  always  an  intruder.  And 
as,  in  all  science,  the  functions  of  liter- 
ature reduce  themselves  eventually  to 
the  transcribing  of  fact,  so  all  the  excel- 


lences of  literary  form  in  regard  to  science 
are  reducible  to  various  kinds  of  pains- 
taking; this  good  quality  being  involved 
in  all  "skilled  work"  whatever,  in  [150 
the  drafting  of  an  act  of  parliament,  as 
in  sewing.  Yet  here  again,  the  writer's 
sense  of  fact,  in  history  especially,  and 
in  all  those  complex  subjects  which  do 
but  lie  on  the  borders  of  science,  will  still 
take  the  place  of  fact,  in  various  de- 
grees. Your  historian,  for  instance,  with 
absolutely  truthful  intention,  amid  the 
multitude  of  facts  presented  to  him 
must  needs  select,  and  in  selecting  [160 
assert  something  of  his  own  humor,  some- 
thing that  comes  not  of  the  world  without 
but  of  a  vision  within.  So  Gibbon  moulds 
his  unwieldy  material  to  a  preconceived 
view.  Livy,  Tacitus,  Michelet,  moving 
full  of  poignant  sensibility  amid  the 
records  of  the  past,  each,  after  his  own 
sense,  modifies — who  can  tell  where  and 
to  what  degree? — and  becomes  some- 
thing else  than  a  transcriber;  each,  as  [170 
he  thus  modifies,  passing  into  the  domain 
of  art  proper.  For  just  in  proportion 
as  the  writer's  aim,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, comes  to  be  the  transcribing, 
not  of  the  world,  not  of  mere  fact,  but 
of  his  sense  of  it,  he  becomes  an  artist, 
his  work  fine  art;  and  good  art  (as  I 
hope  ultimately  to  show)  in  proportion 
to  the  truth  of  his  presentment  of  that 
sense;  as  in  those  humbler  or  plainer  [180 
functions  of  literature  also,  truth — truth 
to  bare  fact,  there — is  the  essence  of 
such  artistic  quality  as  they  may  have. 
Truth!  there  can  be  no  merit,  no  craft 
at  all,  without  that.  And  further,  all 
beauty  is  in  the  long  run  only  fineness 
of  truth,  or  what  we  call  expression,  the 
finer  accommodation  of  speech  to  that 
vision  within. 

— The  transcript  of  his  sense  of  fact  [190 
rather  than  the  fact,  as  being  preferable, 
pleasanter,  more  beautiful  to  the  writer 
himself.  In  literature,  as  in  every  other 
product  of  human  skill,  in  the  moulding 
of  a  bell  or  a  platter  for  instance,  wher- 
ever this  sense  asserts  itself,  wherever 
the  producer  so  modifies  his  work  as, 
over  and  above  its  primary  use  or  inten- 
tion, to  make  it  pleasing  (to  himself, 
of  course,  in  the  first  instance)  there,  [200 


762 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"fine"  as  opposed  to  merely  serviceable 
art,  exists.  Literary  art,  that  is,  like 
all  art  which  is  in  any  way  imitative  or 
reproductive  of  fact — form,  or  color,  or 
incident — is  the  representation  of  such 
fact  as  connected  with  soul,  of  a  specific 
personality,  in  its  preferences,  its  volition 
and  power. 

Such  is  the  matter  of  imaginative  or 
artistic  literature — this  transcript,  not  [210 
of  mere  fact,  but  of  fact  in  its  infinite  va- 
riety, as  modified  by  human  preference 
in  all  its  infinitely  varied  forms.  It  will 
be  good  literary  art  not  because  it  is 
brilliant  or  sober,  or  rich,  or  impulsive, 
or  severe,  but  just  in  proportion  as  its 
representation  of  that  sense,  that  soul- 
fact,  is  true,  verse  being  only  one  de- 
partment of  such  literature,  and  im- 
aginative prose,  it  may  be  thought,  [220 
being  the  special  art  of  the  modern  world. 
That  imaginative  prose  should  be  the 
special  and  opportune  art  of  the  modern 
world  results  from  two  important  facts 
about  the  latter:  first,  the  chaotic  va- 
riety and  complexity  of  its  interests, 
making  the  intellectual  issue,  the  really 
master  currents  of  the  present  time  in- 
calculable— a  condition  of  mind  little 
susceptible  of  the  restraint  proper  to  [230 
verse  form,  so  that  the  most  character- 
istic verse  of  the  nineteenth  century  has 
been  lawless  verse;  and  secondly,  an  all- 
pervading  naturalism,  a  curiosity  about 
everything  whatever  as  it  really  is,  in- 
volving a  certain  humility  of  attitude, 
cognate  to  what  must,  after  all,  be  the 
less  ambitious  form  of  literature.  And 
prose  thus  asserting  itself  as  the  special 
and  privileged  artistic  faculty  of  the  [240 
present  day,  will  be,  however  critics  may 
try  to  narrow  its  scope,  as  varied  in  its 
excellence  as  humanity  itself  reflecting 
on  the  facts  of  its  latest  experience — 
an  instrument  of  many  stops,  meditative, 
observant,  descriptive,  eloquent,  analytic, 
plaintive,  fervid.  Its  beauties  will  be  not 
exclusively  "pedestrian:"  it  will  exert, 
in  due  measure,  all  the  varied  charms 
of  poetry,  down  to  the  rhythm  which,  [250 
as  in  Cicero,  or  Michelet,  or  Newman,  at 
their  best,  gives  its  musical  value  to 
every  syllable. 

The   literary   artist   is   of   necessity    a  j 


scholar,  and  in  what  he  proposes  to  do 
will  have  in  mind,  first  of  all,  the  scholar 
and  the  scholarly  conscience — the  male 
conscience  in  this  matter,  as  we  must 
think  it,  under  a  system  of  education 
which  still  to  so  large  an  extent  limits  [260 
real  scholarship  to  men.  In  his  self- 
criticism,  he  supposes  always  that  sort 
of  reader  who  will  go  (full  of  eyes)  warily, 
considerately,  though  without  considera- 
tion for  him,  over  the  ground  which  the 
female  conscience  traverses  so  lightly,  so 
amiably.  For  the  material  in  which  he 
works  is  no  more  a  creation  of  his  own  than 
the  sculptor's  marble.  Product  of  a 
myriad  various  minds  and  contend-  [270 
ing  tongues,  compact  of  obscure  and 
minute  association,  a  language  has  its  own 
abundant  and  often  recondite  laws,  in 
the  habitual  and  summary  recognition 
of  which  scholarship  consists.  A  writer, 
full  of  a  matter  he  is  before  all  things 
anxious  to  express,  may  think  of  those 
laws,  the  limitations  of  vocabulary,  struc- 
ture, and  the  like,  as  a  restriction,  but 
if  a  real  artist,  will  find  in  them  an  [280 
opportunity.  His  punctilious  observance 
of  the  proprieties  of  his  medium  will 
diffuse  through  all  he  writes  a  general 
air  of  sensibility,  of  refined  usage.  Ex- 
clusiones  debitae  naturae — the  exclusions, 
or  rejections,  which  nature  demands — 
we  know  how  large  a  part  these  play, 
according  to  Bacon,  in  the  science  of 
nature.  In  a  somewhat  changed  sense, 
we  might  say  that  the  art  of  the  [290 
scholar  is  summed  up  in  the  observance 
of  those  rejections  demanded  by  the  na- 
ture of  his  medium,  the  material  he  must 
use.  Alive  to  the  value  of  an  atmos- 
phere in  which  every  term  finds  its  utmost 
degree  of  expression,  and  with  all  the 
jealousy  of  a  lover  of  words,  he  will  resist 
a  constant  tendency  on  the  part  of  the 
majority  of  those  who  use  them  to  efface 
the  distinctions  of  language,  the  [300 
facility  of  writers  often  reinforcing  in  this 
respect  the  work  of  the  vulgar.  He  will 
feel  the  obligation  not  of  the  laws  only, 
but  of  those  affinities,  avoidances,  those 
mere  preferences,  of  his  language,  which 
through  the  associations  of  literary  his- 
tory have  become  a  part  of  its  nature, 
prescribing    the    rejection    of    many    a 


PATER 


763 


neology,  many  a  license,  many  a  gipsy 
phrase  which  might  present  itself  as  [310 
actually  expressive.  His  appeal,  again, 
is  to  the  scholar,  who  has  great  experience 
in  literature,  and  will  show  no  favor  to 
short-cuts,  or  hackneyed  illustration,  or 
an  affectation  of  learning  designed  for  the 
unlearned.  Hence  a  contention,  a  sense 
of  self-restraint  and  renunciation,  having 
for  the  susceptible  reader  the  effect  of  a 
challenge  for  minute  consideration;  the 
attention  of  the  writer,  in  every  [320 
minutest  detail,  being  a  pledge  that  it  is 
worth  the  reader's  while  to  be  attentive 
too,  that  the  writer  is  dealing  scrupulously 
with  his  instrument,  and  therefore,  in- 
directly, with  the  reader  himself  also, 
that  he  has  the  science  of  the  instru- 
ment he  plays  on,  perhaps,  after  all,  with 
a  freedom  which  in  such  case  will  be  the 
freedom  of  a  master. 

For  meanwhile,  braced  only  by  [330 
those  restraints,  he  is  really  vindicating 
his  liberty  in  the  making  of  a  vocabulary, 
an  entire  system  of  composition,  for  him- 
self, his  own  true  manner;  and  when  we 
speak  of  the  manner  of  a  true  master 
we  mean  what  is  essential  in  his  art. 
Pedantry  being  only  the  scholarship  of 
le  cuistre  (we  have  no  English  equiva- 
lent), he  is  no  pedant,  and  does  but  show 
his  intelligence  of  the  rules  of  Ian-  [340 
guage  in  his  freedoms  with  it,  addition 
or  expansion,  which  like  the  spontaneities 
of  manner  in  a  well-bred  person  will 
still  further  illustrate  good  taste. — The 
right  vocabulary!  Translators  have  not 
invariably  seen  how  all-important  that 
is  in  the  work  of  translation,  driving  for 
the  most  part  at  idiom  or  construction; 
whereas,  if  the  original  be  first-rate, 
one's  care  should  be  with  its  elemen-  [350 
tary  particles,  Plato,  for  instance,  being 
often  reproducible  by  an  exact  following, 
with  no  variation  in  structure,  of  word 
after  word,  as  the  pencil  follows  a  draw- 
ing under  tracing-paper,  so  only  each 
word  or  syllable  be  not  of  false  color,  to 
change  my  illustration  a  little. 

Well!  that  is  because  any  writer  worth 
translating  at  all  has  winnowed  and 
searched  through  his  vocabulary,  is  [360 
conscious  of  the  words  he  would  select 
in  systematic  reading  of  a  dictionary,  and 


still  more  of  the  words  he  would  reject 
were  the  dictionary  other  than  John- 
son's; and  doing  this  with  his  peculiar 
sense  of  the  world  ever  in  view,  in  search 
of  an  instrument  for  the  adequate  expres- 
sion of  that,  he  begets  a  vocabulary 
faithful  to  the  coloring  of  his  own  spirit, 
and  in  the  strictest  sense  original.  [370 
That  living  authority  which  language 
needs  lies,  in  truth,  in  its  scholars,  who, 
recognizing  always  that  every  language 
possesses  a  genius,  a  very  fastidious 
genius,  of  its  own,  expand  at  once  and 
purify  its  very  elements,  which  must 
needs  change  along  with  the  changing 
thoughts  of  living  people.  Ninety  years 
ago,  for  instance,  great  mental  force, 
certainly,  was  needed  by  Wordsworth,  [380 
to  break  through  the  consecrated  poetic 
associations  of  a  century,  and  speak  the 
language  that  was  his,  that  was  to  become 
in  a  measure  the  language  of  the  next 
generation.  But  he  did  it  with  the  tact 
of  a  scholar  also.  English,  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century  past,  has  been  assimilating 
the  phraseology  of  pictorial  art;  for  half 
a  century,  the  phraseology  of  the  great 
German  metaphysical  movement  of  [390 
eighty  years  ago;  in  part  also  the  lan- 
guage of  mystical  theology:  and  none  but 
pedants  will  regret  a  great  consequent 
increase  of  its  resources.  For  many 
years  to  come  its  enterprise  may  well 
lie  in  the  naturalization  of  the  vocabu- 
lary of  science,  so  only  it  be  under  the 
eye  of  sensitive  scholarship — in  a  lib- 
eral naturalization  of  the  ideas  of  science 
too,  for  after  all,  the  chief  stimulus  of  [400 
good  style  is  to  possess  a  full,  rich,  com- 
plex matter  to  grapple  with.  The  lit- 
erary artist,  therefore,  will  be  well  aware 
of  physical  science;  science  also  attain- 
ing, in  its  turn,  its  true  literary  ideal. 
And  then,  as  the  scholar  is  nothing  with- 
out the  historic  sense,  he  will  be  apt  to 
restore  not  really  obsolete  or  really  worn- 
out  words,  but  the  finer  edge  of  words 
still  in  use:  ascertain,  communicate,  [410 
discover — words  like  these  it  has  been  part 
of  our  "business"  to  misuse.  And  still, 
as  language  was  made  for  man,  he  will 
be  no  authority  for  correctnesses  which, 
limiting  freedom  of  utterance,  were  yet 
but  accidents  in  their  origin;  as  if  one 


764 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


vowed  not  to  say  "its,"  which  ought  to 
have  been  in  Shakespeare,  "his"  and 
"hers,"  for  inanimate  objects,  being  but 
a  barbarous  and  really  inexpressive  [420 
survival.  Yet  we  have  known  many 
things  like  this.  Racy  Saxon  mono- 
syllables, close  to  us  as  touch  and  sight, 
he  will  intermix  readily  with  those  long, 
savorsome,  Latin  words,  rich  in  "second 
intention."  In  this  late  day  certainly,  no 
critical  process  can  be  conducted  rea- 
sonably without  eclecticism.  Of  such 
eclecticism  we  have  a  justifying  example 
in  one  of  the  first  poets  of  our  time.  [430 
How  illustrative  of  monosyllabic  effect, 
of  sonorous  Latin,  of  the  phraseology  of 
science,  of  metaphysic,  of  colloquialism 
even,  are  the  writings  of  Tennyson;  yet 
with  what  a  fine,  fastidious  scholarship 
throughout ! 

A  scholar  writing  for  the  scholarly, 
he  will  of  course  leave  something  to  the 
willing  intelligence  of  his  reader.  "To 
go  preach  to  the  first  passer-by,"  says  [440 
Montaigne,  "to  become  tutor  to  the  ig- 
norance of  the  first  I  meet,  is  a  thing  I 
abhor;"  a  thing,  in  fact,  naturally  dis- 
tressing to  the  scholar,  who  will  there- 
fore ever  be  shy  of  offering  uncompli- 
mentary assistance  to  the  reader's  wit. 
To  really  strenuous  minds  there  is  a 
pleasurable  stimulus  in  the  challenge  for 
a  continuous  effort  on  their  part,  to  be 
rewarded  by  securer  and  more  inti-  [450 
mate  grasp  of  the  author's  sense.  Self- 
restraint,  a  skilful  economy  of  means, 
ascesis,  that  too  has  a  beauty  of  its  own; 
and  for  the  reader  supposed,  there  will 
be  an  aesthetic  satisfaction  in  that  frugal 
closeness  of  style  which  makes  the  most 
of  a  word,  in  the  exaction  from  every 
sentence  of  a  precise  relief,  in  the  just 
spacing  out  of  words  to  thought,  in  the 
logically  filled  space  connected  always  [460 
with  the  delightful  sense  of  difficulty 
overcome. 

Different  classes  of  persons,  at  differ- 
ent times,  make,  of  course,  very  various 
demands  upon  literature.  Still,  scholars, 
I  suppose,  and  not  only  scholars,  but  all 
disinterested  lovers  of  books,  will  always 
look  to  it,  as  to  all  other  fine  art,  for  a 
refuge,  a  sort  of  cloistral  refuge,  from  a 
certain  vulgarity  in  the  actual  world.  [470 


A  perfect  poem  like  Lycidas,  a  perfect 
fiction  like  Esmond,  the  perfect  handling 
of  a  theory  like  Newman's  Idea  of  a  Uni- 
versity, has  for  them  something  of  the 
uses  of  a  religious  "retreat."  Here,  then, 
with  a  view  to  the  central  need  of  a  select 
few,  those  "men  of  a  finer  thread"  who 
have  formed  and  maintain  the  literary 
ideal,  everything,  every  component  ele- 
ment will  have  undergone  exact  trial,  [480 
and,  above  all,  there  will  be  no  unchar- 
acteristic or  tarnished  or  vulgar  decora- 
tion, permissible  ornament  being  for  the 
most  part  structural,  or  necessary.  As 
the  painter  in  his  picture,  so  the  artist  in 
his  book,  aims  at  the  production  by 
honorable  artifice  of  a  peculiar  atmos- 
phere. "The  artist,"  says  Schiller,  "may 
be  known  rather  by  what  he  omits;" 
and  in  literature,  too,  the  true  artist  [490 
may  be  best  recognized  by  his  tact  of 
omission.  For  to  the  grave  reader  words 
too  are  grave;  and  the  ornamental  word, 
the  figure,  the  accessory  form  or  color  or 
reference,  is  rarely  content  to  die  to 
thought  precisely  at  the  right  moment, 
but  will  inevitably  linger  awhile,  stirring 
a  long  "brain-wave"  behind  it  of  per- 
haps quite  alien  associations. 

Just  there,  it  may  be,  is  the  detri-  [500 
mental  tendency  of  the  sort  of  scholarly 
attentiveness  of  mind  I  am  recommend- 
ing. But  the  true  artist  allows  for  it.  He 
will  remember  that,  as  the  very  word 
ornament  indicates  what  is  in  itself  non- 
essential, so  the  "one  beauty"  of  all  lit- 
erary style  is  of  its  very  essence,  and 
independent,  in  prose  and  verse  alike,  of 
all  removable  decoration;  that  it  may  ex- 
ist in  its  fullest  luster,  as  in  Flaubert's  [510 
Madame  Bovary,  for  instance,  or  in 
Stendhal's  Le  Rouge  et  Le  Noir,  in  a 
composition  utterly  unadorned,  with 
hardly  a  single  suggestion  of  visibly 
beautiful  things.  Parallel,  allusion,  the 
allusive  way  generally,  the  flowers  in  the 
garden: — he  knows  the  narcotic  force 
of  these  upon  the  negligent  intelligence 
to  which  any  diversion,  literally,  is  wel- 
come, any  vagrant  intruder,  because  [520 
one  can  go  wandering  away  with  it  from 
the  immediate  subject.  Jealous,  if  he 
have  a  really  quickening  motive  within, 
of  all  that  does  not  hold  directly  to  that, 


PATER 


765 


of  the  facile,  the  otiose,  he  will  never  de- 
part from  the  strictly  pedestrian  process, 
unless  he  gains  a  ponderable  something 
thereby.  Even  assured  of  its  congruity, 
he  will  still  question  its  serviceableness. 
Ts  it  worth  while,  can  we  afford,  to  at-  [530 
tend  to  just  that,  to  just  that  figure  or 
literary  reference,  just  then? — Surplus- 
age! he  will  dread  that,  as  the  runner 
on  his  muscles.  For  in  truth  all  art 
does  but  consist  in  the  removal  of  sur- 
plusage, from  the  last  finish  of  the  gem- 
engraver  blowing  away  the  last  particle 
of  invisible  dust,  back  to  the  earliest 
divination  of  the  finished  work  to  be, 
lying  somewhere,  according  to  Michel-  [540 
angelo's  fancy,  in  the  rough-hewn  block 
of   stone. 

And  what  applies  to  figure  or  flower 
must  be  understood  of  all  other  acci- 
dental or  removable  ornaments  of  writ- 
ing whatever;  and  not  of  specific  orna- 
ment only,  but  of  all  that  latent  color 
and  imagery  which  language  as  such  car- 
ries in  it.  A  lover  of  words  for  their 
own  sake,  to  whom  nothing  about  [550 
them  is  unimportant,  a  minute  and  con- 
stant observer  of  their  physiognomy,  he 
will  be  on  the  alert  not  only  for  obviously 
mixed  metaphors  of  course,  but  for  the 
metaphor  that  is  mixed  in  all  our  speech, 
though  a  rapid  use  may  involve  no  cog- 
nition of  it.  Currently  recognizing  the 
incident,  the  color,  the  physical  elements 
or  particles  in  words  like  absorb,  con- 
sider, extract,  to  take  the  first  that  [560 
occur,,  he  will  avail  himself  of  them,  as 
further  adding  to  the  resources  of  expres- 
sion. The  elementary  particles  of  lan- 
guage will  be  realized  as  color  and  light 
and  shade  through  his  scholarly  living 
in  the  full  sense  of  them.  Still  opposing 
the  constant  degradation  of  language  by 
those  who  use  it  carelessly,  he  will  not 
treat  colored  glass  as  if  it  were  clear; 
and  while  half  the  world  is  using  [570 
figure  unconsciously,  will  be  fully  aware 
not  only  of  all  that  latent  figurative  tex- 
ture in  speech,  but  of  the  vague,  lazy, 
half-formed  personification- — a  rhetoric, 
depressing,  and  worse  than  nothing,  be- 
cause it  has  no  really  rhetorical  motive 
— which  plays  so  large  a  part  there,  and, 
as  in  the  case  of  more  ostentatious  orna- 


ment, scrupulously  exact  of  it,  from 
syllable  to  syllable,  its  precise  value.  [580 
So  far  I  have  been  speaking  of  certain 
j  conditions  of  the  literary  art  arising 
I  out  of  the  medium  or  material  in  or  upon 
j  which  it  works,  the  essential  qualities 
of  language  and  its  aptitudes  for  con- 
tingent ornamentation,  matters  which 
define  scholarship  as  science  and  good 
taste  respectively.  They  are  both  sub- 
servient to  a  more  intimate  quality  of 
good  style:  more  intimate,  as  coming  [590 
nearer  to  the  artist  himself.  The  otiose, 
the  facile,  surplusage:  why  are  these 
abhorrent  to  the  true  literary  artist,  ex- 
cept because,  in  literary  as  in  all  other 
art,  structure  is  all-important,  felt,  or 
painfully  missed,  everywhere? — that  archi- 
tectural conception  of  work,  which  fore- 
sees the  end  in  the  beginning  and  never 
loses  sight  of  it,  and  in  every  part  is  con- 
scious of  all  the  rest,  till  the  last  [600 
sentence  does  but,  with  undiminished 
vigor,  unfold  and  justify  the  first — a  con- 
dition of  literary  art,  which,  in  contra- 
distinction to  another  quality  of  the 
artist  himself,  to  be  spoken  of  later, 
I  shall  call  the  necessity  of  mind  in 
style. 

An  acute  philosophical  writer,  the  late 
Dean  Mansel  (a  writer  whose  works  il- 
lustrate the  literary  beauty  there  may  [610 
be  in  closeness,  and  with  obvious  repres- 
sion or  economy  of  a  fine  rhetorical  gift) 
wrote  a  book,  of  fascinating  precision  in 
a  very  obscure  subject,  to  show  that  all 
the  technical  laws  of  logic  are  but  means 
of  securing,  in  each  and  all  of  its  appre- 
hensions, the  unity,  the  strict  identity 
with  itself,  of  the  apprehending  mind. 
All  the  laws  of  good  writing  aim  at  a 
similar  unity  or  identity  of  the  mind  [620 
in  all  the  processes  by  which  the  word  is 
associated  to  its  import.  The  term  is 
right,  and  has  its  essential  beauty,  when 
it  becomes,  in  a  manner,  what  it  sig- 
nifies, as  with  the  names  of  simple  sen- 
sations. To  give  the  phrase,  the  sen- 
tence, the  structural  member,  the  en- 
tire composition,  song,  or  essay,  a  similar 
unity  with  its  subject  and  with  itself: 
— style  is  in  the  right  way  when  it  [630 
tends  towards  that.  All  depends  upon 
the   original   unity,    the   vital   wholeness 


y66 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


and  identity,  of  the  initiatory  apprehen- 
sion or  view.  So  much  is  true  of  all 
art,  which  therefore  requires  always  its 
logic,  its  comprehensive  reason — insight, 
foresight,  retrospect,  in  simultaneous  ac- 
tion— true,  most  of  all,  of  the  literary 
art,  as  being  of  all  the  arts  most  closely 
cognate  to  the  abstract  intelligence.  [640 
Such  logical  coherency  may  be  evidenced 
not  merely  in  the  lines  of  composition  as 
a  whole,  but  in  the  choice  of  a  single 
word,  while  it  by  no  means  interferes 
with,  but  may  even  prescribe,  much  va- 
riety, in  the  building  of  the  sentence  for 
instance,  or  in  the  manner,  argumenta- 
tive, descriptive,  discursive,  of  this  or 
that  part  or  member  of  the  entire  design. 
The  blithe,  crisp  sentence,  decisive  [650 
as  a  child's  expression  of  its  needs,  may 
alternate  with  the  long-contending,  vic- 
toriously intricate  sentence;  the  sen- 
tence, born  with  the  integrity  of  a  single 
word,  relieving  the  sort  of  sentence  in 
which,  if  you  look  closely,  you  can  see 
much  contrivance,  much  adjustment,  to 
bring  a  highly  qualified  matter  into 
compass  at  one  view.  For  the  literary 
architecture,  if  it  is  to  be  rich  and  [660 
expressive,  involves  not  only  foresight  of 
the  end  in  the  beginning,  but  also  develop- 
ment or  growth  of  design,  in  the  process 
of  execution,  with  many  irregularities, 
surprises,  and  after-thoughts;  the  con- 
tingent as  well  as  the  necessary  being 
subsumed  under  the  unity  of  the  whole. 
As  truly,  to  the  lack  of  such  architec- 
tural design,  of  a  single,  almost  visual, 
image,  vigorously  informing  an  en-  [670 
tire,  perhaps  very  intricate,  composi- 
tion, which  shall  be  austere,  ornate,  ar- 
gumentative, fanciful,  yet  true  from  first 
to  last  to  that  vision  within,  may  be 
attributed  those  weaknesses  of  conscious 
or  unconscious  repetition  of  word,  phrase, 
motive,  or  member  of  the  whole  matter, 
indicating,  as  Flaubert  was  aware,  an 
original  structure  in  thought  not  organ- 
ically complete.  With  such  foresight,  [680 
the  actual  conclusion  will  most  often  get 
itself  written  out  of  hand,  before,  in  the 
more  obvious  sense,  the  work  is  finished. 
With  some  strong  and  leading  sense  of 
the  world,  the  tight  hold  of  which  se- 
cures true  composition  and  not  mere  loose 


accretion,  the  literary  artist,  I  suppose, 
goes  on  considerably,  setting  joint  to 
joint,  sustained  by  yet  restraining  the 
productive  ardor,  retracing  the  negli-  [690 
gences  of  his  first  sketch,  repeating  his 
steps  only  that  he  may  give  the  reader 
a  sense  of  secure  and  restful  progress, 
readjusting  mere  assonances  even,  that 
they  may  soothe  the  reader,  or  at  least 
not  interrupt  him  on  his  way;  and  then, 
somewhere  before  the  end  comes,  is 
burdened,  inspired,  with  his  conclusion, 
and  betimes  delivered  of  it,  leaving  off, 
not  in  weariness  and  because  he  finds  [700 
himself  at  an  end,  but  in  all  the  freshness 
of  volition.  His  work  now  structurally 
complete,  with  all  the  accumulating  ef- 
fect of  secondary  shades  of  meaning,  he 
finishes  the  whole  up  to  the  just  propor- 
tion of  that  ante-penultimate  conclusion, 
and  all  becomes  expressive.  The  house 
he  has  built  is  rather  a  body  he  has  in- 
formed. And  so  it  happens,  to  its  greater 
credit,  that  the  better  interest  even  of  [710 
a  narrative  to  be  recounted,  a  story  to 
be  told,  will  often  be  in  its  second  reading. 
And  though  there  are  instances  of  great 
writers  who  have  been  no  artists,  an  un- 
conscious tact  sometimes  directing  work 
in  which  we  may  detect,  very  pleasurably, 
many  of  the  effects  of  conscious  art,  yet 
one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  really  good 
prose  literature  is  in  the  critical  tracing 
out  of  that  conscious  artistic  structure,  [720 
and  the  pervading  sense  of  it  as  we  read. 
Yet  of  poetic  literature  too;  for,  in  truth, 
the  kind  of  constructive  intelligence  here 
supposed  is  one  of  the  forms  of  the  imagi- 
nation. 

That  is  the  special  function  of  mind, 
in  style.  Mind  and  soul: — hard  to  as- 
certain philosophically,  the  distinction  is 
real  enough  practically,  for  they  often 
interfere,  are  sometimes  in  conflict,  [730 
with  each  other.  Blake,  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, is  an  instance  of  preponderating  soul, 
embarrassed,  at  a  loss,  in  an  era  of  pre- 
ponderating mind.  As  a  quality  of  style, 
at  all  events,  soul  is  a  fact,  in  certain 
writers — the  way  they  have  of  absorb- 
ing language,  of  attracting  it  into  the 
peculiar  spirit  they  are  of,  with  a  sub- 
tlety which  makes  the  actual  result  seem 
like    some    inexplicable    inspiration.  [740 


PATER 


767 


By  mind,  the  literary  artist  reaches  us, 
through  static  and  objective  indications 
of  design  in  his  work,  legible  to  all.    By  i 
soul,    he    reaches    us,    somewhat    capri- 
ciously   perhaps,    one   and    not    another, 
through  vagrant  sympathy  and  a  kind  of 
immediate    contact.      Mind    we    cannot 
choose  but  approve  where  we  recognize 
it;   soul  may  repel   us,   not  because  we 
misunderstand  it.    The  way  in  which  [750 
theological  interests  sometimes  avail  them- 
selves  of   language   is   perhaps   the   best 
illustration  of  the  force  I  mean  to  indi- 
cate generally  in  literature,  by  the  word  j 
soul.     Ardent   religious   persuasion   may  i 
exist,  may  make  its  way,  without  find- 
ing  any  equivalent  heat  in  language:  or, 
again,  it  may  enkindle  words  to  various 
degrees,   and  when  it  really  takes  hold 
of  them  doubles  its  force.    Religious  [760  | 
history    presents    many    remarkable    in-  j 
stances  in  which,  through  no  mere  phrase-  j 
worship,    an    unconscious    literary    tact  ! 
has,  for  the  sensitive,  laid  open  a  privi- 
leged   pathway    from    one    to    another,  i 
"The  altar-fire,"  people  say,  "has  touched  ] 
those  lips!"     The  Vulgate,  the  English 
Bible,     the     English     Prayer-Book,     the  j 
writings  of  Swedenborg,   the  Tracts  for 
the  Times: — there,  we  have  instances  [770 
of  widely  different  and  largely  diffused 
phases  of  religious  feeling  in  operation  as 
soul  in  style.    But  something  of  the  same 
kind  acts  with  similar  power  in  certain 
writers   of   quite  other   than   theological 
literature,  on  behalf  of  some  wholly  per- 
sonal and  peculiar  sense  of  theirs.    Most 
easily  illustrated  by  theological  literature, 
this  quality  lends   to  profane  writers  a 
kind  of  religious  influence.      At  their  [780 
best,    these   writers   become,   as   we   say 
sometimes,    "prophets;"   such    character 
depending  on  the  effect  not  merely  of  their 
matter,  but  of  their  matter  as  allied  to, 
in  "electric  affinity"  with,  peculiar  form, 
and  working  in  all  cases  by  an  immediate 
sympathetic  contact,  on  which  account  it 
is  that  it  may  be  called  soul,  as  opposed  to 
mind,  in  style.    And  this  too  is  a  faculty 
of   choosing   and   rejecting   what   is  [790 
congruous  or  otherwise,  with  a  drift  to- 
wards unity — unity  of  atmosphere  here, 
as   there   of   design — soul   securing   color 
(or  perfume,   might   we   say?)   as   mind 


secures  form,  the  latter  being  essentially 
finite,  the  former  vague  or  infinite,  as 
the  influence  of  a  living  person  is  prac- 
tically infinite.  There  are  some  to  whom 
nothing  has  any  real  interest,  or  real 
meaning,  except  as  operative  in  a  [800 
given  person;  and  it  is  they  who  best 
appreciate  the  quality  of  soul  in  literary 
art.  They  seem  to  know  a  person,  in  a 
book,  and  make  way  by  intuition:  yet, 
although  they  thus  enjoy  the  complete- 
ness of  a  personal  information,  it  is  still  a 
characteristic  of  soul,  in  this  sense  of  the 
word,  that  it  does  but  suggest  what  can 
never  be  uttered,  not  as  being  different 
from,  or  more  obscure  than,  what  ac-  [810 
tually  gets  said,  but  as  containing  that 
plenary  substance  of  which  there  is  only 
one  phase  or  facet  in  what  is  there  ex- 
pressed. 

If  all  high  things  have  their  martyrs, 
Gustave  Flaubert  might  perhaps  rank  as 
the  martyr  of  literary  style.  In  his 
printed  correspondence  a  curious  series 
of  letters,  written  in  his  twenty-fifth 
year,  records  what  seems  to  have  been  [820 
his  one  other  passion — a  series  of  letters 
which,  with  its  fine  casuistries,  its  firmly 
repressed  anguish,  its  tone  of  harmonious 
gray,  and  the  sense  of  disillusion  in  which 
the  whole  matter  ends,  might  have  been, 
a  few  slight  changes  supposed,  one  of 
his  own  fictions.  Writing  to  Madame  X. 
certainly  he  does  display,  by  "taking 
thought"  mainly,  by  constant  and  deli- 
cate pondering,  as  in  his  love  for  [830 
literature,  a  heart  really  moved,  but  still 
more,  and  as  the  pledge  of  that  emo- 
tion, a  loyalty  to  his  work.  Madame  X., 
too,  is  a  literary  artist,  and  the  best  gifts 
he  can  send  her  are  precepts  of  perfec- 
tion in  art,  counsels  for  the  effectual 
pursuit  of  that  better  love.  In  his  love- 
letters  it  is  the  pains  and  pleasures  of 
art  he  insists  on,  its  solaces:  he  communi- 
cates secrets,  reproves,  encourages,  [840 
with  a  view  to  that.  Whether  the  lady 
was  dissatisfied  with  such  divided  or  in- 
direct service,  the  reader  is  not  enabled 
to  see;  but  sees  that,  on  Flaubert's  part 
at  least,  a  living  person  could  be  no  rival 
of  what  was,  from  first  to  last,  his  leading 
passion,  a  somewhat  solitary  and  exclu- 
sive one. 


768 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"I  must  scold  you,"  he  writes,  "for  one 
thing,  which  shocks,  scandalizes  me,  [850 
the  small  concern,  namely,  you  show  for 
art  just  now.  As  regards  glory  be  it  so: 
there,  I  approve.  But  for  art! — the  one 
thing  in  life  that  is  good  and  real — can 
you  compare  with  it  an  earthly  love? 
— prefer  the  adoration  of  a  relative  beauty 
to  the  cultus  of  the  true  beauty?  Well! 
I  tell  you  the  truth.  That  is  the  one 
thing  good  in  me:  the  one  thing  I  have,  to 
me  estimable.  For  yourself,  you  blend  [860 
with  the  beautiful  a  heap  of  alien  things, 
the  useful,  the  agreeable,  what  not? — 

"The  only  way  not  to  be  unhappy  is 
to  shut  yourself  up  in  art,  and  count 
everything  else  as  nothing.  Pride  takes 
the  place  of  all  beside  when  it  is  estab- 
lished on  a  large  basis.  Work!  God 
wills  it.  That,  it  seems  to  me,  is 
clear.— 

"  I  am  reading  over  again  the  Mneid,  [870 
certain  verses  of  which  I  repeat  to  my- 
self to  satiety.  There  are  phrases  there 
which  stay  in  one's  head,  by  which  I 
find  myself  beset,  as  with  those  musical 
airs  which  are  forever  returning,  and 
cause  you  pain,  you  love  them  so  much. 
I  observe  that  I  no  longer  laugh  much, 
and  am  no  longer  depressed.  I  am  ripe. 
You  talk  of  my  serenity,  and  envy 
me.  It  may  well  surprise  you.  Sick,  [880 
irritated,  the  prey  a  thousand  times  a 
day  of  cruel  pain,  I  continue  my  labor 
like  a  true  working-man,  who,  with  sleeves 
turned  up,  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  beats 
away  at  his  anvil,  never  troubling  himself 
whether  it  rains  or  blows,  for  hail  or 
thunder.  I  was  not  like  that  formerly. 
The  change  has  taken  place  naturally, 
though  my  will  has  counted  for  some- 
thing in  the  matter.—  [890 

"Those  who  write  in  good  style  are 
sometimes  accused  of  a  neglect  of  ideas, 
and  of  the  moral  end,  as  if  the  end  of  the 
physician  were  something  else  than  heal- 
ing, of  the  painter  than  painting — as  if 
the  end  of  art  were  not,  before  all  else, 
the  beautiful." 

What,  then,  did  Flaubert  understand 
by  beauty,  in  the  art  he  pursued  with 
so  much  fervor,  with  so  much  self-  [900 
command?  Let  us  hear  a  sympathetic 
commentator: — 


"Possessed  of  an  absolute  belief  that 
there  exists  but  one  way  of  expressing 
one  thing,  one  word  to  call  it  by,  one  ad- 
jective to  qualify,  one  verb  to  animate 
it,  he  gave  himself  to  superhuman  labor 
for  the  discovery,  in  every  phrase,  of  that 
word,  that  verb,  that  epithet.  In  this 
way,  he  believed  in  some  mysterious  [910 
harmony  of  expression,  and  when  a  true 
word  seemed  to  him  to  lack  euphony  still 
went  on  seeking  another,  with  invincible 
patience,  certain  that  he  had  not  yet  got 
hold  of  the  unique  word.  ...  A  thou- 
sand preoccupations  would  beset  him  at 
the  same  moment,  always  with  this  des- 
perate certitude  fixed  in  his  spirit:  Among 
all  the  expressions  in  the  world,  all  forms 
and  turns  of  expression,  there  is  but  [920 
one — one  form,  one  mode — to  express  what 
I  want  to  say." 

The  one  word  for  the  one  thing,  the 
one  thought,  amid  the  multitude  of  words, 
terms,  that  might  just  do:  the  problem 
of  style  was  there! — the  unique  word, 
phrase,  sentence,  paragraph,  essay,  or 
song,  absolutely  proper  to  the  single  men- 
tal presentation  or  vision  within.  In  that 
perfect  justice,  over  and  above  the  [930 
many  contingent  and  removable  beauties 
with  which  beautiful  style  may  charm  us, 
but  which  it  can  exist  without,  inde- 
pendent of  them  yet  dexterously  availing 
itself  of  them,  omnipresent  in  good  work, 
in  function  at  every  point,  from  single 
epithets  to  the  rhythm  of  a  whole  book, 
lay  the  specific,  indispensable,  very  intel- 
lectual, beauty  of  literature,  the  pos- 
sibility of  which  constitutes  it  a  fine  [940 
art. 

One  seems  to  detect  the  influence  of  a 
philosophic  idea  there,  the  idea  of  a 
natural  economy,  of  some  preexistent 
adaptation,  between  a  relative,  somewhere 
in  the  world  of  thought,  and  its  correla- 
tive, somewhere  in  the  world  of  language 
— both  alike,  rather,  somewhere  in  the 
mind  of  the  artist,  desiderative,  expect- 
ant, inventive — meeting  each  other  [950 
with  the  readiness  of  "soul  and  body  re- 
united," in  Blake's  rapturous  design; 
and,  in  fact,  Flaubert  was  fond  of 
giving  his  theory  philosophical  expres- 
sion.— 

"There  are  no  beautiful  thoughts,"  he 


PATER 


769 


would  say,  "without  beautiful  forms,  and 
conversely.  As  it  is  impossible  to  extract 
from  a  physical  body  the  qualities  which 
really  constitute  it — color,  extension,  [960 
and  the  like — without  reducing  it  to  a 
hollow  abstraction,  in  a  word,  without 
destroying  it;  just  so  it  is  impossible  to 
detach  the  form  from  the  idea,  for  the 
idea  only  exists  by  virtue  of  the  form." 

All  the  recognized  flowers,  the  remov- 
able ornaments  of  literature  (including 
harmony  and  ease  in  reading  aloud,  very 
carefully  considered  by  him)  counted 
certainly;  for  these  too  are  part  of  the  [970 
actual  value  of  what  one  says.  But  still, 
after  all,  with  Flaubert,  the  search,  the 
unwearied  research,  was  not  for  the 
smooth,  or  winsome,  or  forcible  word,  as 
such,  as  with  false  Ciceronians,  but  quite 
simply  and  honestly  for  the  word's  ad- 
justment to  its  meaning.  The  first  con- 
dition of  this  must  be,  of  course,  to  know 
yourself,  to  have  ascertained  your  own 
sense  exactly.  Then,  if  we  suppose  [980 
an  artist,  he  says  to  the  reader, — I  want 
you  to  see  precisely  what  I  see.  Into  the 
mind  sensitive  to  "form,"  a  flood  of 
random  sounds,  colors,  incidents,  is  ever 
penetrating  from  the  world  without,  to 
become,  by  sympathetic  selection,  a  part 
of  its  very  structure,  and,  in  turn,  the 
visible  vesture  and  expression  of  that 
other  world  it  sees  so  steadily  within, 
nay,  already  with  a  partial  con-  [990 
formity  thereto,  to  be  refined,  enlarged, 
corrected,  at  a  hundred  points;  and  it  is 
just  there,  just  at  those  doubtful  points 
that  the  function  of  style,  as  tact  or 
taste,  intervenes.  The  unique  term  will 
come  more  quickly  to  one  than  another, 
at  one  time  than  another,  according  also 
to  the  kind  of  matter  in  question.  Quick- 
ness and  slowness,  ease  and  closeness 
alike,  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  [1000 
artistic  character  of  the  true  word  found 
at  last.  As  there  is  a  charm  of  ease,  so 
there  is  also  a  special  charm  in  the  signs 
of  discovery,  of  effort  and  contention 
towards  a  due  end,  as  so  often  with 
Flaubert  himself— in  the  style  which  has 
been  pliant,  as  only  obstinate,  durable 
metal  can  be,  to  the  inherent  perplexities 
and  recusancy  of  a  certain  difficult 
thought.  [1010 


If  Flaubert  had  not  told  us,  perhaps  we 
should  never  have  guessed  how  tardy  and 
painful  his  own  procedure  really  was,  and 
after  reading  his  confession  may  think 
that  his  almost  endless  hesitation  had 
much  to  do  with  diseased  nerves.  Often, 
perhaps,  the  felicity  supposed  will  be  the 
product  of  a  happier,  a  more  exuberant 
nature  than  Flaubert's.  Aggravated,  cer- 
tainly, by  a  morbid  physical  condi-  [1020 
tion,  that  anxiety  in  "  seeking  the  phrase," 
which  gathered  all  the  other  small  ennuis 
of  a  really  quiet  existence  into  a  kind  of 
battle,  was  connected  with  his  lifelong 
contention  against  facile  poetry,  facile 
art — art,  facile  and  flimsy;  and  what 
constitutes  the  true  artist  is  not  the  slow- 
ness or  quickness  of  the  process,  but  the 
absolute  success  of  the  result.  As  with 
those  laborers  in  the  parable,  the  [1030 
prize  is  independent  of  the  mere  length 
of  the  actual  day's  work.  "You  talk,"  he 
writes,  odd,  trying  lover,  to  Madame  X. — 

"You  talk  of  the  exclusiveness  of  my 
literary  tastes.  That  might  have  en- 
abled you  to  divine  what  kind  of  a  per- 
son I  am  in  the  matter  of  love.  I  grow 
so  hard  to  please  as  a  literary  artist,  that 
I  am  driven  to  despair.  I  shall  end  by 
not  writing  another  line."  [1040 

"Happy,"  he  cries,  in  a  moment  of  dis- 
couragement at  that  patient  labor,  which 
for  him,  certainly,  was  the  condition  of  a 
great  success — 

"Happy  those  who  have  no  doubts  of 
themselves!  who  lengthen  out,  as  the  pen 
runs  on,  all  that  flows  forth  from  their 
brains.  As  for  me,  I  hesitate,  I  disap- 
point myself,  turn  round  upon  myself  in 
despite:  my  taste  is  augmented  in  [1050 
proportion  as  my  natural  vigor  decreases, 
and  I  afflict  my  soul  over  some  dubious 
word  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  pleasure 
I  get  from  a  whole  page  of  good  writing. 
One  would  have  to  live  two  centuries  to 
attain  a  true  idea  of  any  matter  what- 
ever. What  Buffon  said  is  a  big  blas- 
phemy: genius  is  not  long-continued  pa- 
tience. Still,  there  is  some  truth  in  the 
statement,  and  more  than  people  [1060 
think,  especially  as  regards  our  own  day. 
Art!  art!  art!  bitter  deception!  phantom 
that  glows  with  light,  only  to  lead  one  on 
to  destruction." 


77° 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Again — 

"I  am  growing  so  peevish  about  my 
writing.  I  am  like  a  man  whose  ear  is 
true  but  who  plays  falsely  on  the  violin: 
his  fingers  refuse  to  reproduce  precisely 
those  sounds  of  which  he  has  the  [1070 
inward  sense.  Then  the  tears  come  roll- 
ing down  from  the  poor  scraper's  eyes  and 
the  bow  falls  from  his  hand." 

Coming  slowly  or  quickly,  when  it 
comes,  as  it  came  with  so  much  labor  of 
mind,  but  also  with  so  much  luster,  to 
Gustave  Flaubert,  this  discovery  of  the 
word  will  be,  like  all  artistic  success  and 
felicity,  incapable  of  strict  analysis:  effect 
of  an  intuitive  condition  of  mind,  [1080 
it  must  be  recognized  by  like  intuition 
on  the  part  of  the  reader,  and  a  sort  of 
immediate  sense.  In  every  one  of  those 
masterly  sentences  of  Flaubert  there 
was,  below  all  mere  contrivance,  shaping 
and  afterthought,  by  some  happy  in- 
stantaneous concourse  of  the  various 
faculties  of  the  mind  with  each  other, 
the  exact  apprehension  of  what  was  needed 
to  carry  the  meaning.  And  that  [1090 
it  fits  with  absolute  justice  will  be  a  judg- 
ment of  immediate  sense  in  the  apprecia- 
tive reader.  We  all  feel  this  in  what  may 
be  called  inspired  translation.  Well!  all 
language  involves  translation  from  in- 
ward to  outward.  In  literature,  as  in  all 
forms  of  art,  there  are  the  absolute  and 
the  merely  relative  or  accessory  beauties; 
and  precisely  in  that  exact  proportion 
of  the  term  to  its  purpose  is  the  [noo 
absolute  beauty  of  style,  prose  or  verse. 
All  the  good  qualities,  the  beauties,  of 
verse  also,  are  such,  only  as  precise  ex- 
pression. 

In  the  highest  as  in  the  lowliest  litera- 
ture, then,  the  one  indispensable  beauty 
is,  after  all,  truth: — truth  to  bare  fact 
in  the  latter,  as  to  some  personal  sense 
of  fact,  diverted  somewhat  from  men's 
ordinary  sense  of  it,  in  the  former;  [mo 
truth  there  as  accuracy,  truth  here  as 
expression,  that  finest  and  most  intimate 
form  of  truth,  the  vraie  verite.  And  what 
an  eclectic  principle  this  really  is!  em- 
ploying for  its  one  sole  purpose — that 
absolute  accordance  of  expression  to 
idea — all  other  literary  beauties  and  ex- 
cellences whatever:  how  many  kinds  of 


style  it  covers,  explains,  justifies,  and  at 
the  same  time  safeguards!  Scott's  [1120 
facility,  Flaubert's  deeply  pondered  evoca- 
tion of  "the  phrase,"  are  equally  good 
art.  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  what 
you  have  a  will  to  say,  in  the  simplest, 
the  most  direct  and  exact  manner  pos- 
sible, with  no  surplusage: — there,  is  the 
justification  of  the  sentence  so  fortu- 
nately born,  "entire,  smooth;  and  round," 
that  it  needs  no  punctuation,  and  also 
(that  is  the  point!)  of  the  most  [1130 
elaborate  period,  if  it  be  right  in  its 
elaboration.  Here  is  the  office  of  orna- 
ment: here  also  the  purpose  of  restraint 
in  ornament.  As  the  exponent  of  truth, 
that  austerity  (the  beauty,  the  function, 
of  which  in  literature  Flaubert  understood 
so  well)  becomes  not  the  correctness  or 
purism  of  the  mere  scholar,  but  a  security 
against  the  otiose,  a  jealous  exclusion  of 
what  does  not  really  tell  towards  the  [1140 
pursuit  of  relief,  of  life  and  vigor  in  the 
portraiture  of  one's  sense.  License  again, 
the  making  free  with  rule,  if  it  be  indeed, 
as  people  fancy,  a  habit  of  genius,  flinging 
aside  or  transforming  all  that  opposes 
the  liberty  of  beautiful  production,  will 
be  but  faith  to  one's  own  meaning.  The 
seeming  baldness  of  Le  Rouge  et  Le  Noir 
is  nothing  in  itself;  the  wild  ornament 
of  Les  Miser ables  is  nothing  in  it-  [1150 
self;  and  the  restraint  of  Flaubert,  amid 
a  real  natural  opulence,  only  redoubled 
beauty — the  phrase  so  large  and  so  pre- 
cise at  the  same  time,  hard  as  bronze, 
in  service  to  the  more  perfect  adaptation 
of  words  to  their  matter.  Afterthoughts, 
retouchings,  finish,  will  be  of  profit  only 
so  far  as  they  too  really  serve  to  bring 
out  the  original,  initiative,  generative, 
sense  in  them.  [1160 

In  this  way,  according  to  the  well- 
known  saying,  "The  style  is  the  man," 
complex  or  simple,  in  his  individuality, 
his  plenary  sense  of  what  he  really  has 
to  say,  his  sense  of  the  world;  all  cautions 
regarding  style  arising  out  of  so  many 
natural  scruples  as  to  the  medium  through 
which  alone  he  can  expose  that  inward 
sense  of  things,  the  purity  of  this  medium, 
its  laws  or  tricks  of  refraction:  [1170 
nothing  is  to  be  left  there  which  might 
give  conveyance  to  any  matter  save  that. 


PATER 


771 


Style  in  all  its  varieties,  reserved  or  opu- 
lent, terse,  abundant,  musical,  stimulant, 
academic,  so  long  as  each  is  really  char- 
acteristic or  expressive,  finds  thus  its 
justification,  the  sumptuous  good  taste  of 
Cicero  being  as  truly  the  man  himself, 
and  not  another,  justified,  yet  insured 
inalienably  to  him,  thereby,  as  would  [1180 
have  been  his  portrait  by  Raffaelle, 
in  full  consular  splendor,  on  his  ivory 
chair. 

A  relegation,  you  may  say  perhaps — 
a  relegation  of  style  to  the  subjectivity, 
the  mere  caprice,  of  the  individual,  which 
must  soon  transform  it  into  mannerism. 
Not  -so!  since  there  is,  under  the  condi- 
tions supposed,  for  those  elements  of 
the  man,  for  every  lineament  of  the  [1190 
vision  within,  the  one  word,  the  one  ac- 
ceptable word,  recognizable  by  the  sensi- 
tive, by  others  "who  have  intelligence" 
in  the  matter,  as  absolutely  as  ever  any- 
thing can  be  in  the  evanescent  and  deli- 
cate region  of  human  language.  The  style, 
the  manner,  would  be  the  man,  not  in 
his  unreasoned  and  really  uncharac- 
teristic caprices,  involuntary  or  affected, 
but  in  absolutely  sincere  apprehen-  [1200 
sion  of  what  is  most  real  to  him.  But 
let  us  hear  our  French  guide  again. — 

"Styles,"  says  Flaubert's  commenta- 
tor, "Styles,  as  so  many  peculiar  molds, 
each  of  which  bears  the  mark  of  a  par- 
ticular writer,  who  is  to  pour  into  it  the 
whole  content  of  his  ideas,  were  no  part 
of  his  theory.  What  he  believed  in  was 
Style:  that  is  to  say,  a  certain  absolute 
and  unique  manner  of  expressing  a  [1210 
tiling,  in  all  its  intensity  and  color.  For 
him  the  form  was  the  work  itself.  As 
in  living  creatures,  the  blood,  nourishing 
the  body,  determines  its  very  contour 
and  external  aspect,  just  so,  to  his  mind, 
the  matter,  the  basis,  in  a  work  of  art, 
imposed  necessarily  the  unique,  the  just 
expression,  the  measure,  the  rhythm — 
the  form  in  all  its  characteristics." 

If  the  style  be  the  man,  in  all  the  [1220 
color  and  intensity  of  a  veritable  apprehen- 
sion, it  will  be  in  a  real  sense  "  impersonal." 

I  said,  thinking  of  books  like  Victor 
Hugo's  Les  Miserables,  that  prose  litera- 
ture was  the  characteristic  art  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  as  others,  thinking  of 


its  triumphs  since  the  youth  of  Bach, 
have  assigned  that  place  to  music.  Music 
and  prose  literature  are,  in  one  sense, 
the  opposite  terms  of  art;  the  art  of  [1230 
literature  presenting  to  the  imagination, 
through  the  intelligence,  a  range  of  in- 
terests, as  free  and  various  as  those  which 
music  presents  to  it  through  sense.  And, 
certainly  the  tendency  of  what  has  been 
here  said  is  to  bring  literature  too  under 
those  conditions,  by  conformity  to  which 
music  takes  rank  as  the  typically  perfect 
art.  If  music  be  the  ideal  of  all  art  what- 
ever, precisely  because  in  music  it  is  [1240 
impossible  to  distinguish  the  form  from  the 
substance  or  matter,  the  subject  from  the 
expression,  then  literature,  by  finding  its 
specific  excellence  in  the  absolutecorrespon- 
dence  of  the  term  to  its  import,  will  be  but 
fulfilling  the  condition  of  all  artistic  qual- 
ity in  things  everywhere,  of  all  good  art. 

Good  art,  but  not  necessarily  great 
art;  the  distinction  between  great  art 
and  good  art  depending  immediately,  [1250 
as  regards  literature  at  all  events,  not 
on  its  form,  but  on  the  matter.  Thack- 
eray's Esmond,  surely,  is  greater  art  than 
Vanity  Fair,  by  the  greater  dignity  of  its 
interests.  It  is  on  the  quality  of  the  mat- 
ter it  informs  or  controls,  its  compass,  its 
variety,  its  alliance  to  great  ends,  or  the 
depth  of  the  note  of  revolt,  or  the  large- 
ness of  hope  in  it,  that  the  greatness 
of  literary  art  depends,  as  The  Divine  [1260 
Comedy,  Paradise  Lost,  Les  Miserables, 
The  English  Bible,  are  great  art.  Given 
the  conditions  I  have  tried  to  explain  as 
constituting  good  art; — then,  if  it  be 
devoted  further  to  the  increase  of  men's 
happiness,  to  the  redemption  of  the  op- 
pressed, or  the  enlargement  of  our  sym- 
pathies with  each  other,  or  to  such  pre- 
sentment of  new  or  old  truth  about 
ourselves  and  our  relation  to  the  [1270 
world  as  may  ennoble  and  fortify  us  in 
our  sojourn  here,  or  immediately,  as  with 
Dante,  to  the  glory  of  God,  it  will  be  also 
great  art;  if,  over  and  above  those  quali- 
ties I  summed  up  as  mind  and  soul — 
that  color  and  mystic  perfume,  and  that 
reasonable  structure,  it  has  something  of 
the  soul  of  humanity  in  it,  and  finds  its 
logical,  its  architectural  place,  in  the 
great  structure  of  human  life.  [1280 


77- 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


WORDSWORTH 

Some  English  critics  at  the  beginning 
of  the  present  century  had  a  great  deal 
to  say  concerning  a  distinction  of  much 
importance,  as  they  thought,  in  the  true 
estimate  of  poetry,  between  the  Fancy, 
and  another  more  powerful  faculty — the 
Imagination.  This  metaphysical  distinc- 
tion, borrowed  originally  from  the  writ- 
ings of  German  philosophers,  and  perhaps 
not  always  clearly  apprehended  by  [10 
those  who  talked  of  it,  involved  a  far 
deeper  and  more  vital  distinction,  with 
which  indeed  all  true  criticism  more  or 
less  directly  has  to  do,  the  distinction, 
namely,  between  higher  and  lower  de- 
grees of  intensity  in  the  poet's  perception 
of  his  subject,  and  in  his  concentration  of 
himself  upon  his  work.  Of  those  who 
dwelt  upon  the  metaphysical  distinc- 
tion between  the  Fancy  and  the  Im-  [20 
agination,  it  was  Wordsworth  who  made 
the  most  of  it,  assuming  it  as  the  basis 
for  the  final  classification  of  his  poetical 
writings;  and  it  is  in  these  writings  that 
the  deeper  and  more  vital  distinction, 
which,  as  I  have  said,  underlies  the  meta- 
physical distinction,  is  most  needed,  and 
may  best  be  illustrated. 

For  nowhere  is  there  so  perplexed  a 
mixture  as  in  Wordsworth's  own  poe-  [30 
try,  of  work  touched  with  intense  and 
individual  power,  with  work  of  almost 
no  character  at  all.  He  has  much  con- 
ventional sentiment,  and  some  of  that 
insincere  poetic  diction,  against  which 
his  most  serious  critical  efforts  were 
directed:  the  reaction  in  his  political 
ideas,  consequent  on  the  excesses  of  1795, 
makes  him,  at  times,  a  mere  declaimer 
on  moral  and  social  topics;  and  he  [40 
seems,  sometimes,  to  force  an  unwilling 
pen,  and  write  by  rule.  By  making  the 
most  of  these  blemishes  it  is  possible  to 
obscure  the  true  aesthetic  value  of  his 
work,  just  as  his  life  also,  a  life  of  much 
quiet  delicacy  and  independence,  might 
easily  be  placed  in  a  false  focus,  and  made 
to  appear  a  somewhat  tame  theme  in 
illustration  of  the  more  obvious  parochial 
virtues.  And  those  who  wish  to  under-  [50 
stand  his  influence,  and  experience  his 
peculiar  savor,  must  bear  with  patience 


the  presence  of  an  alien  element  in  Words- 
worth's work,  which  never  coalesced  with 
what  is  really  delightful  in  it,  nor  under- 
went his  special  power.  Who  that  values 
his  writings  most  has  not  felt  the  intru- 
sion there,  from  time  to  time,  of  some- 
thing tedious  and  prosaic?  Of  all  poets 
equally  great,  he  would  gain  most  by  [60 
a  skilfully  made  anthology.  Such  a  selec- 
tion would  show,  in  truth,  not  so  much 
what  he  was,  or  to  himself  or  others 
seemed  to  be,  as  what,  by  the  more  ener- 
getic and  fertile  quality  in  his  writings, 
he  was  ever  tending  to  become.  And  the 
mixture  in  his  work,  as  it  actually  stands, 
is  so  perplexed,  that  one  fears  to  miss  the 
least  promising  composition  even,  lest 
some  precious  morsel  should  be  lying  [70 
hidden  within — the  few  perfect  lines, 
the  phrase,  the  single  word  perhaps,  to 
which  he  often  works  up  mechanically 
through  a  poem,  almost  the  whole  of 
which  may  be  tame  enough.  He  who 
thought  that  in  all  creative  work  the 
larger  part  was  given  passively,  to  the 
recipient  mind,  who  waited  so  dutifully 
upon  the  gift,  to  whom  so  large  a  meas- 
ure was  sometimes  given,  had  his  [80 
times  also  of  desertion  and  relapse;  and 
he  has  permitted  the  impress  of  these 
too  to  remain  in  his  work.  And  this 
duality  there — the  fitfulness  with  which 
the  higher  qualities  manifest  themselves 
in  it,  gives  the  effect  in  his  poetry  of  a 
power  not  altogether  his  own,  or  under  his 
control,  which  comes  and  goes  when  it 
will,  lifting  or  lowering  a  matter,  poor  in 
itself;  so  that  that  old  fancy  which  [90 
made  the  poet's  art  an  enthusiasm,  a 
form  of  divine  possession,  seems  almost 
literally  true  of  him. 

This  constant  suggestion  of  an  absolute 
duality  between  higher  and  lower  moods, 
and  the  work  done  in  them,  stimulating 
one  always  to  look  below  the  surface, 
makes  the  reading  of  Wordsworth  an 
excellent  sort  of  training  towards  the 
things  of  art  and  poetry.  It  begets  in  [100 
those,  who,  coming  across  him  in  youth, 
can  bear  him  at  all,  a  habit  of  reading 
between  the  lines,  a  faith  in  the  effect  of 
concentration  and  collectedness  of  mind 
in  the  right  appreciation  of  poetry,  an 
expectation  of  things,  in  this  order,  com- 


PATER 


773 


ing  to  one  by  means  of  a  right  discipline 
of  the  temper  as  well  as  of  the  intellect. 
He  meets  us  with  the  promise  that  be  has 
much,  and  something  very  peculiar,  [no 
to  give  us,  if  we  will  follow  a  certain 
difficult  way,  and  seems  to  have  the  secret 
of  a  special  and  privileged  state  of  mind. 
And  those  who  have  undergone  his  in- 
fluence, and  followed  this  difficult  way, 
are  like  people  who  have  passed  through 
some  initiation,  a  disci pi Una  arcani,  by 
submitting  to  which  they  become  able 
constantly  to  distinguish  in  art,  speech, 
feeling,  manners,  that  which  is  organic,  [120 
animated,  expressive,  from  that  which  is 
only  conventional,  derivative,  inexpressive. 
But  although  the  necessity  of  selecting 
these  precious  morsels  for  oneself  is  an 
opportunity  for  the  exercise  of  Words- 
worth's peculiar  influence,  and  induces  a 
kind  of  just  criticism  and  true  estimate 
of  it,  yet  the  purely  literary  product 
would  have  been  more  excellent,  had  the 
writer  himself  purged  away  that  alien  [130 
element.  How  perfect  would  have  been 
the  little  treasury,  shut  between  the 
covers  of  how  thin  a  book!  Let  us  sup- 
pose the  desired  separation  made,  the 
electric  thread  untwined,  the  golden 
pieces,  great  and  small,  lying  apart  to- 
gether. What  are  the  peculiarities  of  this 
residue?  What  special  sense  does  Words- 
worth exercise,  and  what  instincts  does 
he  satisfy?  What  are  the  subjects  [140 
and  the  motives  which  in  him  excite  the 
imaginative  faculty?  What  are  the  quali- 
ties in  things  and  persons  which  he  values, 
the  impression  and  sense  of  which  he  can 
convey  to  others,  in  an  extraordinary  way? 

An  intimate  consciousness  of  the  ex- 
pression of  natural  things,  which  weighs, 
listens,  penetrates,  where  the  earlier 
mind  passed  roughly  by,  is  a  large  ele- 
ment in  the  complexion  of  modern  [150 
poetry.  It  has  been  remarked  as  a  fact 
in  mental  history  again  and  again.  It 
reveals  itself  in  many  forms;  but  is 
strongest  and  most  attractive  in  what  is 
strongest  and  most  attractive  in  mod- 
ern literature.  It  is  exemplified,  almost 
equally,  by  writers  as  unlike  each  other 
as  Senancour  and  Theophile  Gautier:  as 
a  singular  chapter  in  the  history  of  the 


human  mind,  its  growth  might  be  [160 
traced  from  Rousseau  to  Chateaubriand, 
from  Chateaubriand  to  Victor  Hugo:  it 
has  doubtless  some  latent  connection  with 
those  pantheistic  theories  which  locate 
an  intelligent  soul  in  material  things, 
and  have  largely  exercised  men's  minds 
in  some  modern  systems  of  philosophy: 
it  is  traceable  even  in  the  graver  writ- 
ings of  historians:  it  makes  as  much  dif- 
ference between  ancient  and  modern  [170 
landscape  art,  as  there  is  between  the 
rough  masks  of  an  early  mosaic  and 
a  portrait  by  Reynolds  or  Gainsborough. 
Of  this  new  sense,  the  writings  of  Words- 
worth are  the  central  and  elementary 
expression:  he  is  more  simply  and  en- 
tirely occupied  with  it  than  any  other 
poet,  though  there  are  fine  expressions 
of  precisely  the  same  thing  in  so  different 
a  poet  as  Shelley.  There  was  in  his  [180 
own  character  a  certain  contentment,  a 
sort  of  inborn  religious  placidity,  seldom 
found  united  with  a  sensibility  so  mobile 
as  his,  which  was  favorable  to  the  quiet, 
habitual  observation  of  inanimate,  or 
imperfectly  animate,  existence.  His  life 
of  eighty  years  is  divided  by  no  very  pro- 
foundly felt  incidents:  its  changes  are 
almost  wholly  inward,  and  it  falls  into 
broad,  untroubled,  perhaps  somewhat  [190 
monotonous  spaces.  What  it  most  re- 
sembles is  the  life  of  one  of  those  early 
Italian  or  Flemish  painters,  who,  just 
because  their  minds  were  full  of  heavenly 
visions,  passed,  some  of  them,  the  better 
part  of  sixty  years  in  quiet,  systematic 
industry.  This  placid  life  matured  a 
quite  unusual  sensibility,  really  innate 
in  him,  to  the  sights  and  sounds  of  the 
natural  world — the  flower  and  its  [200 
shadow  on  the  stone,  the  cuckoo  and  its 
echo.  The  poem  of  Resolution  and  In- 
dependence is  a  storehouse  of  such  records: 
for  its  fulness  of  imagery  it  may  be  com- 
pared to  Keats's  Saint  Agnes'  Eve.  To 
read  one  of  his  longer  pastoral  poems 
for  the  first  time,  is  like  a  day  spent  in 
a  new  country:  the  memory  is  crowded 
for  a  while  with  its  precise  and  vivid 
incidents —  [210 

"The  pliant  harebell  swinging  in  the  breeze 
On  some  gray  rock"; — 


774 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


"The  single  sheep  and  the  one  blasted  tree 
And  the  bleak  music  from  that  old  stone 
wall";— 

"And   in    the   meadows   and    the   lower 

grounds 
Was    all    the    sweetness    of    a    common 

dawn"; — 

"And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling 
in  thine  ears." 

Clear  and  delicate  at  once,  as  he  is 
in  the  outlining  of  visible  imagery,  he  is 
more  clear  and  delicate  still,  and  finely  [220 
scrupulous,  in  the  noting  of  sounds;  so 
that  he  conceives  a  noble  sound  as  even 
moulding  the  human  countenance  to 
nobler  types,  and  as  something  actually 
"profaned"  by  color,  by  visible  form, 
or  image.  He  has  a  power  likewise 
of  realizing,  and  conveying  to  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  reader,  abstract  and  ele- 
mentary impressions — silence,  darkness, 
absolute  motionlessness :  or,  again,  the  [230 
whole  complex  sentiment  of  a  particu- 
lar place,  the  abstract  expression  of 
desolation  in  the  long  white  road,  of 
peacefulness  in  a  particular  folding  of 
the  hills.  In  the  airy  building  of  the 
brain,  a  special  day  or  hour  even,  comes 
to  have  for  him  a  sort  of  personal  iden- 
tity, a  spirit  or  angel  given  to  it,  by 
which,  for  its  exceptional  insight,  or  the 
happy  light  upon  it,  it  has  a  presence  in  [240 
one's  history,  and  acts  there,  as  a  separate 
power  or  accomplishment;  and  he  has 
celebrated  in  many  of  his  poems  the 
"efficacious  spirit,"  which,  as  he  says, 
resides  in  these  "particular  spots"  of 
time. 

It  is  to  such  a  world,  and  to  a  world 
of  congruous  meditation  thereon,  that  we 
see  him  retiring  in  his  but  lately  published 
poem  of  The  Recluse — taking  leave,  [250 
without  much  count  of  costs,  of  the  world 
of  business,  of  action  and  ambition,  as 
also  of  all  that  for  the  majority  of  man- 
kind counts  as  sensuous  enjoyment. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  this  sense 
of  a  life  in  natural  objects,  which  in  most 
poetry  is  but  a  rhetorical  artifice,  is 
with  Wordsworth  the  assertion  of  what 
for  him  is  almost  literal  fact.  To  him 
every  natural  object  seemed  to  possess  [260 


more  or  less  of  a  moral  or  spiritual  life, 
to  be  capable  of  a  companionship  with 
man,  full  of  expression,  of  inexplicable 
affinities  and  delicacies  of  intercourse. 
An  emanation,  a  particular  spirit,  be- 
longed, not  to  the  moving  leaves  or  water 
only,  but  to  the  distant  peak  of  the 
hills  arising  suddenly,  by  some  change 
of  perspective,  above  the  nearer  horizon, 
to  the  passing  space  of  light  across  the  [270 
plain,  to  the  lichened  Druidic  stone  even, 
for  a  certain  weird  fellowship  in  it  with 
the  moods  of  men.  It  was  like  a  "sur- 
vival," in  the  peculiar  intellectual  tem- 
perament of  a  man  of  letters  at  the  end 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  of  that  primi- 
tive condition,  which  some  philosophers 
have  traced  in  the  general  history  of 
human  culture,  wherein  all  outward 
objects  alike,  including  even  the  [280 
works  of  men's  hands,  were  believed  to 
be  endowed  with  animation,  and  the 
world  was  "full  of  souls" — that  mood 
in  which  the  old  Greek  gods  were  first 
begotten,  and  which  had  many  strange 
aftergrowths. 

In  the  early  ages,  this  belief,  delight- 
ful as  its  effects  on  poetry  often  are,  was 
but  the  result  of  a  crude  intelligence.  But, 
in  Wordsworth,  such  power  of  seeing  [290 
life,  such  perception  of  a  soul,  in  inanimate 
things,  came  of  an  exceptional  suscepti- 
bility to  the  impressions  of  eye  and  ear, 
and  was,  in  its  essence,  a  kind  of  sen- 
suousness.  At  least,  it  is  only  in  a  tem- 
perament exceptionally  susceptible  on 
the  sensuous  side,  that  this  sense  of  the 
expressiveness  of  outward  things  comes 
to  be  so  large  a  part  of  life.  That 
he  awakened  "a  sort  of  thought  in  [300 
sense,"  is  Shelley's  just  estimate  of  this 
element  in  Wordsworth's  poetry. 

And  it  was  through  nature,  thus  en- 
nobled by  a  semblance  of  passion  and 
thought,  that  he  approached  the  spec- 
tacle of  human  life.  Human  life,  in- 
deed, is  for  him,  at  first,  only  an  addi- 
tional, accidental  grace  on  an  expressive 
landscape.  When  he  thought  of  man, 
it  was  of  man  as  in  the  presence  and  [310 
under  the  influence  of  these  effective 
natural  objects,  and  linked  to  them  by 
many  associations.  The  close  connection 
of  man  with  natural  objects,  the  habitual 


PATER 


775 


association  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings 
with  a  particular  spot  of  earth,  has  some- 
times seemed  to  degrade  those  who  are 
subject  to  its  influence,  as  if  it  did  but 
reinforce  that  physical  connection  of  our 
nature  with  the  actual  lime  and  clay  of  [320 
the  soil,  which  is  always  drawing  us  nearer 
to  our  end.  But  for  Wordsworth,  these 
influences  tended  to  the  dignity  of  human 
nature,  because  they  tended  to  tranquil- 
lize it.  By  raising  nature  to  the  level 
of  human  thought  he  gives  it  power  and 
expression:  he  subdues  man  to  the  level 
of  nature,  and  gives  him  thereby  a 
certain  breadth  and  coolness  and  solem- 
nity. The  leech-gatherer  on  the  moor,  [330 
the  woman  "stepping  westward,"  are 
for  him  natural  objects,  almost  in  the 
same  sense  as  the  aged  thorn,  or  the 
lichened  rock  on  the  heath.  In  this 
sense  the  leader  of  the  "Lake  School," 
in  spite  of  an  earnest  preoccupation  with 
man,  his  thoughts,  his  destiny,  is  the 
poet  of  nature.  And  of  nature,  after 
all,  in  its  modesty.  The  English  lake 
country  has,  of  course,  its  grandeurs.  [340 
But  the  peculiar  function  of  Words- 
worth's genius,  as  carrying  in  it  a  power 
to  open  out  the  soul  of  apparently  little 
or  familiar  things,  would  have  found  its 
true  test  had  he  become  the  poet  of 
Surrey,  say!  and  the  prophet  of  its  life. 
The  glories  of  Italy  and  Switzerland, 
though  he  did  write  a  little  about 
them,  had  too  potent  a  material  life  of 
their  own  to  serve  greatly  his  poetic  [350 
purpose. 

Religious  sentiment,  consecrating  the 
affections  and  natural  regrets  of  the 
human  heart,  above  all,  that  pitiful  awe 
and  care  for  the  perishing  human  clay, 
of  which  relic- worship  is  but  the  corrup- 
tion, has  always  had  much  to  do  with 
localities,  with  the  thoughts  which  attach 
themselves  to  actual  scenes  and  places. 
Now  what  is  true  of  it  everywhere,  is  [360 
truest  of  it  in  those  secluded  valleys  where 
one  generation  after  another  maintains 
the  same  abiding-place;  and  it  was  on 
this  side,  that  Wordsworth  apprehended 
religion  most  strongly.  Consisting,  as 
it  did  so  much,  in  the  recognition  of  local 
sanctities,  in  the  habit  of  connecting 
the    stones    and    trees    of    a    particular 


spot  of  earth  with  the  great  events  of  life, 
till  the  low  walls,  the  green  mounds,  [370 
the  half-obliterated  epitaphs  seemed  full  of 
voices,  and  a  sort  of  natural  oracles,  the 
very  religion  of  these  people  of  the  dales 
appeared  but  as  another  link  between 
them  and  the  earth,  and  was  literally 
a  religion  of  nature.  It  tranquillized 
them  by  bringing  them  under  the  placid 
rule  of  traditional  and  narrowly  local- 
ized observances.  "Grave  livers,"  they 
seemed  to  him,  under  this  aspect,  with  [380 
stately  speech,  and  something  of  that  nat- 
ural dignity  of  manners,  which  underlies 
the  highest  courtesy. 

And,  seeing  man  thus  as  a  part  of  na- 
ture, elevated  and  solemnized  in  propor- 
tion as  his  daily  life  and  occupations 
brought  him  into  companionship  with  per- 
manent natural  objects,  his  very  religion 
forming  new  links  for  him  with  the  narrow 
limits  of  the  valley,  the  low  vaults  [390 
of  his  church,  the  rough  stones  of  his  home, 
made  intense  for  him  now  with  profound 
sentiment,  Wordsworth  was  able  to  ap- 
preciate passion  in  the  lowly.  He  chooses 
to  depict  people  from  humble  life,  be- 
cause, being  nearer  to  nature  than  others, 
they  are  on  the  whole  more  impas- 
sioned, certainly  more  direct  in  their 
expression  of  passion,  than  other  men:  it 
is  for  this  direct  expression  of  passion,  [400 
that  he  values  their  humble  words.  In 
much  that  he  said  in  exaltation  of  rural 
life,  he  was  but  pleading  indirectly  for 
that  sincerity,  that  perfect  fidelity  to 
one's  own  inward  presentations,  to  the 
precise  features  of  the  picture  within, 
without  which  any  profound  poetry  is 
impossible.  It  was  not  for  their  tame- 
ness,  but  for  this  passionate  sincerity, 
that  he  chose  incidents  and  situations  [410 
from  common  life,  "related  in  a  selection 
of  language  really  used  by  men."  He 
constantly  endeavors  to  bring  his  lan- 
guage near  to  the  real  language  of  men: 
to  the  real  language  of  men,  however, 
not  on  the  dead  level  of  their  ordinary 
intercourse,  but  in  select  moments  of 
vivid  sensation,  when  this  language  is 
winnowed  and  ennobled  by  excitement. 
There  are  poets  who  have  chosen  rural  [420 
life  as  their  subject,  for  the  sake  of  its 
passionless  repose,  and  times  when  Words- 


776 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


worth  himself  extols  the  mere  calm  and 
dispassionate  survey  of  things  as  the 
highest  aim  of  poetical  culture.  But  it 
was  not  for  such  passionless  calm  that 
he  preferred  the  scenes  of  pastoral  life; 
and  the  meditative  poet,  sheltering  him- 
self, as  it  might  seem,  from  the  agitations 
of  the  outward  world,  is  in  reality  only  [430 
clearing  the  scene  for  the  great  exhibi- 
tions of  emotion,  and  what  he  values 
most  is  the  almost  elementary  expression 
of  elementary  feelings. 

And  so  he  has  much  for  those  who 
value  highly  the  concentrated  present- 
ment of  passion,  who  appraise  men  and 
women  by  their  susceptibility  to  it, 
and  art  and  poetry  as  they  afford  the 
spectacle  of  it.  Breaking  from  time  [440 
to  time  into  the  pensive  spectacle  of  their 
daily  toil,  their  occupations  near  to 
nature,  come  those  great  elementary 
feelings,  lifting  and  solemnizing  their 
language  and  giving  it  a  natural  music. 
The  great,  distinguishing  passion  came 
to  Michael  by  the  sheepfold,  to  Ruth 
by  the  wayside,  adding  these  hum- 
ble children  of  the  furrow  to  the  true 
aristocracy  of  passionate  souls.  In  this  [450 
respect,  Wordsworth's  work  resembles 
most  that  of  George  Sand,  in  those  of  her 
novels  which  depict  country  life.  With  a 
penetrative  pathos,  which  puts  him  in 
the  same  rank  with  the  masters  of  the 
sentiment  of  pity  in  literature,  with 
Meinhold  and  Victor  Hugo,  he  collects 
all  the  traces  of  vivid  excitement  which 
were  to  be  found  in  that  pastoral  world — 
the  girl  who  rung  her  father's  knell ;  the  [460 
unborn  infant  feeling  about  its  mother's 
heart;  the  instinctive  touches  of  children; 
the  sorrows  of  the  wild  creatures,  even — 
their  home-sickness,  their  strange  yearn- 
ings; the  tales  of  passionate  regret  that 
hang  by  a  ruined  farm-building,  a  heap 
of  stones,  a  deserted  sheepfold;  that 
gay,  false,  adventurous,  outer  world, 
which  breaks  in  from  time  to  time  to  be- 
wilder and  deflower  these  quiet  homes;  [470 
not  "passionate  sorrow"  only,  for  the 
overthrow  of  the  soul's  beauty,  but  the 
loss  of,  or  carelessness  for  personal  beauty 
even,  in  those  whom  men  have  wronged — 
their  pathetic  wanness;  the  sailor  "who, 
in    his    heart,   was    half   a   shepherd   on 


the  stormy  seas;"  the  wild  woman  teach- 
ing her  child  to  pray  for  her  betrayer; 
incidents  like  the  making  of  the  shepherd's 
staff,  or  that  of  the  young  boy  laying  [480 
the  first  stone  of  the  sheepfold; — all  the 
pathetic  episodes  of  their  humble  exist- 
ence, their  longing,  their  wonder  at  for- 
tune, their  poor  pathetic  pleasures,  like 
the  pleasures  of  children,  won  so  hardly 
in  the  struggle  for  bare  existence;  their 
yearning  towards  each  other,  in  their 
darkened  houses,  or  at  their  early  toil. 
A  sort  of  biblical  depth  and  solemnity 
hangs  over  this  strange,  new,  pas-  [490 
sionate,  pastoral  world,  of  which  he  first 
raised  the  image,  and  the  reflection  of 
which  some  of  our  best  modern  fiction 
has  caught  from  him. 

He  pondered  much  over  the  philosophy 
of  his  poetry,  and  reading  deeply  in 
the  history  of  his  own  mind,  seems  at 
times  to  have  passed  the  borders  of  a 
world  of  strange  speculations,  inconsist- 
ent enough,  had  he  cared  to  note  such  [500 
inconsistencies,  with  those  traditional 
beliefs,  which  were  otherwise  the  object 
of  his  devout  acceptance.  Thinking  of 
the  high  value  he  set  upon  customariness, 
upon  all  that  is  habitual,  local,  rooted 
in  the  ground,  in  matters  of  religious 
sentiment,  you  might  sometimes  regard 
him  as  one  tethered  down  to  a  world,  re- 
fined and  peaceful  indeed,  but  with  no 
broad  outlook,  a  world  protected,  but  [510 
somewhat  narrowed,  by  the  influence  of 
received  ideas.  But  he  is  at  times  also 
something  very  different  from  this,  and 
something  much  bolder.  A  chance  ex- 
pression is  overheard  and  placed  in  a 
new  connection,  the  sudden  memory  of  a 
thing  long  past  occurs  to  him,  a  distant 
object  is  relieved  for  a  while  by  a  ran- 
dom gleam  of  light — accidents  turning  up 
for  a  moment  what  lies  below  the  [520 
surface  of  our  immediate  experience — 
and  he  passes  from  the  humble  graves 
and  lowly  arches  of  "the  little  rock-like 
pile"  of  a  Westmoreland  church,  on 
bold  trains  of  speculative  thought,  and 
comes,  from  point  to  point,  into  strange 
contact  with  thoughts  which  have  visited, 
from  time  to  time,  far  more  venturesome, 
perhaps  errant,  spirits. 


PATER 


777 


He  had  pondered  deeply,  for  in-  [530 
stance,  on  those  strange  reminiscences  and 
forebodings,  which  seem  to  make  our  lives 
stretch  before  and  behind  us,  beyond 
where  we  can  see  or  touch  anything,  or 
trace  the  lines  of  connection.  Following 
the  soul,  backwards  and  forwards,  on 
these  endless  ways,  his  sense  of  man's 
dim,  potential  powers  became  a  pledge  to 
him,  indeed,  of  a  future  life,  but  carried  him 
back  also  to  that  mysterious  notion  [540 
of  an  earlier  state  of  existence — the  fancy 
of  the  Platonists — the  old  heresy  of 
Origen.  It  was  in  this  mood  that  he 
conceived  those  oft-reiterated  regrets  for 
a  half-ideal  childhood,  when  the  relics 
of  Paradise  still  clung  about  the  soul 
— a  childhood,  as  it  seemed,  full  of  the 
fruits  of  old  age,  lost  for  all,  in  a  degree, 
in  the  passing  away  of  the  youth  of  the 
world,  lost  for  each  one,  over  again,  in  [550 
the  passing  away  of  actual  youth.  It  is 
this  ideal  childhood  which  he  celebrates 
in  his  famous  Ode  on  the  Recollections  of 
Childhood,  and  some  other  poems  which 
may  be  grouped  around  it,  such  as  the 
lines  on  Tintern  Abbey,  and  something 
like  what  he  describes  was  actually 
truer  of  himself  than  he  seems  to  have 
understood;  for  his  own  most  delightful 
poems  were  really  the  instinctive  pro-  [560 
ductions  of  earlier  life,  and  most  surely  for 
him,  "the  first  diviner  influence  of  this 
world"  passed  away,  more  and  more 
completely,  in  his  contact  with  ex- 
perience. 

Sometimes  as  he  dwelt  upon  those 
moments  of  profound,  imaginative  power, 
in  which  the  outward  object  appears  to 
take  color  and  expression,  a  new  nature 
almost,  from  the  prompting  of  the  [570 
observant  mind,  the  actual  world  would, 
as  it  were,  dissolve  and  detach  itself, 
flake  by  flake,  and  he  himself  seemed  to 
be  the  creator,  and  when  he  would,  the 
destroyer,  of  the  world  in  which  he  lived — 
that  old  isolating  thought  of  many  a 
brain-sick  mystic  of  ancient  and  modern 
times. 

At  other  times,  again,  in  those  periods 
of  intense  susceptibility,  in  which  he  [580 
appeared  to  himself  as  but  the  passive 
recipient  of  external  influences,  he  was 
attracted  by  the  thought  of  a  spirit  of 


life  in  outward  things,  a  single,  all-per- 
vading mind  in  them,  of  which  man, 
and  even  the  poet's  imaginative  energy, 
are  but  moments — that  old  dream  of 
the  anima  mundi,  the  mother  of  all  things 
and  their  grave,  in  which  some  had  desired 
to  lose  themselves,  and  others  had  [590 
become  indifferent  to  the  distinctions  of 
good  and  evil.  It  would  come,  some- 
times, like  the  sign  of  the  macrocosm  to 
Faust  in  his  cell:  the  network  of  man  and 
nature  was  seen  to  be  pervaded  by  a 
common,  universal  life:  a  new,  bold 
thought  lifted  him  above  the  furrow, 
above  the  green  turf  of  the  Westmoreland 
churchyard,  to  a  world  altogether  differ- 
ent in  its  vagueness  and  vastness,  and  [600 
the  narrow  glen  was  full  of  the  brooding 
power  of  one  universal  spirit. 

And  so  he  has  something,  also,  for 
those  who  feel  the  fascination  of  bold 
speculative  ideas,  who  are  really  capable 
of  rising  upon  them  to  conditions  of 
poetical  thought.  He  uses  them,  indeed, 
always  with  a  very  fine  apprehension  of 
the  limits  within  which  alone  philosophical 
imaginings  have  any  place  in  true  poe-  [610 
try;  and  using  them  only  for  poetical  pur- 
poses, is  not  too  careful  even  to  make 
them  consistent  with  each  other.  To 
him,  theories  which  for  other  men  bring 
a  world  of  technical  diction,  brought  per- 
fect form  and  expression,  as  in  those 
two  lofty  books  of  the  Prelude,  which 
describe  the  decay  and  the  restoration  of 
Imagination  and  Taste.  Skirting  the 
borders  of  this  world  of  bewildering  [620 
heights  and  depths,  he  got  but  the  first 
exciting  influence  of  it,  that  joyful  en- 
thusiasm which  great  imaginative  theories 
prompt,  when  the  mind  first  comes  to 
have  an  understanding  of  them;  and 
it  is  not  under  the  influence  of  these 
thoughts  that  his  poetry  becomes  tedious 
or  loses  its  blitheness.  He  keeps  them, 
too,  always  within  certain  ethical  bounds, 
so  that  no  word  of  his  could  offend  the  [630 
simplest  of  those  simple  souls  which  are 
always  the  largest  portion  of  mankind. 
But  it  is,  nevertheless,  the  contact  of 
these  thoughts,  the  speculative  bold- 
ness in  them,  which  constitutes,  at 
least  for  some  minds,  the  secret  attrac- 


778 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


tion  of  much  of  his  best  poetry — the  sud- 
den passage  from  lowly  thoughts  and 
places  to  the  majestic  forms  of  philosoph- 
ical imagination,  the  play  of  these  [640 
forms  over  a  world  so  different,  enlarging  so 
strangely  the  bounds  of  its  humble  church- 
yards, and  breaking  such  a  wild  light  on 
the  graves  of  christened  children. 

And  these  moods  always  brought  with 
them  faultless  expression.  In  regard  to 
expression,  as  with  feeling  and  thought, 
the  duality  of  the  higher  and  lower  moods 
was  absolute.  It  belonged  to  the  higher, 
the  imaginative  mood,  and  was  the  [650 
pledge  of  its  reality,  to  bring  the  appropri- 
ate language  with  it.  In  him,  when  the 
really  poetical  motive  worked  at  all,  it 
united,  with  absolute  justice,  the  word 
and  the  idea;  each,  in  the  imaginative 
flame,  becoming  inseparably  one  with 
the  other,  by  that  fusion  of  matter  and 
form,  which  is  the  characteristic  of  the 
highest  poetical  expression.  His  words 
are  themselves  thought  and  feeling;  [660 
not  eloquent,  or  musical  words  merely, 
but  that  sort  of  creative  language  which 
carries  the  reality  of  what  it  depicts, 
directly,  to  the  consciousness. 

The  music  of  mere  metre  performs 
but  a  limited,  yet  a  very  peculiar  and 
subtly  ascertained  function,  in  Words- 
worth's poetry.  With  him,  metre  is  but  an 
additional  grace,  accessory  to  that  deeper 
music  of  words  and  sounds,  that  [670 
moving  power,  which  they  exercise  in  the 
nobler  prose  no  less  than  in  formal  poetry. 
It  is  a  sedative  to  that  excitement,  an 
excitement  sometimes  almost  painful, 
under  which  the  language,  alike  of  poetry 
and  prose,  attains  a  rhythmical  power, 
independent  of  metrical  combination, 
and  dependent  rather  on  some  subtle 
adjustment  of  the  elementary  sounds  of 
words  themselves  to  the  image  or  feel-  [680 
ing  they  convey.  Yet  some  of  his  pieces, 
pieces  prompted  by  a  sort  of  half-playful 
mysticism,  like  the  Daffodils  and  The 
Two  April  Mornings,  are  distinguished 
by  a  certain  quaint  gaiety  of  metre, 
and  rival  by  their  perfect  execution,  in 
this  respect,  similar  pieces  among  our 
own  Elizabethan,  or  contemporary  French 
poetry.  And  those  who  take  up  these 
poems  after  an  interval  of  months,  or  [690 


years  perhaps,  may  be  surprised  at  find- 
ing how  well  old  favorites  wear,  how  their 
strange,  inventive  turns  of  diction  or 
thought  still  send  through  them  the  old 
feeling  of  surprise.  Those  who  lived 
about  Wordsworth  were  all  great  lovers 
of  the  older  English  literature,  and  often 
times  there  came  out  in  him  a  noticeable 
likeness  to  our  earlier  poets.  He  quotes 
unconsciously,  but  with  new  power  of  [700 
meaning,  a  clause  from  one  of  Shake- 
speare's sonnets;  and,  as  with  some  other 
men's  most  famous  work,  the  Ode  on  the 
Recollections  of  Childhood  had  its  antici- 
pator. He  drew  something  too  from 
the  unconscious  mysticism  of  the  old 
English  language  itself,  drawing  out  the 
inward  significance  of  its  racy  idiom,  and 
the  not  wholly  unconscious  poetry  of  the 
language  used  by  the  simplest  people  [710 
under  strong  excitement — language,  there- 
fore, at  its  origin. 

The  office  of  the  poet  is  not  that  of  the 
moralist,  and  the  first  aim  of  Words- 
worth's poetry  is  to  give  the  reader  a 
peculiar  kind  of  pleasure.  But  through 
his  poetry,  and  through  this  pleasure  in 
it,  he  does  actually  convey  to  the  reader 
an  extraordinary  wisdom  in  the  things 
of  practice.  One  lesson,  if  men  must  [720 
have  lessons,  he  conveys  more  clearly 
than  all,  the  supreme  importance  of  con- 
templation in  the  conduct  of  life. 

Contemplation — impassioned  contem- 
plation— that  is  with  Wordsworth  the 
end-in-itself,  the  perfect  end.  We  see  the 
majority  of  mankind  going  most  often 
to  definite  ends,  lower  or  higher  ends, 
as  their  own  instincts  may  determine;  but 
the  end  may  never  be  attained,  and  [730 
the  means  not  be  quite  the  right  means, 
great  ends  and  little  ones  alike  being, 
for  the  most  part,  distant,  and  the  ways 
to  them,  in  this  dim  world,  somewhat 
vague.  Meantime,  to  higher  or  lower 
ends,  they  move  too  often  with  something 
of  a  sad  countenance,  with  hurried  and  ig- 
noble gait,  becoming,  unconsciously,  some- 
thing like  thorns,  in  their  anxiety  to  bear 
grapes;  it  being  possible  for  people,  [740 
in  the  pursuit  of  even  great  ends,  to  be- 
come themselves  thin  and  impoverished 
in  spirit  and  temper,   thus    diminishing 


PATER 


779 


the  sum  of  perfection  in  the  world,  at  its 
very  sources.  We  understand  this  when 
it  is  a  question  of  mean,  or  of  intensely- 
selfish  ends — -of  Grandet,  or  Javert.  We 
think  it  bad  morality  to  say  that  the  end 
justifies  the  means,  and  we  know  how  false 
to  all  higher  conceptions  of  the  reli-  [750 
gious  life  is  the  type  of  one  who  is  ready 
to  do  evil  that  good  may  come.  We 
contrast  with  such  dark,  mistaken  eager- 
ness, a  type  like  that  of  Saint  Catherine 
of  Siena,  who  made  the  means  to  her 
ends  so  attractive,  that  she  has  won  for 
herself  an  undying  place  in  the  House 
Beautiful,  not  by  her  rectitude  of  soul 
only,  but  by  its  "fairness" — by  those 
quite  different  qualities  which  com-  [760 
mend  themselves  to  the  poet  and  the  artist. 

Yet,  for  most  of  us,  the  conception  of 
means  and  ends  covers  the  whole  of  life, 
and  is  the  exclusive  type  or  figure  under 
which  we  represent  our  lives  to  ourselves. 
Such  a  figure,  reducing  all  things  to 
machinery,  though  it  has  on  its  side  the 
authority  of  that  old  Greek  moralist  who 
has  fixed  for  succeeding  generations  the 
outline  of  the  theory  of  right  living,  [770 
is  too  like  a  mere  picture  or  description 
of  men's  lives  as  we  actually  find  them, 
to  be  the  basis  of  the  higher  ethics.  It 
covers  the  meanness  of  men's  daily  lives, 
and  much  of  the  dexterity  and  the  vigor 
with  which  they  pursue  what  may  seem 
to  them  the  good  of  themselves  or  of 
others;  but  not  the  intangible  perfection 
of  those  whose  ideal  is  rather  in  being  than 
in  doing — not  those  manners  which  [780 
are,  in  the  deepest  as  in  the  simplest 
sense,  morals,  and  without  which  one 
cannot  so  much  as  offer  a  cup  of  water  to 
a  poor  man  without  offence — not  the  part 
of  "antique  Rachel,"  sitting  in  the  com- 
pany of  Beatrice;  and  even  the  moralist 
might  well  endeavor  rather  to  withdraw 
men  from  the  too  exclusive  consideration 
of  means  and  ends,  in  life. 

Against  this  predominance  of  ma-  [790 
chinery  in  our  existence,  Wordsworth's 
poetry,  like  all  great  art  and  poetry,  is  a 
continual  protest.  Justify  rather  the  end 
by  the  means,  it  seems  to  say:  whatever 
may  become  of  the  fruit,  make  sure  of  the 
flowers  and  the  leaves.  It  was  justly  said, 
therefore,  by  one  who  had  meditated  very 


profoundly  on  the  true  relation  of  means 
to  ends  in  life,  and  on  the  distinction  be- 
tween what  is  desirable  in  itself  and  [800 
what  is  desirable  only  as  machinery,  that 
when  the  battle  which  he  and  his  friends 
were  waging  had  been  won,  the  world 
would  need  more  than  ever  those  qualities 
which  Wordsworth  was  keeping  alive  and 
nourishing. 

That  the  end  of  life  is  not  action  but 
contemplation — being  as  distinct  from  do- 
ing— a  certain  disposition  of  the  mind:  is, 
in  some  shape  or  other,  the  principle  [810 
of  all  the  higher  morality.  In  poetry,  in 
art,  if  you  enter  into  their  true  spirit  at 
all,  you  touch  this  principle,  in  a  meas- 
ure: these,  by  their  very  sterility,  are  a 
type  of  beholding  for  the  mere  joy  of 
beholding.  To  treat  life  in  the  spirit  of 
art,  is  to  make  life  a  thing  in  which  means 
and  ends  are  identified:  to  encourage 
such  treatment,  the  true  moral  significance 
of  art  and  poetry.  Wordsworth,  [820 
and  other  poets  who  have  been  like  him 
in  ancient  or  more  recent  times,  are  the 
masters,  the  experts,  in  this  art  of  impas- 
sioned contemplation.  Their  work  is,  not 
to  teach  lessons,  or  enforce  rules,  or  even 
to  stimulate  us  to  noble  ends;  but  to 
withdraw  the  thoughts  for  a  little  while 
from  the  mere  machinery  of  life,  to 
fix  them,  with  appropriate  emotions,  on 
the  spectacle  of  those  great  facts  in  [830 
man's  existence  which  no  machinery 
affects,  "on  the  great  and  universal  pas- 
sions of  men,  the  most  general  and  in- 
teresting of  their  occupations,  and  the 
entire  world  of  nature," — on  "the  opera- 
tions of  the  elements  and  the  appearances 
of  the  visible  universe,  on  storm  and  sun- 
shine, on  the  revolutions  of  the  seasons, 
on  cold  and  heat,  on  loss  of  friends  and 
kindred,  on  injuries  and  resentments,  [840 
on  gratitude  and  hope,  on  fear  and  sor- 
row." To  witness  this  spectacle  with 
appropriate  emotions  is  the  aim  of  all 
culture;  and  of  these  emotions  poetry 
like  Wordsworth's  is  a  great  nourisher 
and  stimulant.  He  sees  nature  full  of 
sentiment  and  excitement;  he  sees  men 
and  women  as  parts  of  nature,  passion- 
ate, excited,  in  strange  grouping  and  con- 
nection with  the  grandeur  and  beauty  [850 
of  the  natural  world: — images,  in  his  own 


780 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


words,    "of   man    suffering,   amid   awful 
forms  and  powers." 

Such  is  the  figure  of  the  more  powerful 
and  original  poet,  hidden  away,  in  part, 
under  those  weaker  elements  in  Words- 
worth's poetry,  which  for  some  minds  de- 
termine their  entire  character;  a  poet 
somewhat  bolder  and  more  passionate 
than  might  at  first  sight  be  supposed,  [860 
but  not  too  bold  for  true  poetical  taste; 
an  unimpassioned  writer,  you  might 
sometimes  fancy,  yet  thinking  the  chief 
aim,  in  life  and  art  alike,  to  be  a  certain 
deep  emotion;  seeking  most  often  the 
great  elementary  passions  in  lowly  places; 
having  at  least  this  condition  of  all  im- 
passioned work,  that  he  aims  always 
at  an  absolute  sincerity  of  feeling  and 
diction,  so  that  he  is  the  true  fore-  [870 
runner  of  the  deepest  and  most  passionate 
poetry  of  our  own  day;  yet  going  back 
also,  with  something  of  a  protest  against 
the  conventional  fervor  of  much  of  the 
poetry  popular  in  his  own  time,  to  those 
older  English  poets,  whose  unconscious 
likeness  often  comes  out  in  him. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 
(1850-1894) 

jES  TRIPLEX 

The  changes  wrought  by  death  are  in 
themselves  so  sharp  and  final,  and  so 
terrible  and  melancholy  in  their  conse- 
quences, that  the  thing  stands  alone  in 
man's  experience,  and  has  no  parallel 
upon  earth.  It  outdoes  all  other  acci- 
dents because  it  is  the  last  of  them.  Some- 
times it  leaps  suddenly  upon  its  victims, 
like  a  thug;  sometimes  it  lays  a  regular 
siege  and  creeps  upon  their  citadel  [10 
during  a  score  of  years.  And  when  the 
business  is  done,  there  is  sore  havoc  made 
in  other  people's  lives,  and  a  pin  knocked 
out  by  which  many  subsidiary  friendships 
hung  together.  There  are  empty  chairs, 
solitary  walks,  and  single  beds  at  night. 
Again,  in  taking  away  our  friends,  death 
does  not  take  them  away  utterly,  but 
leaves  behind  a  mocking,  tragical,  and 
soon  intolerable  residue,  which  must  [20 


be  hurriedly  concealed.  Hence  a  whole 
chapter  of  sights  and  customs  striking  to 
the  mind,  from  the  pyramids  of  Egypt 
to  the  gibbets  and  dule  trees  of  mediaeval 
Europe.  The  poorest  persons  have  a  bit 
of  pageant  going  towards  the  tomb; 
memorial  stones  are  set  up  over  the  least 
memorable;  and,  in  order  to  preserve  some 
show  of  respect  for  what  remains  of  our 
old  loves  and  friendships,  we  must  [30 
accompany  it  with  much  grimly  ludicrous 
ceremonial,  and  the  hired  undertaker 
parades  before  the  door.  All  this,  and 
much  more  of  the  same  sort,  accom- 
panied by  the  eloquence  of  poets,  has 
gone  a  great  way  to  put  humanity  in 
error;  nay,  in  many  philosophies  the  error 
has  been  embodied  and  laid  down  with 
every  circumstance  of  logic;  although  in 
real  life  the  bustle  and  swiftness,  in  [40 
leaving  people  little  time  to  think,  have 
not  left  them  time  enough  to  go  danger- 
ously wrong  in  practice. 
•  As  a  matter  of  fact,  although  few  things 
are  spoken  of  with  more  fearful  whisper- 
ings than  this  prospect  of  death,  few  have 
less  influence  on  conduct  under  healthy 
circumstances.  We  have  all  heard  of 
cities  in  South  America  built  upon  the 
side  of  fiery  mountains,  and  how,  even  [50 
in  this  tremendous  neighborhood,  the 
inhabitants  are  not  a  jot  more  impressed 
by  the  solemnity  of  mortal  conditions 
than  if  they  were  delving  gardens  in  the 
greenest  corner  of  England.  There  are 
serenades  and  suppers  and  much  gallantry 
among  the  myrtles  overhead;  and  mean- 
while the  foundation  shudders  underfoot, 
the  bowels  of  the  mountain  growl,  and 
at  any  moment  living  ruin  may  leap  [60 
sky-high  into  the  moonlight,  and  tumble 
man  and  his  merry-making  in  the  dust. 
In  the  eyes  of  very  young  people,  and  very 
dull  old  ones,  there  is  something  inde- 
scribably reckless  and  desperate  in  such 
a  picture.  It  seems  not  credible  that 
respectable  married  people,  with  um- 
brellas, should  find  appetite  for  a  bit  of 
supper  within  quite  a  long  distance  of  a 
fiery  mountain;  ordinary  life  begins  [70 
to  smell  of  high-handed  debauch  when 
it  is  carried  on  so  close  to  a  catastrophe; 
and  even  cheese  and  salad,  it  seems,  could 
hardly  be  relished  in  such  circumstances 


STEVENSON 


781 


without  something  like  a  defiance  of  the 
Creator.  It  should  be  a  place  for  nobody 
but  hermits  dwelling  in  prayer  and 
maceration,  or  mere  born-devils  drowning 
care  in  a  perpetual  carouse. 

And  yet,  when  one  comes  to  think  [80 
upon  it  calmly,  the  situation  of  these 
South  American  citizens  forms  only  a 
very  pale  figure  for  the  state  of  ordinary 
mankind.  This  world  itself,  travelling 
blindly  and  swiftly  in  over-crowded  space, 
among  a  million  other  worlds  travelling 
blindly  and  swiftly  in  contrary  directions, 
may  very  well  come  by  a  knock  that 
would  set  it  into  explosion  like  a  penny 
squib.  And  what,  pathologically  [90 
looked  at,  is  the  human  body  with  all 
its  organs,  but  a  mere  bagful  of  petards? 
The  least  of  these  is  as  dangerous  to  the 
whole  economy  as  the  ship's  powder- 
magazine  to  the  ship;  and  with  every 
breath  we  breathe,  and  every  meal  we 
eat,  we  are  putting  one  or  more  of  them 
in  peril.  If  we  clung  as  devotedly  as  some 
philosophers  pretend  we  do  to  the  abstract 
idea  of  life,  or  were  half  as  frightened  [100 
as  they  make  out  we  are,  for  the  subver- 
sive accident  that  ends  it  all,  the  trumpets 
might  sound  by  the  hour  and  no  one 
would  follow  them  into  battle — the  blue- 
peter  might  fly  at  the  truck,  but  who 
would  climb  into  a  sea-going  ship?  Think 
(if  these  philosophers  were  right)  with 
what  a  preparation  of  spirit  we  should 
affront  the  daily  peril  of  the  dinner-table; 
a  deadlier  spot  than  any  battle-field  [no 
in  history,  where  the  far  greater  propor- 
tion of  our  ancestors  have  miserably  left 
their  bones!  What  woman  would  ever 
be  lured  into  marriage,  so  much  more 
dangerous  than  the  wildest  sea?  And 
what  would  it  be  to  grow  old?  For, 
after  a  certain  distance,  every  step  we 
take  in  life  we  find  the  ice  growing  thinner 
below  our  feet,  and  all  around  us  and 
behind  us  we  see  our  contemporaries  [120 
going  through.  By  the  time  a  man  gets 
well  into  the  seventies,  his  continued 
existence  is  a  mere  miracle;  and  when  he 
lays  his  old  bones  in  bed  for  the  night, 
there  is  an  overwhelming  probability  that 
he  will  never  see  the  day.  Do  the  old 
men  mind  it,  as  a  matter  of  fact?  Why, 
no.    They  were  never  merrier;  they  have 


their  grog  at  night,  and  tell  the  raciest 

stories;   they  hear  of   the   death  of  [130 

people    about    their    own    age,    or    even 

younger,  not  as  if  it  was  a  grisly  warning, 

but  with  a  simple  childlike  pleasure  at 

having  outlived  some  one  else;  and  when 

a  draught  might  puff   them   out  like  a 

guttering  candle,  or  a  bit  of  a  stumble 

J  shatter  them  like  so  much  glass,  their  old 

j  hearts  keep  sound  and  unaffrighted,  and 

J  they    go    on,    bubbling    with    laughter, 

j  through  years  of  man's  age  compared  [140 

|  to  which  the  valley  at  Balaclava  was  as 

J  safe  and  peaceful  as  a  village  cricket-green 

on  Sunday.     It  may  fairly  be  questioned 

(if  we  look  to  the  peril  only)   whether 

it  was  a  much  more  daring  feat  for  Curtius 

to  plunge  into  the  gulf,  than  for  any  old 

gentleman  of  ninety  to  doff  his  clothes 

and  clamber  into  bed. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  memorable  subject  for 
consideration,  with  what  unconcern  [150 
and  gaiety  mankind  pricks  on  along  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death.  The 
whole  way  is  one  wilderness  of  snares, 
and  the  end  of  it,  for  those  who  fear  the 
last  pinch,  is  irrevocable  ruin.  And 
yet  we  go  spinning  through  it  all,  like  a 
party  for  the  Derby.  Perhaps  the  reader 
remembers  one  of  the  humorous  devices 
of  the  deified  Caligula:  how  he  encour- 
aged a  vast  concourse  of  holiday-  [160 
makers  on  to  his  bridge  over  Baias  bay; 
and  when  they  were  in  the  height  of  their 
enjoyment,  turned  loose  the  Praetorian 
guards  among  the  company,  and  had 
them  tossed  into  the  sea.  This  is  no  bad 
miniature  of  the  dealings  of  nature  with 
the  transitory  race  of  man.  Only,  what 
a  chequered  picnic  we  have  of  it,  even 
while  it  lasts!  and  into  what  great  waters, 
not  to  be  crossed  by  any  swimmer,  [170 
God's  pale  Praetorian  throws  us  over  in 
the  end! 

We  live  the  time  that  a  match  flickers; 
we  pop  the  cork  of  a  ginger-beer  bottle, 
and  the  earthquake  swallows  us  on  the 
instant.  Is  it  not  odd,  is  it  not  incon- 
gruous, is  it  not>  in  the  highest  sense  of 
human  speech,  incredible,  that  we  should 
think  so  highly  of  the  ginger-beer,  and 
regard  so  little  the  devouring  earth-  [180 
quake?  The  love  of  Life  and  the  fear  of 
Death  are  two  famous  phrases  that  grow 


782 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


harder  to  understand  the  more  we  think 
about  them.  It  is  a  well-known  fact 
that  an  immense  proportion  of  boat 
accidents  would  never  happen  if  people 
held  the  sheet  in  their  hands  instead  of 
making  it  fast;  and  yet,  unless  it  be  some 
martinet  of  a  professional  mariner  or 
some  landsman  with  shattered  nerves,  [190 
every  one  of  God's  creatures  makes  it 
fast.  A  strange  instance  of  man's  un- 
concern and  brazen  boldness  in  the  face 
of  death! 

We  confound  ourselves  with  metaphys- 
ical phrases,  which  we  import  into  daily 
talk  with  noble  inappropriateness.  We 
have  no  idea  of  what  death  is,  apart  from 
its  circumstances  and  some  of  its  conse- 
quences to  others;  and  although  we  [200 
have  some  experience  of  living  there  is 
not  a  man  on  earth  who  has  flown  so 
high  into  abstraction  as  to  have  any 
practical  guess  at  the  meaning  of  the 
word  life.  All  literature,  from  Job  and 
Omar  Khayyam  to  Thomas  Carlyle  or 
Walt  Whitman,  is  but  an  attempt  to  look 
upon  the  human  state  with  such  large- 
ness of  view  as  shall  enable  us  to  rise  from 
the  consideration  of  living  to  the  Def-  [210 
inition  of  Life.  And  our  sages  give  us 
about  the  best  satisfaction  in  their  power 
when  they  say  that  it  is  a  vapor,  or  a 
show,  or  made  out  of  the  same  stuff  with 
dreams.  Philosophy,  in  its  more  rigid 
sense,  has  been  at  the  same  work  for 
ages;  and  after  a  myriad  bald  heads 
have  wagged  over  the  problem,  and  piles 
of  words  have  been  heaped  one  upon 
another  into  dry  and  cloudy  volumes  [220 
without  end,  philosophy  has  the  honor 
of  laying  before  us,  with  modest  pride, 
her  contribution  towards  the  subject: 
that  life  is  a  Permanent  Possibility  of 
Sensation.  Truly  a  fine  result!  A  man 
may  very  well  love  beef,  or  hunting,  or  a 
woman;  but  surely,  surely,  not  a  Perma- 
nent Possibility  of  Sensation!  He  may  be 
afraid  of  a  precipice,  or  a  dentist,  or  a 
large  enemy  with  a  club,  or  even  an  [230 
undertaker's  man ;  but  -  not  certainly  of 
abstract  death.  We  may  trick  with  the 
word  life  in  its  dozen  senses  until  we  are 
weary  of  tricking;  we  may  argue  in  terms 
of  all  the  philosophies  on  earth,  but  one 
fact   remains   true   throughout — that   we 


do  not  love  life,  in  the  sense  that  we  are 
greatly  preoccupied  about  its  conserva- 
tion; that  we  do  not,  properly  speaking, 
love  life  at  all,  but  living.  Into  the  [240 
views  of  the  least  careful  there  will  enter 
some  degree  of  providence;  no  man's  eyes 
are  fixed  entirely  on  the  passing  hour; 
but  although  we  have  some  anticipation 
of  good  health,  good  weather,  wine,  ac- 
tive employment,  love,  and  self-approval, 
the  sum  of  these  anticipations  does  not 
amount  to  anything  like  a  general  view 
of  life's  possibilities  and  issues;  nor  are 
those  who  cherish  them  most  vividly  [250 
at  all  the  most  scrupulous  of  their  per- 
sonal safety.  To  be  deeply  interested  in 
the  accidents  of  our  existence,  to  enjoy 
keenly  the  mixed  texture  of  human  ex- 
perience, rather  leads  a  man  to  disregard 
precautions,  and  risk  his  neck  against  a 
straw.  For  surely  the  love  of  living  is 
stronger  in  an  Alpine  climber  roping  over 
a  peril,  or  a  hunter  riding  merrily  at 
a  stiff  fence,  than  in  a  creature  who  [260 
lives  upon  a  diet  and  walks  a  measured 
distance  in  the  interest  of  his  constitu- 
tion. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  very  vile 
nonsense  talked  upon  both  sides  of  the 
matter:  tearing  divines  reducing  life  to 
the  dimensions  of  a  mere  funeral  proces- 
sion, so  short  as  to  be  hardly  decent, 
and  melancholy  unbelievers  yearning  for 
the  tomb  as  if  it  were  a  world  too  [270 
far  away.  Both  sides  must  feel  a  little 
ashamed  of  their  performances  now  and 
again  when  they  draw  in  their  chairs  to 
dinner.  Indeed,  a  good  meal  and  a  bottle 
of  wine  is  an  answer  to  most  standard 
works  upon  the  question.  When  a  man's 
heart  warms  to  his  viands,  he  forgets  a 
great  deal  of  sophistry,  and  soars  into  a 
rosy  zone  of  contemplation.  Death  may 
be  knocking  at  the  door,  like  the  [280 
Commander's  statue;  we  have  something 
else  in  hand,  thank  God,  and  let  him 
knock.  Passing  bells  are  ringing  all  the 
world  over.  All  the  world  over,  and 
every  hour,  some  one  is  parting  company 
with  all  his  aches  and  ecstasies.  For  us 
also  the  trap  is  laid.  But  we  are  so  fond 
of  life  that  we  have  no  leisure  to  entertain 
the  terror  of  death.  It  is  a  honeymoon 
with  us  all  through,  and  none  of  the  [290 


STEVENSON 


783 


longest.  Small  blame  to  us  if  we  give 
our  whole  hearts  to  this  glowing  bride  of 
ours,  to  the  appetites,  to  honor,  to  the 
hungry  curiosity  of  the  mind,  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  eyes  in  nature,  and  the 
pride  of  our  own  nimble  bodies. 

We  all  of  us  appreciate  the  sensations; 
but  as  for  caring  about  the  Permanence 
of  the  Possibility,  a  man's  head  is  gener- 
ally very  bald,  and  his  senses  very  dull,  [300 
before  he  comes  to  that.  Whether  we 
regard  life  as  a  lane  leading  to  a  dead 
wall— a  mere  bag's  end,  as  the  French 
say — or  whether  we  think  of  it  as  a  vesti- 
bule or  gymnasium,  where  we  wait  our 
turn  and  prepare  our  faculties  for  some 
more  noble  destiny;  whether  we  thunder 
in  a  pulpit,  or  pule  in  little  atheistic 
poetry -books,  about  its  vanity  and  brev- 
ity; whether  we  look  justly  for  years  [310 
of  health  and  vigor,  or  are  about  to  mount 
into  a  Bath-chair,  as  a  step  towards  the 
hearse;  in  each  and  all  of  these  views  and 
situations  there  is  but  one  conclusion 
possible:  that  a  man  should  stop  his  ears 
against  paralysing  terror,  and  run  the 
race  that  is  set  before  him  with  a  single 
mind.  No  one  surely  could  have  recoiled 
with  more  heartache  and  terror  from 
the  thought  of  death  than  our  re-  [320 
spected  lexicographer;  and  yet  we  know 
how  little  it  affected  his  conduct,  how 
wisely  and  boldly  he  walked,  and  in 
what  a  fresh  and  lively  vein  he  spoke  of 
life.  Already  an  old  man,  he  ventured 
on  his  Highland  tour;  and  his  heart, 
bound  with  triple  brass,  did  not  recoil 
before  twenty-seven  individual  cups  of 
tea.  As  courage  and  intelligence  are  the 
two  qualities  best  worth  a  good  [330 
man's  cultivation,  so  it  is  the  first  part  of 
intelligence  to  recognize  our  precarious 
estate  in  life,  and  the  first  part  of  courage 
to  be  not  at  all  abashed  before  the  fact. 
A  frank  and  somewhat  headlong  carriage, 
not  looking  too  anxiously  before,  not 
dallying  in  maudlin  regret  over  the  past, 
stamps  the  man  who  is  well  armored  for 
this  world. 

And  not  only  well  armored  for  him-  [340 
self,  but  a  good  friend  and  a  good  citizen 
to  boot.  We  do  not  go  to  cowards  for 
tender  dealing;  there  is  nothing  so  cruel  as 
panic;  the  man  wrho  has  least  fear  for 


his  own  carcass,  has  most  time  to  con- 
sider others.  That  eminent  chemist  who 
took  his  walks  abroad  in  tin  shoes,  and 
subsisted  wholly  upon  tepid  milk,  had 
all  his  work  cut  out  for  him  in  considerate 
dealings  with  his  own  digestion.  So  [350 
soon  as  prudence  has  begun  to  grow  up  in 
the  brain,  like  a  dismal  fungus,  it  finds 
its  first  expression  in  a  paralysis  of  gener- 
ous acts.  The  victim  begins  to  shrink 
spiritually;  he  develops  a  fancy  for  par- 
lors with  a  regulated  temperature,  and 
takes  his  morality  on  the  principle  of 
tin  shoes  and  tepid  milk.  The  care  of 
one  important  body  or  soul  becomes  so 
engrossing,  that  all  the  noises  of  the  [360 
outer  world  begin  to  come  thin  and  faint 
into  the  parlor  with  the  regulated  tem- 
perature; and  the  tin  shoes  go  equably 
forward  over  blood  and  rain.  To  be  other- 
wise is  to  ossify;  and  the  scruple-monger 
ends  by  standing  stockstill.  Now  the 
man  who  has  his  heart  on  his  sleeve,  and 
a  good  whirling  weathercock  of  a  brain, 
who  reckons  his  life  as  a  thing  to  be 
dashingly  used  and  cheerfully  haz-  [370 
arded,  makes  a  very  different  acquaint- 
ance of  the  world,  keeps  all  his  pulses 
going  true  and  fast,  and  gathers  impetus 
as  he  runs,  until,  if  he  be  running  towards 
anything  better  than  wildfire,  he  may 
shoot  up  and  become  a  constellation  in  the 
end.  Lord,  look  after  his  health,  Lord, 
have  a  care  of  his  soul,  says  he;  and  he 
has  at  the  key  of  the  position,  and  smashes 
through  incongruity  and  peril  towards  [380 
his  aim.  Death  is  on  all  sides  of  him  with 
pointed  batteries,  as  he  is  on  all  sides  of 
all  of  us;  unfortunate  surprises  gird  him 
round;  mim-mouthed  friends  and  rela- 
tions hold  up  their  hands  in  quite  a  little 
elegiacal  synod  about  his  path:  and  what 
cares  he  for  all  this?  Being  a  true  lover 
of  living,  a  fellow  with  something  pushing 
and  spontaneous  in  his  inside,  he  must, 
like  any  other  soldier,  in  any  other  [390 
stirring,  deadly  warfare,  push  on  at  his 
best  pace  until  he  touch  the  goal.  "A 
peerage  or  Westminster  Abbey!"  cried 
Nelson  in  his  bright,  boyish,  heroic 
manner.  These  are  great  incentives;  not 
for  any  of  these,  but  for  the  plain  satis- 
faction of  living,  of  being  about  their 
business  in  some  sort  or  other,  do  the 


7s4 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


brave,  serviceable  men  of  every  nation 
tread  down  the  nettle  danger,  and  [400 
pass  flyingly  over  all  the  stumbling-blocks 
of  prudence.  Think  of  the  heroism  of 
Johnson,  think  of  that  superb  indifference 
to  mortal  limitation  that  set  him  upon 
his  dictionary,  and  carried  him  through 
triumphantly  until  the  end!  Who,  if 
he  were  wisely  considerate  of  things  at 
large,  would  ever  embark  upon  any  work 
much  more  considerable  than  a  half- 
penny post-card?  Who  would  project  [410 
a  serial  novel,  after  Thackeray  and 
Dickens  had  each  fallen  in  mid-course? 
Who  would  find  heart  enough  to  begin 
to  live,  if  he  dallied  with  the  considera- 
tion of  death? 

And,  after  all,  what  sorry  and  pitiful 
quibbling  all  this  is!  To  forego  all  the 
issues  of  living  in  a  parlor  with  a  regu- 
lated temperature — as  if  that  were  not 
to  die  a  hundred  times  over,  and  for  [420 
ten  years  at  a  stretch!  As  if  it  were  not 
to  die  in  one's  own  lifetime,  and  without 
even  the  sad  immunities  of  death!  As 
if  it  were  not  to  die,  and  yet  be  the  patient 
spectators  of  our  own  pitiable  change! 
The  Permanent  Possibility  is  preserved, 
but  the  sensations  carefully  held  at  arm's 
length,  as  if  one  kept  a  photographic 
plate  in  a  dark  chamber.  It  is  better  to 
lose  health  like  a  spendthrift  than  to  [430 
waste  it  like  a  miser.  It  is  better  to  live 
and  be  done  with  it,  than  to  die  daily  in 
the  sick-room.  By  all  means  begin  your 
folio;  even  if  the  doctor  does  not  give 
you  a  year,  even  if  he  hesitates  about  a 
month,  make  one  brave  push  and  see 
what  can  be  accomplished  in  a  week.  It 
is  not  only  in  finished  undertakings  that 
we  ought  to  honor  useful  labor.  A  spirit 
goes  out  of  the  man  who  means  [440 
execution,  which  outlives  the  most  un- 
timely ending.  All  who  have  meant  good 
work  with  their  whole  hearts,  have  done 
good  work,  although  they  may  die  before 
they  have  the  time  to  sign  it.  Every 
heart  that  has  beat  strong  and  cheerfully 
has  left  a  hopeful  impulse  behind  it  in 
the  world,  and  bettered  the  tradition  of 
mankind.  And  even  if  death  catch 
people,  like  an  open  pitfall,  and  in  [450 
mid-career,  laying  out  vast  projects,  and 
planning  monstrous  foundations,  flushed 


with  hope,  and  their  mouths  full  of 
boastful  language,  they  should  be  at  once 
tripped  up  and  silenced:  is  there  not 
something  brave  and  spirited  in  such 
a  termination?  and  does  not  life  go  down 
with  a  better  grace,  foaming  in  full  body 
over  a  precipice,  than  miserably  strag- 
gling to  an  end  in  sandy  deltas?  [460 
When  the  Greeks  made  their  fine  saying 
that  those  whom  the  gods  love  die  young, 
I  cannot  help  believing  they  had  this  sort 
of  death  also  in  their  eye.  For  surely, 
at  whatever  age  it  overtake  the  man, 
this  is  to  die  young.  Death  has  not 
been  suffered  to  take  so  much  as  an  illu- 
sion from  his  heart.  In  the  hot-fit  of  life, 
a-tiptoe  on  the  highest  point  of  being, 
he  passes  at  a  bound  on  to  the  other  [470 
i  side.  The  noise  of  the  mallet  and  chisel 
is  scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets  are 
hardly  done  blowing,  when,  trailing  with 
him  clouds  of  glory,  this  happy-starred, 
full-blooded  spirit  snoots  into  the  spiritual 
land. 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 
(1837-1909) 

THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet, 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing         5 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing, 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 
A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter, 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep;     10 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap: 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours, 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers, 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers         15 
And  everything  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbor, 

And  far  from  eye  or  ear 
Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labor, 

Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer;        20 


SWINBURNE 


785 


They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 
They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 
But  no  such  winds  blow  hither, 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice, 

No  heather- flower  or  vine, 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies, 

Green  grapes  of  Prosperine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes, 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 


25 


30 


Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn, 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber    35 

All  night  till  light  is  born; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn.  40 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell, 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell; 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses,  45 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 
In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal, 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 
Who  gathers  all  things  mortal  51 

With  cold  immortal  hands; 
Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 
Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her, 
To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her  55 

From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other, 

She  waits  for  all  men  born; 

Forgets  the  earth  her  mother, 

The  life  of  fruits  and  corn;  60 

And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 
And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither,         65 
The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings; 

And  all  dead  years  draw  thither, 
And  all  disastrous  things; 


Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken,      70 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow; 

And  joy  was  never  sure; 
To-day  will  die  to-morrow;  75 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful, 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 

Weeps  that  no  loves  endure.  80 

From  too  much  love  of  living, 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  for  ever;  85 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 


Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light: 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight: 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 

Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal; 

Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


90 


95 


CHORUSES  From  ATALANTA  IN 
CALYDON 

The  Hounds  of  Spring 

When  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or 
plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amo- 
rous 5 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign 
faces, 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying 
of  quivers, 
Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light,     10 


786 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 
shivers,  15 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet 
of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing 
to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and 
cling? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 
spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that 
spring!  20 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment;  as  songs  of  the  harp-player; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling 
to  her, 
And  the  southwest-wind,  and  the  west- 
wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over,     25 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 
And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten,  29 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  traveling  foot, 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year 
flushes  35 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The    chestnut-husk    at    the    chestnut- 
root.  40 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  de- 
light 
The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide        45 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And    screen    from    seeing    and    leave    in 
sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 


The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes;     50 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs; 

The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 
leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 

To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that 

scare  55 

The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 

Before  the  Beginning  of  Years 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven;  5 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath;  10 

Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 
And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand  15 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth;     20 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow,       25 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a 
span 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From   the  winds  of   the  north  and   the 
south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife;  30 

They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  filled  his  body  with  life; 
Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labor  and  thought,  35 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight, 


SWINBURNE 


787 


45 


And  beauty  and  length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night.     40 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth; 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death; 
He    weaves,    and    is    clothed    with    de- 
rision ; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 


A  MATCH 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather, 
Blown  fields  or  fiowerful  closes,  5 

Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune,  10 

With  double  sound  and  single 

Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 

With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 
That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon; 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are,  15 

And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death, 

We'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather    20 

With  daffodil  and  starling 
And  hours  of  fruitful  breath; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow,  25 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy;        30 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours        35 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 


Till  day  like  night  were  shady 
And  night  were  bright  like  day; 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May.  40 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure,  45 

And  find  his  mouth  a  rein; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


TO  WALT  WHITMAN  IN  AMERICA 

Send  but  a  song  oversea  for  us, 
Heart  of  their  hearts  who  are  free, 

Heart  of  their  singer,  to  be  for  us 
More  than  our  singing  can  be; 

Ours,  in  the  tempest  at  error,  5 

With  no  light  but  the  twilight  of  terror; 
Send  us  a  song  oversea! 

Sweet-smelling  of  pine-leaves  and  grasses, 
And  blown  as  a  tree  through  and  through 

With  the  winds  of  the  keen  mountain- 
passes,  10 
And  tender  as  sun-smitten  dew; 

Sharp-tongued  as  the  winter  that  shakes 

The  wastes  of  your  limitless  lakes, 
Wide-eyed  as  the  sea-line's  blue. 

O  strong- winged  soul  with  prophetic     15 
Lips  hot  with  the  bloodbeats  of  song, 

With  tremor  of  heartstrings  magnetic 
With  thoughts  as  thunders  in  throng, 

With  consonant  ardors  of  chords 

That  pierce  men's  souls  as  with  swords  20 
And  hale  them  hearing  along, 

Make  us  too  music,  to  be  with  us 
As  a  word  from  a  world's  heart  warm, 

To  sail  the  dark  as  a  sea  with  us, 
Full-sailed,  outsinging  the  storm,       25 

A  song  to  put  fire  in  our  ears 

Whose  burning  shall  burn  up  tears 
Whose  sign  bid  battle  reform; 

A  note  in  the  ranks  of  a  clarion, 

A  word  in  the  wind  of  cheer,  3c 

To  consume  as  with  lightning  the  carrion 
That  makes  time  foul  for  us  here; 


788 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


In  the  air  that  our  dead  things  infest 
A  blast  of  the  breath  of  the  west, 
Till  east  way  as  west  way  is  clear.      35 

Out  of  the  sun  beyond  sunset, 

From  the  evening  whence  morning  shall 
be, 
With  the  rollers  in  measureless  onset, 
With  the  van  of  the  storming  sea, 
With    the    world-wide    wind,    with    the 
breath  40 

That  breaks  ships  driven  upon  death, 
With  the  passion  of  all  things  free, 

With  the  sea-steeds  footless  and  frantic, 
White  myriads  for  death  to  bestride 

In  the  charge  of  the  ruining  Atlantic,  45 
Where  deaths  by  regiments  ride, 

With  clouds  and  clamors  of  waters, 

With  a  long  note  shriller  than  slaughter's 
On  the  furrowless  fields  world-wide, 

With  terror,  with  ardor  and  wonder,  50 
With  the  soul  of  the  season  that  wakes 

When  the  weight  of  a  whole  year's  thunder 
In  the  tides tream  of  autumn  breaks, 

Let  the  flight  of  the  wide-winged  word 

Come  over,  come  in  and  be  heard,  55 

Take  form  and  fire  for  our  sakes. 

For  a  continent  bloodless  with  travail 
Here  toils  and  brawls  as  it  can, 

And  the  web  of  it  who  shall  unravel 
Of  all  that  peer  on  the  plan ;  60 

Would  fain   grow   men,   but   they   grow 
not, 

And  fain  be  free,  but  they  know  not 
One  name  for  freedom  and  man. 

One  name,  not  twain,  for  division; 

One  thing,  not  twain,  from  the  birth;  65 
Spirit  and  substance  and  vision, 

Worth  more  than  worship  is  worth; 
Unbeheld,  unadored,  undivined, 
The  cause,  the  center,  the  mind, 

The  secret  and  sense  of  the  earth.         70 

Here  as  a  weakling  in  irons, 

Here  as  a  weanling  in  bands, 
As  a  prey  that  the  stake-net  environs, 

Our  life  that  we  looked  for  stands; 
And  the  man-child  naked  and  dear,         75 
Democracy,  turns  on  us  here 

Eyes  trembling  with  tremulous  hands. 


It  sees  not  what  season  shall  bring  to  it 
Sweet  fruit  of  its  bitter  desire; 

Few  voices  it  hears  yet  sing  to  it,  80 

Few  pulses  of  hearts  reaspire; 

Foresees  not  time,  nor  forehears 

The  noises  of  imminent  years, 

Earthquake,  and  thunder,  and  fire:     84 

When  crowned  and  weaponed  and  curb- 
less 

It  shall  walk  without  helm  or  shield 
The  bare  burnt  furrows  and  herbless 

Of  war's  last  flame-stricken  field, 
Till  godlike,  equal  with  time, 
It  stand  in  the  sun  sublime,  90 

In  the  godhead  of  man  revealed. 

Round  your  people  and  over  them 

Light  like  raiment  is  drawn, 
Close  as  a  garment  to  cover  them 

Wrought  not  of  mail  nor  of  lawn;       95 
Here,  with  hope  hardly  to  wear, 
Naked  nations  and  bare 

Swim,  sink,  strike  out  for  the  dawn. 

Chains  are  here,  and  a  prison, 

Kings,  and  subjects,  and  shame;        100 
If  the  God  upon  you  be  arisen, 

How  should  our  songs  be  the  same? 
How,  in  confusion  of  change, 
How  shall  we  sing,  in  a  strange 

Land,  songs  praising  his  name?  105 

God  is  buried  and  dead  to  us, 

Even  the  spirit  of  earth, 
Freedom;  so  have  they  said  to  us 

Some  with  mocking  and  mirth, 
Some  with  heartbreak  and  tears;  no 

And  a  God  without  eyes,  without  ears, 

Who  shall    sing  of   him,  dead   in   the 
birth? 

The  earth-god  Freedom,  the  lonely 
Face  lightening,  the  footprint  unshod, 

Not  as  one  man  crucified  only,  115 

Nor  scourged  with  but  one  life's  rod; 

The  soul  that  is  substance  of  nations, 

Reincarnate  with  fresh  generations; 
The  great  god  Man,  which  is  God. 

But  in  weariest  of  years  and  obscurest  120 
Doth  it  live  not  at  heart  of  all  things, 

The  one  God  and  one  spirit,  a  purest 
Life,  fed  from  unstanchable  springs? 


SWINBURNE 


789 


Within  love,  within  hatred  it  is, 
And  its  seed  in  the  stripe  as  the  kiss,       125 
And    in    slaves    is    the    germ,   and   in 
kings. 

Freedom  we  call  it,  for  holier 
Name  of  the  soul's  there  is  none; 

Surelier  it  labors,  if  slowlier, 
Than  the  meters  of  star  or  of  sun;     130 

Slowlier  than  life  into  breath, 

Surelier  than  time  into  death, 
It  moves  till  its  labor  be  done. 

Till  the  motion  be  done  and  the  measure 
Circling  through  season  and  clime,     135 

Slumber  and  sorrow  and  pleasure, 
Vision  of  virtue  and  crime; 

Till  consummate  with  conquering  eyes, 

A  soul  disembodied,  it  rise 

From  the  body  transfigured  of  time.  140 

Till  it  rise  and  remain  and  take  station 
With  the  stars  of  the  worlds  that  re- 
joice; 

Till  the  voice  of  its  heart's  exultation 
Be  as  theirs  an  invariable  voice; 

By  no  discord  of  evil  estranged,  145 

By  no  pause,  by  no  breach  in  it  changed, 
By  no  clash  in  the  chord  of  its  choice. 

It  is  one  with  the  world's  generations, 

With  the  spirit,  the  star,  and  the  sod; 
With  the  kingless  and  king-stricken  na- 
tions, 150 
With  the  cross,  and  the  chain,  and  the 
rod; 
The  most  high,    the   most   secret,    most 

lonely, 
The  earth-soul  Freedom,  that  only 
Lives,  and  that  only  is  God. 


AFTER  SUNSET 

If  light  of  life  outlive  the  set  of  sun 
That  men  call  death  and  end  of  all  things, 

then 
How  should  not  that  which  life  held  best 

for  men 
And    proved    most    precious,    though    it 

seem  undone 
By  force  of  death  and  woful  victory  won,  5 
Be  first  and  surest  of  revival,  when 
Death  shall  bow  down  to  life  arisen  again? 


So  shall  the  soul  seen  be  the  self-same 

one 
That  looked  and  spake  with  even  such 

lips  and  eyes 
As  love  shall  doubt  not  then  to  recognize, 
And  all  bright  thoughts  and  smiles  of  all 

time  past  n 

Revive,   transfigured,   but  in   spirit   and 

sense 
None  other  than  we  knew,  for  evidence 
That  love's  last  mortal  word  was  not  his 

last. 


ON    THE     DEATHS     OF     THOMAS 
CARLYLE  AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight 
Pass,  followed  one  with  love  and  each  with 

wonder: 
The  stormy  sophist  with  his  mouth  of 

thunder, 
Clothed  with  loud  words  and  mantled  in 

the  might 
Of  darkness  and  magnificence  of  night;  5 
And  one  whose  eye  could  smite  the  night 

in  sunder, 
Searching  if  light  or  no  light  were  there- 
under, 
And  found  in  love  of  loving-kindness  light. 
Duty  divine  and  Thought  with  eyes  of 

fire 
Still   following   Righteousness  with  deep 

desire  10 

Shone  sole  and  stern  before  her  and  above, 
Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by;  but  more 

sweet 
Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamp  for  earthly 

feet, — 
The  light  of  little  children,  and  their  love. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

Crowned,  girdled,  garbed,  and  shod  with 

light  and  fire, 
Son  first-born  of  the  morning,  sovereign 

star! 
Soul  nearest  ours  of  all,  that  wert  most 

far, 
Most  far  off  in  the  abysm  of  time,  thy 

lyre 
Hung  highest  above  the  dawn-enkindled 

quire  5 


79° 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Where  all  ye  sang  together,  all  that  are, 
And  all  the  starry  songs  behind  thy  car 
Rang  sequence,  all  our  souls  acclaim  thee 

sire. 
"If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held 
Had    fed    the    feeling    of    their   masters' 

thoughts,"  10 

And  as  with  rush  of  hurtling  chariots 
The  flight  of  all  their  spirits  were  impelled 
Toward  one  great  end,  thy  glory — nay,  not 

then, 
Not  yet  might 'st  thou  be  praised  enough  of 

men. 

BEN  JONSON 

Broad-based,    broad-fronted,    bounteous, 

multiform, 
With  many  a  valley  impleached  with  ivy 

and  vine, 
Wherein  the   springs  of  all   the  streams 

run  wine, 
And  many  a  crag  full-faced  against  the 

storm, 
The    mountain    where    thy    Muse's    feet 

made  warm  5 

Those  lawns  that  revelled  with  her  dance 

divine 
Shines  yet   with  fire  as  it  was  wont  to 

shine 
From   tossing   torches  round   the   dance 

a-swarm. 
Nor  less,  high-stationed  on  the  gray  grave 

heights, 
High- though  ted  seers  with  heaven's  heart- 
kindling  lights  10 
Hold  converse:  and  the  herd  of  meaner 

things 
Knows  or  by  fiery  scourge  or  fiery  shaft 
When  wrath  on  thy  broad  brows  has  risen, 

and  laughed 
Darkening  thy  soul  with  shadow  of  thun- 
derous wings. 

GEORGE  MEREDITH  (1828-1909) 

LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY 

Under  yonder   beech-tree   single   on   the 
greensward, 
Couched    with    her    arms    behind    her 
golden  head, 


Lies   my   young   love   sleeping   in    the 

shade. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  slide  an  arm  beneath 

her,  p  s 

Press  her  parting  lips  as  her  waist  I 

gather  slow, 
Waking  in  amazement  she  could  not  but 

embrace  me: 
Then  would  she  hold  me  and  never  let 

me  go? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the 
swallow, 
Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's 
light,  io 

Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirrored 
winglets, 
Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her 
flight. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the 
pine-tops, 
Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set 
of  sun, 
She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and 
conquer;  15 

Hard,  but  oh,  the  glory  of  the  winning 
were  she  won! 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the 
laughing  mirror, 
Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 
Often   she   thinks,   were  this  wild   thing 
wedded, 
More  love  should  I  have,  and  much  less 
care.  20 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the 
lighted  mirror, 
Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her 
curls, 
Often  she   thinks,   were   this  wild   thing 
wedded, 
I  should  miss  but  one  for  many  boys  and 
girls. 

Heartless  she  is  as  the  shadow  in  the 
meadows  25 

Flying  to  the  hills  on  a  blue  and  breezy 
noon. 
No,  she  is  athirst  and  drinking  up  her 
wonder; 
Eafth  to  her  is  young  as  the  slip  of  the 
new  moon. 


Knees   and    tresses    folded    to   slip    and  \  Deals  she  an  unkindness,  'tis  but  her  rapid 
ripple  idly,  measure, 


MEREDITH 


791 


Even  as  in  a  dance;  and  her  smile  can 
heal  no  less:  30 

Like  the  swinging  May-cloud  that  pelts 
the  flowers  with  hailstones 

Off  a  sunny  border,  she  was  made  to 
bruise  and  bless. 

Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl 
sweeping 
Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 
Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle-note  un- 
varied, 35 
Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown 
evejar. 
Darker  grows  the  valley,  more  and  more 
forgetting : 
So  were  it  with  me  if  forgetting  could  be 
willed. 
Tell  the  grassy  hollow  that  holds  the  bub- 
bling well-spring, 
Tell  it  to  forget  the  source  that  keeps  it 
filled.  40 

Stepping  down  the  hill  with  her  fair  com- 
panions, 
Arm  in  arm,  all  against  the  raying  West, 
Boldly  she  sings,  to  the  merry  tune  she 
marches, 
Brave  is  her  shape,  and  sweeter  un- 
possessed. 
Sweeter,  for  she  is  what  my  heart  first 
awaking  45 

Whispered  the  world  was;  morning  light 
is  she. 
Love  that  so  desires  would  fain  keep  her 
changeless; 
Fain  would  fling  the  net,  and  fain  have 
her  free. 

Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  white  star 
hovers 
Low  over  dim  fields  fresh  with  bloomy 
dew,  50 

Near  the  face  of  dawn,  that  draws  athwart 
the  darkness, 
Threading  it  with  color,  like  yewberries 
the  yew. 
Thicker  crowd  the  shades  as  the  grave 
East  deepens 
Glowing,  and  with  crimson  a  long  cloud 
swells. 
Maiden  still  the  morn  is;  and  strange  she 
is,  and  secret;  55 

Strange  her  eyes;  her  cheeks  are  cold  as 
cold  sea-shells. 


Sunrays,  leaning  on  our  southern  hills  and 
lighting 
Wild   cloud-mountains    that   drag    the 
hills  along, 
Oft  ends  the  day  of  your  shifting  brilliant 
laughter 
Chill  as  a  dull  face  frowning  on  a  song.  60 
Ay,  but  shows  the  South-west  a  ripple- 
feathered  bosom 
Blown  to  silver  while  the  clouds  are 
shaken  and  ascend, 
Scaling  the  mid-heavens  as  they  stream, 
there  comes  a  sunset 
Rich,  deep  like  love  in  beauty  without 
end. 

When  at  dawn  she  sighs,  and  like  an  in- 
fant to  the  window  65 
Turns  grave  eyes  craving  light,  released 
from  dreams, 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  white  water- 
Uly, 
Bursting  out  of  bud  in  havens  of  the 
streams. 
When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck 
to  ankle 
In  her  long  nightgown  sweet  as  boughs 
of  May,  70 
Beautiful  she  looks,  like  a  tall  garden- 
lily, 
Pure  from  the  night,  and  splendid  for 
the  day. 

Mother  of  the  dews,  dark  eye-lashed  twi- 
light, 
Low-lidded  twilight,  o'er  the  valley's 
brim, 
Rounding  on  thy  breast  sings  the  dew- 
delighted  skylark,  75 
Clear  as  though  the  dew-drops  had  their 
voice  in  him. 
Hidden  where  the  rose-flush  drinks  the 
rayless  planet, 
Fountain-full    he    pours    the    spraying 
fountain-showers. 
Let  me  hear  her  laughter,  I  would  have  her 
ever 
Cool  as  dew  in  twilight,  the  lark  above 
the  flowers.                                        80 

All  the  girls  are  out  with  their  baskets  for 
the  primrose; 
Up  lanes,  woods  through,  they  troop  in 
joyful  bands. 


792 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


My  sweet  leads:  she  knows  not  why,  but 
now  she  loiters, 
Eyes  the  bent  anemones,  and  hangs  her 
hands. 
Such  a  look  will  tell  that  the  violets  are 
peeping,  85 

Coming  the  rose;  and  unaware  a  cry 
Springs  in  her  bosom  for  odors  and  for 
color, 
Covert  and  the  nightingale;  she  knows 
not  why. 

Kerchiefed  head  and  chin  she  darts  be- 
tween her  tulips, 
Streaming  like  a  willow  gray  in  arrowy 
rain:  9° 

Some  bend  beaten  cheek  to  gravel,  and 
their  angel 
She  will  be;  she  lifts  them,  and  on  she 
speeds  again. 
Black  the  driving  raincloud  breasts  the 
iron  gateway; 
She  is  forth  to  cheer  a  neighbor  lacking 
mirth. 
So  when  sky  and  grass  met  rolling  dumb 
for  thunder  95 

Saw  I  once  a  white  dove,  sole  light  of 
earth. 

Prim  little  scholars  are  the  flowers  of  her 
garden, 
Trained  to  stand  in  rows,  and  asking 
if  they  please. 
I  might  love  them  well  but  for  loving  more 
the  wild  ones; 
O  my  wild  ones !  they  tell  me  more  than 
these.  100 

You,  my  wild  one,  you  tell  of  honied  field- 
rose, 
Violet,  blushing  eglantine  in  life;  and 
even  as  they, 
They  by  the  wayside  are  earnest  of  your 
goodness, 
You  are  of  life's  on  the  banks  that  line 
the  way. 

Peering  at  her  chamber  the  white  crowns 
the  red  rose,  105 

Jasmine  winds  the  porch  with  stars  two 
and  three. 
Parted  is  the  window;  she  sleeps;   the 
starry  jasmine 
Breathes  a  falling  breath   that   carries 
thoughts  of  me. 


Sweeter  unpossessed,  have  I  said  of  her  my 
sweetest? 
Not  while  she  sleeps:  while  she  sleeps  the 
jasmine  breathes,  no 

Luring  her  to  love;  she  sleeps;  the  starry 
jasmine 
Bears  me  to  her  pillow  under  white 
rose- wreaths. 

Yellow  with  birdfoot-trefoil  are  the  grass- 
glades; 
Yellow  with  cinquefoil  of  the  dew-gray 
leaf; 
Yellow  with  stonecrop;  the  moss-mounds 
are  yellow*  115 

Blue-necked  the  wheat  sways,  yellowing 
to  the  sheaf. 
Green-yellow,  bursts  from  the  copse  the 
laughing  yaffle, 
Sharp  as  a  sickle  is  the  edge  of  shade 
and  shine: 
Earth  in  her  heart  laughs  looking  at  the 
heavens, 
Thinking  of  the  harvest:  I  look  and 
think  of  mine.  120 

This  I  may  know:  her  dressing  and  un- 
dressing 
Such  a  change  of  light  shows  as  when 
the  skies  in  sport 

Shift  from  cloud  to  moonlight;  or  edging 
over  thunder 
Slips  a  ray  of  sun;  or   sweeping  into 
port 

White  sails   furl;  or  on   the  ocean  bor- 
ders 125 
White  sails  lean  along  the  waves  leaping 
green. 

Visions   of   her    shower  before   me,   but 
from  eyesight 

Guarded  she  would  be  like  the  sun  were 
she  seen. 

Front  door  and  back  of  the  mossed  old 
farmhouse 
Open  with  the  morn,  and  in  a  breezy 
link  130 

Freshly     sparkles     garden      to      stripe- 
shadowed  orchard, 
Green  across  a  rill  where  on  sand  the 
minnows  wink. 
Busy  in  the  grass  the  early  sun  of  summer 
Swarms,   and   the   blackbird's   mellow 
fluting  notes 


MEREDITH 


793 


Call  my  darling  up  with  round  and  roguish 
challenge:  135 

Quaintest,  richest  carol  of  all  the  sing- 
ing throats! 

Cool  was  the  woodside;  cool  as  her  white 
dairy 
Keeping  sweet  the  cream-pan;  and  there 
the  boys  from  school, 
Cricketing  below,  rushed  brown  and  red 
with  sunshine; 
O  the  dark  translucence  of  the  deep- 
eyed  cool!  140 
Spying  from  the  farm,  herself  she  fetched 
a  pitcher 
Full  of  milk,  and  tilted  for  each  in  turn 
the  beak. 
Then  a  little  fellow,  mouth  up  and  on  tip- 
toe, 
Said,  "I  will  kiss  you:"  she  laughed,  and 
leaned  her  cheek. 

Doves  of  the  fir-wood  walling  high  our 
red  roof  145 

Through   the  long  noon  coo,  crooning 
through  the  coo. 
Loose  droop  the  leaves,   and  down  the 
sleepy  roadway 
Sometimes    pipes    a    chaffinch;     loose 
droops  the  blue. 
Cows  flap  a  slow  tail  knee-deep  in  the 
river, 
Breathless,  given  up  to  sun  and  gnat  and 

fly,  _  150 

Nowhere  is  she  seen;  and  if  I  see  her  no- 
where, 
Lightning  may  come,  straight  rains  and 
tiger  sky. 

O  the  golden  sheaf,  the  rustling  treasure- 
armful  ! 
O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  inter- 
laced ! 
0  the  treasure-tresses  one  another  over  155 
Nodding!  O  the  girdle  slack  about  the 
waist ! 
Slain    are    the   poppies   that    shot    their 
random  scarlet 
Quick    amid    the    wheat-ears:    wound 
about  the  waist, 
Gathered,  see  these  brides  of  Earth  one 
blush  of  ripeness! 
O  the  nutbrown  tresses  nodding  inter- 
laced! 160 


Large  and  smoky  red  the  sun's  cold  disk 
drops, 
Clipped  by  naked  hills,  on  violet  shaded 
snow: 
Eastward  large  and  still  lights  up  a  bower 
of  moonrise, 
Whence  at  her  leisure  steps  the  moon 
aglow. 
Nightlong   on   black   print-branches   our 
beech-tree  165 

Gazes  in  this  whiteness :  nightlong  could 
I. 
Here  may  life  on  death  or  death  on  life  be 
painted. 
Let  me  clasp  her  soul  to  know  she  can- 
not die! 

Gossips  count  her  faults !  they  scour  a  nar- 
row chamber 
Where  there  is  no  window,  read  not 
heaven  or  her.  170 

"When  she  was  a  tiny,"  one  aged  woman 
quavers, 
Plucks  at  my  heart  and  leads  me  by  the 
ear. 
Faults  she  had  once  as  she  learned  to  run 
and  tumbled: 
Faults  of  feature  some  see,  beauty  not 
complete. 
Yet,    good   gossips,    beauty   that   makes 
holy  175 

Earth  and  air,  may  have  faults  from 
head  to  feet. 

Hither  she  comes;  she  comes  to  me;  she 
lingers  f 
Deepens  her  brown  eyebrows,  while  in 
new  surprise 
High  rise  the  lashes  in  wonder  of  a  stran- 
ger; 
Yet  am  I  the  light  and  living  of  her 
eyes.  180 

Something  friends  have  told  her  fills  her 
heart  to  brimming, 
Nets  her  in  her  blushes,  and  wounds  her, 
and  tames. — 
Sure  of  her  haven,  O  like  a  dove  alighting, 
Arms  up,  she  dropped;  our  souls  were  in 
our  names. 

Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  white  frost  sun- 
rise. 185 
Yellow  oats  and  brown  wheat,  barley 
pale  as  rye, 


794 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


Long  since  your  sheaves  have  yielded  to 
the  thresher, 
Felt  the  girdle  loosened,  seen  the  tresses 
fly. 
Soon  will  she  lie  like   a  blood-red  sun- 
set. 
Swift  with  the  to-morrow,  green- winged 
Spring!  190 

Sing  from  the  South-west,  bring  her  back 
the  truants, 
Nightingale  and  swallow,  song  and  dip- 
ping wing. 

Soft  new  beech-leaves,  up  to  beamy  April 
Spreading  bough  on  bough  a  primrose 
mountain,  you, 
Lucid  in  the  moon,  raise  lilies  to  the  sky- 
fields,  195 
Youngest  green  transfused  in  silver  shin- 
ing through: 
Fairer  than  the  lily,  than  the  wild  white 
cherry: 
Fair  as  in  image  my  seraph  love  ap- 
pears 
Borne  to  me  by  dreams  when  dawn  is  at 
my  eyelids; 
Fair  as  in  the  flesh  she  swims  to  me  on 
tears.                                                  200 

Could  I  find  a  place  to  be  alone  with 
heaven, 
I  would  speak  my  heart  out:  heaven  is 
my  need. 
Every  woodland  tree  is  flushing  like  the 
dogwood, 
Flashing  like  the  whitebeam,  swaying 
like  the  reed. 
Flushing   like   the   dogwood    crimson    in 
October;  205 

Streaming  like  the  flag-reed  south-west 
blown ; 
Flashing  as  in  gusts  the  sudden-lighted 
whitebeam: 
All  seem  to  know  what  is  for  heaven 
alone. 


JUGGLING  JERRY 

Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse 
grazes : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we'll  halt  a  stage. 
It's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies: 

My  next  leaf '11  be  man's  blank  page. 


Yes,  my  old  girl !  and  it's  no  use  crying:     5 
Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 

One  that  outjuggles  all's  been  spying 
Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now. 

We've  travelled  times  to  this  old  common : 

Often  we've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 
We've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman,     u 

You,  and  I,  and  the  old  gray  horse. 
Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 

Found  us  coming  to  their  call: 
Now  they'll  miss  us  at  our  stations:         15 

There's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all! 

Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  all  were  jolly! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
Easy  to  think  that  grieving's  folly, 
When     the     hand's     firm    as     driven 
stakes! 
Ay,  when  we're  strong,  and  braced,  and 
manful,  21 

Life's    a    sweet    fiddle:    but    we're    a 
batch 
Born    to    become    the    Great    Juggler's 
han'ful: 
Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch. 

Here's    where    the    lads    of    the    village 
cricket:  25 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here: 
Couldn't  I  whip  off  the  bale  from  the 
wicket? 
Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear! 
Donkey,  sheep,  geese,  and  thatched  ale- 
house— I  know  them ! 
They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and 
seem,  30 

Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them: 
Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  es- 
teem. 

Juggling's    no    sin,    for    we    must    have 
victual: 
Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no 
little;  <  35 

But,  to  increase  it,  hard  juggling's  the 
rule. 
You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession, 
Haven't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount? 
There's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Ses- 
sion, 
Juggles   more    games   than   my   sins'll 
count.  40 


MEREDITH 


795 


I've  murdered  insects  with  mock  thunder: 

Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 
I've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder: 

That's  my  business,  and  there's  my  tale. 
Fashion  and  rank  all  praised  the  profes- 
sor: 45 

Ay!  and  I've  had  my  smile  from  the 
Queen :  46 

Bravo,  Jerry!  she  meant:  God  bless  her! 

Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene? 

I've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvy 

Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true.  50 
Some  are  fine 'fellows:  some,  right  scurvy: 

Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 
But  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 

Think  more  kindly  of  the  race: 
And  it's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes 
me  55 

When  the  Great  Juggler  I  must  face. 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal: 

Honest  we've   lived   since  we've  been 
one. 
Lord!  I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle: 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun.  60 
Birds  in  a  May-bush  we  were!  right  merry! 

All  night  we  kissed,  we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry! 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he's  juggled  away. 

It's  past  parsons  to  console  us :  65 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me: 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus; 

Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree! 
Parson    and    Doctor! — don't    they    love 
rarely, 

Fighting    the    devil    in    other    men's 

fields!  70 

Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly: 

Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields! 

I,  lass,  have  lived  no  gipsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs: 
Coin  I've  stored,  and  you  won't  be  want- 
ing: 75 
You  shan't  beg  from  the  troughs  and 
tubs. 
Nobly   you've   stuck   to   me,   though   in 
his  kitchen 
Many  a  Marquis  would  hail  you  Cook! 
Palaces  you  could  have  ruled  and  grown 
rich  in, 
But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook.  80 


Hand  up  the  chirper!1  ripe  ale  winks  in 
it; 
Let's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a  stout  draught  made  me  light  as  a 
linnet. 
Cheer  up !  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May   be — for    none    see   in   that    black 
hollow —  85 

It's  just  a  place  where  we're  held  in 
pawn, 
And,  when  the  Great  Juggler  makes  as  to 
swallow, 
It's  just  the  sword-trick — I  ain't  quite 
gone. 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 
Gold-like  and  warm:  it's  the  prime  of 
May.  90 

Better  than  mortar,  brick,  and  putty, 
Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 
Lean  me  more  up  the  mound;  now  I  feel 
it: 
All    the    old    heath-smells!     Ain't    it 
strange? 
There's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  con- 
ceal it,  95 
But  He's  by  us,  juggling  the  change. 

I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 
Once — it's  long  gone — when  two  gulls 
we  beheld, 
Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 
Down  a  big  wave  that  sparkled  and 
swelled.  100 

Crack  went  a  gun :  one  fell :  the  second 
Wheeled  round  him  twice,  and  was  off 
for  new  luck: 
There  in  the  dark  her  white  wing  beck- 
oned : — 
Drop  me  a  kiss — I'm  the  bird  dead- 
struck! 


LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion,  swung  the 

fiend 
Above    the    rolling    ball    in    cloud   part 

screened, 
Where   sinners   hugged   their   specter   of 

repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those.  5 

1  "chirping,"  or  cheering,  cup. 


796 


THE  VICTORIAN  AGE 


And    now    upon    his    western    wing    he 

leaned, 
Now   his   huge   bulk    o'er   Afric's   sands 

careened, 
Now   the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic 

snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked 

his  scars 


With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the 

stars,  i! 

Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked, 

and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank 

on  rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


CHAUCER  (i34o?-i4oo) 

Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  born  probably  in  1340, 
the  son  of  a  London  vintner.  By  April,  1357,  he 
had  taken  service  at  the  court,  perhaps  as  a  page. 
In  1359  he  was  a  member  of  the  army  that  was 
fighting  the  French  in  the  Hundred  Years'  War, 
and  was  already  of  sufficient  importance  to  be 
ransomed  from  his  captors  by  the  king.  In  1370 
he  made  the  first  of  several  diplomatic  journeys  to 
the  continent,  and  in  1372  first  went  to  Italy. 
In  1374  he  was  appointed  controller  of  customs 
for  the  port  of  London,  and  in  1386  sat  in  Parlia- 
ment for  Kent.  In  1389  Richard  II  appointed 
him  clerk  of  the  king's  works,  and  in  1394  granted 
him  a  pension.  In  1399  Henry  IV  succeeded 
Richard,  and  at  the  poet's  petition  largely  in- 
creased his  pension,  and  enabled  him  to  spend  the 
last  year  of  his  life  in  comparative  affluence.  He 
died  in  1400,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

Since  the  court  in  which  Chaucer  grew  up  was 
in  many  respects  French,  it  was  inevitable  that 
when  the  young  poet  began  to  write  his  work 
should  show  strong  traces  of  foreign  literary  in- 
fluence. He  early  translated  part  or  all  of  the 
Romance  of  the  Rose,  a  famous  French  allegory, 
and  in  the  Book  of  the  Duchess  (1369),  composed 
at  the  death  of  Blanche,  wife  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
wrote  a  poem  which  is  saturated  with  French 
influence.  When  in  1372  he  first  visited  Italy,  he 
came  under  the  spell  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  and 
in  the  works  of  Dante  (d.  13  2 1 ) ,  Petrarch  (d.  1 3  74) , 
and  Boccaccio  (d.  1375),  found  much  that  was  new 
and  inspiring.  The  effect  of  Renaissance  art  and 
literature  on  Chaucer's  imagination  is  evident  in 
the  work  of  his  second,  the  so-called  Italian  period. 
Here  came  the  House  of  Fame  (?i379),  and 
Troilus  and  Cressida  (?i383),  the  latter  one  of  his 
most  important  works,  a  character-novel  in 
verse,  concerned  with  the  love  of  Troilus  and 
Diomede  for  the  Trojan  girl  Cressida.  The  poem 
is  founded  directly  on  Boccaccio,  as  is  the  Legend 
of  Good  Women  (ca.  1385).  Following  these  came 
Chaucer's  greatest  work,  the  unfinished  Canterbury 
Tales  (1385  and  after).  Here,  although  French 
and  Italian  influences  still  persist,  the  inspiration 
is  predominantly  English.  Chaucer's  busy  life  had 
brought  him  in  contact  with  men  and  women  of 
all  sorts,  and  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  he  gives  us 
the  most  brilliant  picture  ever  painted  of  four- 
teenth century  English  life.  As  the  poem  is 
Chaucer's  largest  work,  so  until  the  days  of  Spen- 
ser and  Shakespeare  it  remained  the  chief  glory  of 
English  literature. 

The  best  editions  of  Chaucer  for  general  read- 
ing are  the  Globe  (Macmillan),  and  the  Student's 
(Clarendon  Press),  although  the  serious  student 
will  have  to  consult  Skeat's  monumental  Oxford 


Edition  (Clarendon  Press).  No  adequate  life  of 
Chaucer  has  been  written.  There  is  much  of 
value  in  Lounsbury's  Studies  in  Chaucer  (Harper), 
Root's  The  Poetry  of  Chaucer  (Houghton  Mifflin), 
and  Kittredge's  Chaucer  and  His  Poetry  (Har- 
vard Univ.  Press).  Miss  Hammond's  Chaucer: 
A  Bibliographical  Manual  (Macmillan)  is  in- 
valuable to  the  serious  student.  Lowell's  essay 
in  My  Study  Windows  (Houghton  Mifflin)  is  sug- 
gestive and  sympathetic,  although  slightly  in- 
accurate as  to  details. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH  POPULAR 
BALLADS 

The  great  edition  of  the  ballads  is  that  of 
Francis  James  Child,  in  five  volumes  (Houghton 
Mifflin).  This  gives  every  text  of  every  ballad 
that  Child  and  his  many  assistants  were  able  to 
discover,  and  is  the  starting  point  for  all  serious 
study  of  English  balladry.  A  condensation  of 
this  edition  in  one  volume  (Cambridge  edition, 
Houghton  Mifflin),  contains  representative  texts 
of  practically  all  the  ballads  in  the  larger  work, 
and  is  prefaced  by  Kittredge's  valuable  essay. 
Gummere's  Old  English  Ballads  (Ginn  and  Co.) 
is  an  inexpensive  collection  with  valuable  notes. 
The  same  author's  The  Popular  Ballad  (Houghton 
Mifflin)  discusses  the  problems  of  ballad  origins 
and  related  questions. 


SPENSER  (1552-1599) 

Up  to  the  age  of  Elizabeth  England  had  pro- 
duced but  one  great  poet — Chaucer.  Edmund 
Spenser  was  the  second.  He  was  born  in  London 
and  received  his  early  education  in  the  famous 
school  of  the  Merchant  Tailors,  to  whose  guild 
his  father  probably  belonged.  The  family  purse 
must  have  been  lean,  for  the  boy  obtained  help 
from  a  charitable  foundation.  At  Cambridge 
University,  too,  he  was  entered  in  1569  as  a  sizar, 
or  needy  student,  who  rendered  certain  services 
in  return  for  food  and  tuition.  At  Cambridge 
Spenser  formed  the  chief  of  his  friendships,  with 
Gabriel  Harvey,  who  had  some  influence  upon 
Spenser's  poetical  theory,  and  figures  as  one  of 
the  characters  of  The  Shepherd's  Calendar.  After 
taking  his  master's  degree  in  1576  Spenser  lived 
for  a  time  with  relatives  in  Lancashire,  and  later 
held  two  secretarial  positions.  By  1579  he  had 
entered  the  service  of  the  great  Earl  of  Leicester, 
and  in  that  year  published  The  Shepherd's  Calen- 
dar, a  series  of  pastoral  eclogues,  one  for  each  of 
the  twelve  months.  In  1580  he  became  secretary 
to  Lord  Grey  of  Wilton,  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland, 
and  spent  the  remainder  of  his  life,  apart  from 
two  visits  to  London,  in  Ireland.  For  some  years 
he  held  office  in  Dublin,  as  a  clerk  of  the  Court  of 


797 


793 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


Chancery,  but  resigned  in  158S  to  become  clerk 
of  the  Council  of  Minister;  he  had  previously 
bought  the  estate  of  Kilcolman,  in  the  county  of 
Munster,  where  he  took  up  his  residence.  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  was  then  living  some  thirty  miles 
away.  While  on  a  visit  to  Kilcolman  in  1589 
he  saw  the  manuscript  of  the  first  three  books 
of  The  Faerie  Queene.  Enthusiastic  about  their 
merits,  he  took  the  poet  with  him  to  London, 
where  the  three  books  were  published  in  1590. 
The  work  confirmed  the  reputation  earned  by 
The  Shepherd's  Calendar,  and  won  for  Spenser 
the  patronage  of  the  Queen  and  many  people  of 
high  rank.  Its  favorable  reception  encouraged 
Spenser  to  hope  for  political  preferment  in  Eng- 
land, but  the  only  tangible  reward  was  a  pension 
of  fifty  pounds.  Disappointed  in  his  political 
ambitions,  he  returned  to  Ireland  early  in  1591. 
In  1504  he  married  an  Irish  lady,  Elizabeth 
Boyle;  a  poetical  record  of  his  courtship  may  be 
found  in  the  Amoretti  and  the  Epithalamion,  pub- 
lished together  in  1595.  The  following  year  saw 
him  again  in  London,  superintending  the  print- 
ing of  the  second  three  books  of  The  Faerie  Qiiccne, 
and  once  more  seeking  advancement — in  vain. 
In  159s  a  rebellion  broke  out  in  Munster.  Kil- 
colman Castle  was  sacked  and  burned,  and  Spen- 
ser, with  his  wife  and  four  children,  fled  to  Cork. 
Erom  there  he  was  sent  with  despatches  to  London, 
where  he  died  Jan.  16,  1599.  He  was  buried  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  near  Chaucer. 

The  record  of  Spenser's  life  is  one  of  unsatisfied 
ambition.  Although  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  of 
Sidney  and  Raleigh  and  the  favor  of  the  Queen, 
he  was,  like  Swift,  compelled  to  live  most  of  his 
life  in  a  country  he  detested,  balked  of  the  honors 
he  hoped  for.  As  a  poet,  however,  he  won  im- 
mediate recognition,  and  on  the  appearance  of 
The  Faerie  Queene  was  at  once  acclaimed  as  heir 
to  the  mantle  of  Chaucer.  Spenser  is  the  most 
truly  representative  of  Elizabethan  poets,  be- 
cause his  work,  especially  The  Faerie  Queene, 
shows  to  perfection  the  blending  of  the  spirit  of 
the  Renaissance  with  that  of  the  Reformation. 
It  is  of  the  Renaissance  in  its  sensuous  beauty, 
its  intimate  connection  with  the  literatures  of 
Greece,  Rome,  and  Italy,  and  the  depth  and  sweep 
of  its  imagination;  its  profound  moral  earnest- 
ness it  owes  to  the  Reformation. 

Much  the  best  single  volume  edition  of  Spenser 
is  that  by  R.  E.  X.  Dodge  in  the  Cambridge  Poets 
(Houghton  Mifflin).  There  are  fine  critical  essays 
by  Lowell  (in  Among  My  Books)  and  by  Edward 
Dowden  (in  Transcripts  and  Studies). 


ELIZABETHAN  SONNETS 

The  sonnet,  like  several  other  artificial  forms 
of  the  lyric,  owes  its  existence  to  Provencal  poets, 
whose  work  furnished  models  for  the  Italian 
lyrists  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  was  Petrarch 
(1304-1374),  however,  who  perfected  its  form, 
established  its  amorous  tone,  and  gave  vogue  to 
the  "conceited"  style  distinctive  of  its  early  his- 
tory. From  Italy  the  spreading  of  the  Renais- 
sance influence  brought  the  sonnet  to  France  and 
later   to    England.      Wyatt,    who   introduced   it 


into  English  poetry,  and  Surrey,  who  gave  it  its 
characteristic  Elizabethan  form  of  three  alternat- 
ing quatrains  followed  by  a  couplet,  were  both 
avowed  Petrarchists. 

In  the  last  decade  of  the  sixteenth  century  the 
sonnet  was  cultivated  by  English  poets  with  an 
assiduity  which  for  a  time  amounted  almost  to 
mania.  Sir  Sidney  Lee  estimates  that  the  number 
of  sonnets  printed  in  the  years  1591-1597  "far 
exceeds  two  thousand."  Both  subject-matter 
and  style  were  largely  dependent  upon  French 
and  Italian  models.  There  are,  for  instance,  a 
large  number  of  sonnets  addressed  to  friends  or 
patrons,  and  as  many  on  philosophy  and  religion. 
But  love  is  the  favorite  theme,  and  the  poet  pro- 
tests his  devotion  and  bewails  his  mistress's  cold- 
ness in  a  hundred  pretty  hyperboles  passed  from 
pen  to  pen.  Such  sonnets  were  usually  published 
in  the  form  of  a  sequence,  including  from  twenty 
to  a  hundred  or  more  sonnets,  and  frequently 
entitled  by  the  name  assigned  by  the  poet  to  the 
real  or  imaginary  mistress  of  his  affections.  Thus 
we  have  Daniel's  Delia  (1592),  Constable's  Diana 
(1592),  Lodge's  Phillis  (1593).  In  these  only  oc- 
casional sonnets  rise  to  the  first  rank  of  excellence. 

From  such  sonnet  sequences  three  stand  out 
preeminent  by  reason  of  their  superior  beauty  of 
phrasing  and  apparently  greater  sincerity  of  emo- 
tion. Sidney's  Astrophcl  and  Stella  (written  early 
in  the  eighties,  printed  1591)  purports  to  reflect 
the  love  of  Sidney  (Astrophel)  for  Penelope 
Devereux  (Stella),  who  married  Lord  Rich. 
While  Sidney  employs  all  the  familiar  tricks  of  the 
Petrarchists,  his  sonnets  are  marked  by  a  fervor 
thoroughly  in  accord  with  his  ardent  and  chival- 
rous temper.  Spenser's  Amoretti  (1595)  are  ad- 
dressed to  Elizabeth  Boyle,  who  became  his  wife. 
In  general  they  are  distinguished  by  a  greater 
sense  of  fact  and  a  deeper  seriousness  than  Sid- 
ney's. Into  the  maze  of  conjecture  raised  by 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets  (printed  1000,  though  writ- 
ten considerably  earlier)  it  would  be  profitless  to 
plunge.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  they  are  divided 
into  two  series,  one  addressed  to  a  youthful  male 
friend,  the  other  to  a  "dark  lady,"  who  has  played 
the  poet  false.  The  question  of  whether  or  not  the 
sonnets  are  biographically  true  is  not  essential  to 
an  appreciation  of  their  quality.  The  fact  re- 
mains that  "the  best,  for  depth  and  fulness  of 
thought,  for  mastery  of  poetical  phrase,  at  times 
for  the  white  heat  of  passion  and  perfection  of 
literary  finish,  rise  above  the  erotic  poetry  of  their 
own  age  as  they  serve  yet  for  the  goal  and  ulti- 
mate exemplar  of  their  kind"  (Schelling). 

Sidney  Lee's  Elizabethan  Sonnets  (2  vols.,  Con- 
stable and  Co.)  contains  most  of  the  important 
sonnet  sequences  and  a  valuable  introduction. 
Lee's  chapter  on  the  sonnet  in  vol.  iii  of  the  Cam- 
bridge History  of  English  Literature  puts  the  whole 
matter  in  brief  compass,  and  is  equipped  with  a 
useful  bibliography. 


ELIZABETHAN  LYRICS 

Samuel  Johnson's  description  of  Pembroke  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  as  "a  nest  of  singing  birds,"  may 
aptly  be  applied  to  all  England  in  the  fifty  years 


BIOGRA  PIIICA  L  A  PPENDIX 


799 


centering  at  1600.  Not  only  did  this  half-century 
produce  the  greatest  drama  the  world  has  ever 
seen,  but  it  also  gave  voice  to  an  amazing  outburst 
of  lyric  verse.  In  contrast  with  that  of  the  Ro- 
mantic period,  whose  history  is  that  of  a  few  great 
names,  Elizabethan  verse  is  the  product  of  a  very 
large  number  of  men.  Even  writers  of  the  veriest 
jog-trot  doggerel  now  and  then  caught  a  spark  of 
the  divine  fire  and  rescued  their  names  from 
oblivion  through  an  exquisitely  turned  song  or 
two.  The  Renaissance  came  to  full  flower  in  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  the  immense  enjoyment  of 
life,  the  youthful  buoyancy,  the  delight  in  sensuous 
beauty,  and  the  sheer  pleasure  of  artistic  workman- 
ship characteristic  of  the  Renaissance  spirit,  all 
find  perfect  expression  in  these  lyrics.  Here  is 
found  too  the  influence  of  the  classical  learning 
and  of  Italian  and  French  models,  but  the  ma- 
terial has  been  assimilated  and  made  thoroughly 
and  unmistakably  English.  The  fondness  for  the 
use  of  "conceit,"  elaborately  wrought  metaphor 
or  simile,  frequently  characterized  by  ingenuity 
rather  than  appropriateness,  and  sometimes  de- 
generating into  mere  delight  in  cleverness  for  its 
own  sake,  is  apparent  in  such  a  lyric  as  Southwell's 
The  Burning  Babe,  though  here,  as  in  many  an- 
other poem,  the  intensity  of  the  imagination  and 
personal  emotion  raises  to  the  plane  of  high  poetry 
what  would  otherwise  be  a  rhetorical  curiosity. 

The  history  of  the  Elizabethan  lyric  starts  with 
the  publication  in  1557  of  TotleVs  Miscellany. 
Wyatt  and  Surrey  are  the  most  important  of  the 
poets  represented,  and  these  courtiers  of  Henry 
VIII  are  the  "birds  of  dawning"  whose  song 

"  Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  which  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth." 

Miscellanies  such  as  Tottel's  were  very  popular, 
the  best  of  them  being  The  Paradise  of  Dainty 
Dccices  (1576),  The,  Phoenix'  Nest  (1593),  Eng- 
land's Helicon  (1600),  and  Davison's  Poetical 
Rhapsody  (1602).  After  1600  the  characteristic 
form  in  which  lyrics  were  collected  was  the  song- 
book,  where  songs  were  accompanied  by  their 
musical  settings.  John  Dowland  s  First  Book  of 
Songs  or  Airs  (1597,  followed  by  others  in  1600 
and  1603)  and  Campion's  Book  of  Airs  (1601, 
others  1613,  161 7)  are  good  examples.  Nor  must 
the  lyrics  scattered  through  the  drama  be  for- 
gotten: "Back  and  side,  go  bare,  go  bare"  is  an 
early  example.  Lyly  emphasized  the  fashion  of 
enlivening  plays  with  musical  moments,  and 
Shakespeare,  Jonson,  and  Fletcher  merely  did  su- 
premely well  what  practically  all  their  contem- 
poraries were  doing. 

Two  men  may  be  singled  out  for  special  men- 
tion. Thomas  Campion  (i567?-i62o),  a  Cam- 
bridge graduate,  was  a  lawyer  by  training,  a 
doctor  by  profession,  and  a  poet  by  instinct.  One 
of  the  few  men  who  have  composed  both  words 
and  music,  he  is  also  unrivalled,  save  by  Ben  Jon- 
son, for  skillful  use  of  classical  suggestions.  His 
work  is  notable  for  its  good  taste,  its  limpid 
diction  and  freedom  from  affectation,  and  for  an 
exquisitely  light  gracefulness  of  touch. 

John  Donne  (b.  1573),  after  a  youth  checkered 
by  adventure,   changes  of  occupation,  and  dire 


poverty,  at  last  took  holy  orders  in  1615,  and  rose 
rapidly  in  the  church.  He  soon  became  the  most 
famous  preacher  in  London,  with  an  extraordinary 
reputation  for  piety  and  fervor,  was  made  Dean 
of  St.  Paul's  in  1621,  and  only  his  death  in  1631 
kept  him  out  of  a  bishopric.  It  has  been  custom- 
ary to  class  Donne  with  the  Jacobean,  or  even 
with  Caroline  poets.  This  is  surely  uncritical, 
since  practically  all  his  love  poetry  was  written  by 
1600.  Donne  is  one  of  the  most  strikingly  original 
and  independent  poets  in  the  language.  In  con- 
trast with  other  lyrists  of  the  time  he  follows  no 
fashions,  uses  no  models,  borrows  no  material. 
The  "strangely  intellectual"  fire  of  Donne's  verse, 
its  combination  of  pulsating  passion  and  keen 
intellectual  power,  also  sets  it  apart.  Donne's 
extravagance  of  conceit,  wherein  he  outdoes  the 
Petrarchists,  led  Dr.  Johnson  to  entitle  him  (how- 
ever wrongly)  the  founder  of  the  "metaphysical 
school"  of  poetry.  Finally,  his  verse,  always 
masculine  in  vigor,  and  sometimes  rough  to  the 
point  of  uncouthness,  is  capable  of  the  most  subtle 
harmony,  and  at  its  best,  as  in  "Sweetest  love, 
I  do  not  go,"  is  as  melodious  as  that  of  the  smooth- 
est of  the  Cavalier  poets. 

A  fine  anthology  is  Arthur  Symons's  A  Pageant 
of  Elizabethan  Poetry  (Blackie);  A.  H.  Bullen's 
Lyrics  from  the  Song-Books  of  the  Elizabethan  Age 
and  Lyrics  from  the  Dramatists  of  the  Elizabethan 
Age  are  delightful  collections.  F.  E.  Schelling's 
A  Book  of  Elizabethan  Lyrics  (Ginn)  has  a  valuable 
introduction,  a  good  brief  selection,  and  useful 
notes.  A  helpful  book  of  general  criticism  is 
Schelling's  The  English  Lyric  (Houghton  Mif- 
flin). 

LYLY  (i554?-i6oo) 

The  first  of  a  group  of  clever  young  college  men 
who,  in  the  decade  1580-90,  did  much  to  put 
English  drama  on  its  feet  and  to  pave  the  way  for 
Shakespeare,  John  Lyly  took  a  bachelor's  degree 
at  Oxford  in  1573,  a  master's  in  1575.  He  first 
sought  public  favor  in  1579  with  a  didactic  ro- 
mance, Euphues:  the  Anatomy  of  Wit,  the  success 
of  which  led  to  a  sequel,  Euphues  and  his  England, 
in  1581.  The  same  year  saw  the  production  of 
Lyly's  first  comedy,  Alexander  and  Campaspe. 
During  the  next  ten  or  twelve  years  Lyly  produced 
several  other  comedies,  influenced  by  classical 
models,  of  a  light  and  fantastic  nature,  well 
adapted  for  court  presentation.  He  held  a  minor 
position  at  court,  but  his  efforts  to  obtain  the 
important  post  of  Master  of  the  Revels  were  in 
vain.  He  was  a  member  of  four  Parliaments 
between  1589  and  1601. 

Lyly  gave  vogue  to  the  prose  style  called  from 
the  title  of  his  first  book,  Euphuism.  It  is  a 
thoroughly  artificial  style,  employing  a  balanced 
sentence  structure,  wherein  antithesis  is  empha- 
sized by  alliteration,  and  a  free  use  of  ornament, 
largely  in  the  way  of  classical  allusion  and  of 
illustration  drawn  from  pseudo-scientific  sources. 
Euphuism  for  a  time  furnished  the  model  for 
polite  conversation,  and  though  its  affectations 
were  soon  abandoned  it  did  a  useful  service  to 
English  prose  by  aiding  the  development  of  a 
firmer  and  neater  sentence  structure. 


Soo 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


SIDNEY  (1554-1586) 

The  story  is  well  known  of  how  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney, as  he  lay  dying  on  the  battlefield  of  Zutphen, 
refused  the  water  that  was  put  to  his  lips,  and 
had  it  given  to  a  wounded  soldier,  saying,  "Thy 
necessity  is  yet  greater  than  mine."  The  deed 
was  thoroughly  typical  of  the  chivalrous  nobility 
of  Sidney's  life.  Born  of  one  of  the  best  families 
of  England,  educated  at  Shrewsbury  and  Oxford, 
he  rounded  off  his  formal  education  by  travel  on 
the  continent,  and  returned  to  England  in  1575 
an  accomplished  courtier,  to  become  one  of  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  the  brilliant  circle  about 
the  Queen.  Not  only  a  man  of  affairs — courtier, 
soldier,  member  of  Parliament,  diplomat— but 
also  a  man  of  letters — scholar,  critic,  novelist, 
poet — Sidney  because  of  his  astonishing  versatility 
was  a  living  embodiment  of  Renaissance  culture. 
"The  courtier's,  scholar's,  soldier's  eye,  tongue, 
sword"  were  all  his.  When  to  the  list  of  his 
achievements  we  add  the  nobility  of  his  nature — 
high-spirited,  generous,  and  loyal — it  is  no  wonder 
that  he  made  a  profound  impression  on  his  time, 
and  that  his  name  is  coupled  with  that  of  Bayard, 
the  knight  "sans  peur  et  sans  reproche." 

Though  Sidney  was  greater  as  a  man  than  as 
a  writer,  his  personality  ennobles  his  work.  The 
Defense  of  Poesy,  written  about  1583,  printed 
1595,  was  a  reply  to  Stephen  Gosson's  School  of 
Abuse,  a  Puritan  attack  upon  poetry  and  the  stage. 
It  is  a  representative  piece  of  sixteenth  century 
criticism,  deriving  its  theories  from  the  classics 
and  previous  critical  treatises,  but  animated  by 
a  true  love  of  poetry,  and  written  in  a  fresh  and 
vivid  style.  Its  most  interesting  section  is  that 
in  which  Sidney  criticises  the  verse  and  drama 
of  his  own  day.  The  Arcadia,  written  about  1580, 
printed  1590,  is  a  pastoral  romance,  excessively 
loose  and  rambling  in  structure,  told  in  a  florid 
and  affected  manner  which  never  says  a  thing 
simply  if  it  can  say  it  elaborately.  In  ornateness 
of  style,  in  the  care  lavished  upon  the  idealized 
beauty  of  the  setting,  and  in  the  shadowy  por- 
trayal of  the  characters,  it  is  not  unlike  the  Faerie 
Queene.  Like  Lyly's  Euphues,  it  became  ex- 
tremely popular  and  inspired  many  imitations. 
Sidney's  best  poetic  work  was  done  in  his  sonnets 
(see  section  on  the  Sonnets). 

The  standard  life  of  Sidney  is  that  by  J.  A.  Sy- 
monds  (E.  M.  L.).  There  is  a  guarded  short  esti- 
mate of  the  man  and  his  work  in  Sidney  Lee's 
Great  Englishmen  of  the  Sixteenth  Century  (Scrib- 
ners). 

SHAKESPEARE  (1564-1616) 

William  Shakespeare  was  born  in  Stratford-on- 
Avon  in  April,  1563,  his  christening  being  recorded 
in  the  register  of  Holy  Trinity  Church  on  April  26. 
His  father,  John  Shakespeare,  was  a  prosperous 
business  man  of  some  prominence  in  the  town, 
for.  after  holding  various  minor  offices,  he  became 
in  1568  bailiff  or  mayor.  Shakespeare's  mother, 
Mary  Arden,  came  of  an  old  Warwickshire  family, 
and  brought  John  Shakespeare  some  little  property 
when  she  married  him  in  1557.    The  boy  William 


in  all  probability  attended  the  free  grammar 
school  of  Stratford,  where  he  obtained  the  "small 
Latin"  and  perhaps  the  "less  Greek"  which  Ben 
Jonson  ascribed  to  him.  But  after  the  date  of  his 
christening  the  first  certain  information  that  we 
have  of  him  comes  in  1582,  when  he  married  Anne 
Hathaway,  of  the  neighboring  village  of  Shottery. 
A  daughter  Susanna  was  born  the  following  year, 
and  twins,  Hamnet  and  Judith,  in  1585.  Family 
responsibilities,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  John 
Shakespeare  had  fallen  into  financial  straits,  ap- 
parently led  Shakespeare  to  abandon  Stratford  for 
London,  with  its  greater  possibilities  of  employ- 
ment; 1586  is  usually  given  as  the  year  in  which 
he  made  the  change,  and  tradition  has  it  that  a 
deer-stealing  escapade  hastened  the  departure. 

It  is  probable  that  Shakespeare  soon  became  con- 
nected with  one  of  the  two  theaters  then  in  exist- 
ence in  London.  At  any  rate  we  first  hear  of  him 
as  a  playwright  in  1592,  when  his  rival  Robert 
Greene  left  a  sneering  death-bed  reference.  Shake- 
speare's name  first  appeared  on  the  title-page  of  a 
book  when  Venus  and  Adonis,  an  erotic  poem  in 
the  highly  ornate  manner  then  fashionable,  was 
printed  in  1593;  Lucrece,  a  work  of  the  same  sort, 
followed  in  the  next  year.  That  he  had  in  these 
early  years  of  his  career  become  established  as 
an  actor  we  learn  from  a  partial  list  of  members  of 
the  Lord  Chamberlain's  Company  made  in  1594, 
and  we  have  records  of  his  membership  in  this 
company  as  late  as  1604.  The  income  from  his 
acting  and  his  authorship  was  so  considerable  that 
in  1597  Shakespeare  was  able  to  buy  New  Place, 
one  of  the  best  pieces  of  property  in  Stratford; 
this  was  but  the  first  of  a  series  of  real  estate 
investments  in  Stratford  and  London,  so  that 
by  the  time  of  his  death  he  owned  a  large 
amount  of  property.  He  had  furthermore  by 
1599  become  a  shareholder  in  the  Globe,  the  most 
important  of  the  London  playhouses,  and  in  1610 
in  the  Blackfriars  Theater  as  well.  When,  there- 
fore, he  was  ready  to  give  over  active  work  he  was 
tolerably  well-to-do,  as  wealth  ran  in  those  days; 
this  worldly  prosperity  is  as  good  proof  as  is  needed 
of  Shakespeare's  success  in  his  twin  professions 
of  actor  and  playwright.  It  seems  to  have  been 
about  161 1  that  he  retired  to  Stratford  to  pass 
the  remainder  of  his  life  as  a  country  gentleman. 
There  he  died  April  23  (O.  S.),  1616.  His  only 
son  Hamnet  had  died  at  the  age  of  eleven.  His 
two  daughters  had  both  married,  and  survived 
their  father,  but  Shakespeare's  line  died  out  in  the 
third  generation  with  the  death  of  his  only  grand- 
daughter in  1670. 

On  the  basis  of  the  different  kinds  of  work  that 
Shakespeare  did  at  various  times  in  his  career  as 
playwright,  it  is  customary  to  make  a  classifica- 
tion of  his  plays  by  periods,  as  follows.  (Dates 
are,  of  course,  approximate.) 
I.  Apprenticeship.  1 590-1 595. 
Here  the  young  playwright  was  learning  his 
profession,  either  collaborating  with  older  and 
more  experienced  men,  as  in  Henry  VI,  or  writing 
plays  modelled  on  the  work  of  the  best  masters 
of  the  time.  The  method  of  chronicle  history  he 
learned  from  Marlowe,  whose  influence  is  plainly 
seen  in  Richard  III  and  Richard  II.    Titus  An- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


80 1 


dronicus  is  a  crude  attempt  at  the  tragedy  of 
blood,  popularized  by  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy. 
Love's  Labors  Lost  is  an  obvious  imitation  of  the 
type  of  comedy  written  in  the  eighties  by  John 
Lyly,  while  The  Comedy  of  Errors  is  dependent 
upon  two  plays  of  Plautus. 

II.  Best  Chronicle  History  and  High  Comedy. 
1596-1601. 

Here  Shakespeare  brings  the  writing  of  chronicle 
history  to  its  highest  perfection  in  the  two  parts 
of  Henry  IV  and  in  Henry  V.  In  addition  to  the 
merry  farce  comedies  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 
and  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  he  writes  the 
three  great  comedies  As  You  Like  It,  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,  and  Twelfth  Night. 

III.  Tragedy  and  Ironic  Comedy.     1602-1609. 
For  whatever  reason,  a  change  seems  to  have 

come  over  the  spirit  of  Shakespeare's  work  about 
1 60 1,  and  in  the  years  following  we  get  the  series 
of  great  tragedies  dealing  with  profoundly  serious 
problems:  Hamlet,  Othello,  King  Lear,  Macbeth, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra;  in  these  a  surpassingly 
beautiful  style  accompanies  complex  action  and 
subtle  characterization.  Tragic  in  all  but  a  tech- 
nical sense  are  the  three  plays  well  called  ironic 
comedies:  Troilus  and  Cressida,  All's  Well  That 
Ends  Well,  and  Measure  for  Measure,  where  the 
sordid  subject-matter  and  sardonic  spirit  baffle 
interpretation.  In  this  period  too  (1609),  though 
written  earlier,  were  printed  the  Sonnets,  whose 
story  of  friendship  disappointed  and  love  dis- 
illusioned has  been  thought  by  some  students  to 
furnish  the  clew  to  the  motive  animating  the  work 
of  these  years. 

IV.  Tragicomedy,  or  Romance.    1610-1612. 

In  this  period  Shakespeare  enables  happiness  to 
triumph  over  tragic  circumstance  after  a  series 
of  improbable  and  surprising  events.  He  seems 
to  be  trying  experiments  in  technique,  as  in  The 
Winter's  Tale,  with  its  break  between  acts  three 
and  four,  or  in  characterization,  as  in  The  Tempest, 
with  brutish  Caliban  and  etherial  Ariel. 

The  best  single  volume  edition  of  Shakespeare  is 
the  Cambridge,  edited  by  W.  A.  Neilson  (Hough- 
ton Mifflin).  No  serious  student  can  afford  to 
ignore  the  Variorum,  edited  by  H.  H.  Furness 
and  H.  H.  Furness,  jr.  A  good  library  edition, 
a  play  to  a  volume,  is  the  Tudor  (Macmillan). 
The  standard  biography  is  that  by  Sidney  Lee 
(revised  edition  1909,  Macmillan).  The  best 
general  handbook,  containing  information  on 
biography,  chronology  of  the  plays,  history  of  the 
text,  and  accounts  of  the  London  and  the  theaters 
of  Shakespeare's  time,  is  The  Facts  about  Shake- 
speare by  Neilson  and  Thorndike  (Macmillan). 


RALEIGH  (1552-1618) 
Raleigh's  name  is  always  coupled  with  Sidney's 
when  the  brilliance  and  versatility  of  Elizabeth's 
courtiers  are  mentioned.  Born  in  Devon,  home 
of  sea-dogs,  he  came  naturally  by  his  adventurous 
disposition,  and,  his  Oxford  course  over,  he  en- 
gaged in  many  a  daring  exploit  on  land  and  sea, 
including  the  fight  with  the  Armada  and  the 
Cadiz  voyage  of  1596.  His  attempts  in  the  eighties 
to  colonize  the  region  named  by  him  Virginia  were 


failures.  The  royal  favor  shown  him  by  Elizabeth 
gave  him  no  standing  with  James,  who  threw  him 
into  the  Tower  on  a  charge  of  treason,  and  kept 
him  there  thirteen  years.  Released  in  1616  to 
command  an  expedition  to  Guiana  in  search  of 
El  Dorado,  he  returned  in  failure  and  disgrace 
to  be  rearrested  and  beheaded. 

Raleigh's  earlier  prose  belongs  to  the  literature 
of  exploration  and  adventure:  here  fall  the  stirring 
Last  Fight  of  the  Revenge,  and  a  highly  interesting 
account  of  his  first  trip  to  the  Orinoco,  The  Dis- 
covery of  Guiana  (1596).  The  unfinished  History 
of  the  World  was  the  work  of  the  years  in  prison ; 
it  displays  enormous  learning  and  philosophical 
insight,  but  is  chiefly  notable  for  its  bits  of  terse 
and  vivid  characterization  and  occasional  com- 
ments on  the  history  of  Raleigh's  own  time.  The 
verse  which  can  with  certainty  be  assigned  to 
Raleigh  is  small  in  body,  seems  intimately  con- 
nected with  his  personal  history,  and  reflects  his 
proud  and  passionate  temper. 

A  good  short  estimate  of  Raleigh  is  that  in  Sid- 
ney Lee's  Great  Englishmen  of  the  Sixteenth  Cen- 
tury. 

SIR  THOMAS  NORTH  (i535?-i6oi?) 

Of  North's  life  little  is  known,  and  that  is  of  no 
importance  for  his  work.  This  consists  of  trans- 
lation, for  North  was  one  of  that  band  of  English- 
men of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries 
who  took  upon  themselves  the  useful  mission  of 
making  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome,  of  Italy 
and  France  and  Spain,  accessible  to  their  country- 
men in  their  own  language.  Their  success  may 
be  judged  by  the  fact  that  many  of  the  so-called 
Tudor  translations  have  become  established  as 
English  classics.  Thus  North  turned  a  French 
translation  of  the  Libro  Aureo  by  the  Spaniard 
Antonio  Guevara  into  English  as  The  Dial  of 
Princes  in  1557,  a  book  which  had  some  influence 
on  Lyly  and  Euphuism.  Then  he  took  from  the 
Italian  a  collection  of  fables,  calling  it  The  Moral 
Philosophy  of  Doni  (1570).  But  the  work  which 
has  kept  North's  name  alive  is  his  translation  of 
Plutarch's  Lives,  printed  in  1579.  Not  that  North 
knew  Plutarch  in  the  original;  he  only  translated 
the  French  version  of  Jacques  Amyot.  The  Lives 
of  the  Noble  Grecians  and  Rornans  can  lay  no  claim 
to  being  a  scholarly  rendering  of  Plutarch's  grave 
and  lucid  Greek.  But  it  is  a  fine  specimen  of 
early  Elizabethan  prose,  full  of  vigor  and  color, 
and  free  from  the  affectation  which  mars  the  prose 
of  the  generation  immediately  following  it.  De- 
spite the  looseness  of  its  sentence  structure  it  is 
the  best  prose  written  up  to  its  time.  Shakespeare 
made  it  the  basis  of  Julius  Ccesar,  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  and  Coriolanus,  and  had  recourse  to  it 
in  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  and  Timon  of  Athens; 
the  closeness  with  which  Shakespeare  frequently 
follows  his  source  is  the  best  proof  of  its  quality. 


BACON  (1561-1626) 

Francis  Bacon,  Baron  Verulam  and  Viscount 
St.  Albans,  was  born  22  January,  1561,  in  London. 
He  was  the  son  of  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  Lord  Keeper 


802 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


of  the  Great  Seal,  and  nephew  of  Lord  Burleigh, 
Elizabeth's  great  Prime  Minister.  The  opportu- 
nity was  thus  open  for  him  to  follow  a  public 
career;  and  though  under  Elizabeth  his  progress 
was  slow,  under  James  I  he  rose  through  one  legal 
office  after  another  until  in  1617  he  became  Lord 
Keeper,  and  in  1619  Lord  High  Chancellor.  In 
162 1,  when  accused  of  taking  bribes,  and  im- 
peached, he  pleaded  guilty  and  threw  himself 
upon  the  mercy  of  the  House  of  Lords,  although 
maintaining  to  the  last  that  he  never  "had  bribe 
or  reward  in  his  eye  or  thought  when  he  pro- 
nounced any  sentence  or  order."  The  heavy  sen- 
tence pronounced  by  the  Lords  was  in  large  part 
remitted  by  the  King,  but  Bacon  never  again  sat 
in  Parliament.  He  died  in  1626,  having  spent  the 
last  five  years  of  his  life  studying  and  writing. 

With  characteristic  Elizabethan  versatility 
Bacon  combined  in  one  person  the  statesman, 
philosophical  scientist,  and  man  of  letters.  As  a 
philosopher  he  did  much  to  establish  and  popular- 
ize inductive  reasoning,  the  basis  of  all  modern 
scientific  progress.  As  a  man  of  letters  he  is  sig- 
nificant for  both  Latin  and  English  work.  Believ- 
ing Latin  to  be  the  permanent  language  of  scholar- 
ship, he  wrote  comparatively  little  in  English. 
The  Advancement  of  Learning  (1605)  was  intended 
to  be  a  summary  of  existing  knowledge  and  an 
introduction  to  his  projected  but  unfinished  In- 
stauratio  Magna.  But  it  is  chiefly  as  the  author 
of  the  Essays  that  Bacon  is  remembered  by  stu- 
dents of  English  literature.  Published  first  in 
1597,  again  in  larger  number  in  1612,  and  finally, 
fifty-eight  in  all,  in  1625,  the  Essays  show  Bacon 
to  be  the  master  of  terse,  concise  English,  and  a 
thinker  whose  ideas  are  always  stimulating. 

Editions  of  the  Essays  are  numerous  and  ac- 
cessible. Good  brief  biographies  are  Church's 
(E.  M.  L.),  and  Abbott's  Francis  Bacon,  an 
Account  of  his  Life  and  Works  (Macmillan). 
Lee's  essay  in  his  Great  Englishmen  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century  (Scribners')  is  noteworthy. 


CAROLINE  SONG  WRITERS 

Between  the  lyrics  of  the  Jacobean  and  Caroline 
poets  and  those  of  the  Elizabethans  there  are 
certain  general  differences  in  spirit  and  manner. 
Where  the  temper  of  the  earlier  age  was  adven- 
turous and  enthusiastic  that  of  the  later  was 
intellectual  and  critical.  In  the  drama  Ben  Jon- 
son  led  a  revolt  against  romanticism  in  favor  of  a 
new  realism  based  upon  classical  dicta  and  involv- 
ing more  of  an  insistence  on  form.  So  in  the  lyric 
his  influence  was  exerted  along  the  same  line,  and 
we  notice  an  undoubted  gain  in  art.  To  offset 
this  gain,  however,  there  took  place  a  divorce 
between  art  and  morals,  where  in  the  Elizabethan 
age  the  two  had  been  happily  wedded.  The  court 
had  degenerated  steadily  in  character.  Eliza- 
beth's court  was  not  only  brilliant,  it  was  morally 
sound,  and  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  the' people. 
James  I,  as  a  Scotchman,  did  not  evoke  the  na- 
tional loyalty  as  had  Elizabeth,  nor  was  his  per- 
sonality such  as  to  endear  him  to  his  subjects. 
The  gap  between  court  and  people  widened  stead- 


ily; and  while  the  people  remained  sound  at  heart, 
the  court  under  the  Stuarts  became  more  shame- 
less, until  the  steadily  growing  antagonism  took 
shape  in  the  definite  division  between  the  Cav- 
alier and  Puritan  parties. 

The  lyrics  composed  by  the  group  of  men  called 
the  Cavalier  Poets  accurately  reflect  court  condi- 
tions. Suckling,  Lovelace,  and  Carew  were  cour- 
tiers, and  the  cynicism,  the  nonchalance,  and  the 
sophistication  of  their  verses  contrast  with  the 
artlessness  and  sincerity  of  the  Elizabethan  poetry. 
Occasionally,  of  course,  even  these  elegant  triflers 
have  their  serious  moments,  and  then  they  give 
us  such  perfect  things  as  To  Lucasta,  On  Going 
to  the  Wars.  But  the  mood  of  Why  so  Pale 
and  Wan,  Fond  Lover?  is  much  more  typical. 
In  the  elegance,  the  attention  to  form,  and  the 
greater  metrical  regularity  and  simplicity  of  these 
Cavalier  lyrics,  is  felt  the  influence  of  Jonson, 
whom  all  these  men  followed  as  their  master. 

The  best  of  the  Cavalier  poets,  however,  was 
no  courtier,  but  a  country  clergyman,  Robert 
Herrick  (1 591- 16  74).  He  was  born  before  the 
death  of  Marlowe  and  died  in  the  same  year  as 
Milton,  but  his  poetical  work  belongs  to  the  reign 
of  Charles  I.  After  graduating  from  Cambridge 
he  entered  the  church,  and  was  given  the  parish 
of  Dean  Prior  in  South  Devonshire;  dispossessed 
by  the  Puritans  in  1647,  he  returned  in  1662,  and 
there  died.  His  single  volume,  Hesperides  and 
Noble  Numbers,  was  printed  in  1648.  Though 
Herrick  protested  that  his  life  in  Devon,  far  from 
the  gay  world  of  London,  was  that  of  an  exile,  his 
delight  in  his  country  surroundings  is  unfeigned 
and  altogether  delightful,  and  The  Argument  of 
his  Book  gives  a  very  fair  indication  of  the  book's 
contents.  Clergyman  though  he  was,  there  was 
nothing  of  the  ascetic  in  Herrick.  His  devotional 
poetry  in  Noble  Numbers,  while  probably  sincere 
enough,  is  certainly  not  notable  for  fervor.  He 
is  really  a  hedonist,  an  Epicurean,  enjoying  the 
good  things  of  life  while  they  last,  and  the  true 
gods  of  his  devotion  are  pagan  deities — Pan  and 
Bacchus  and  Venus.  It  is  next  to  impossible  to 
overpraise  Herrick  as  a  lyric  artist.  The  sim- 
plicity and  purity  of  diction,  the  freedom  from 
affectation,  the  dainty  perfection  of  form,  and 
the  exquisite  lightness  and  sureness  of  touch  of 
these  poems  make  Herrick's  book  one  of  the  most 
charming  collections  of  lyric  verse  in  the  whole 
range  of  English  poetry. 

A  spiritual  reaction  against  the  license  of  the 
times  is  seen  in  the  group  of  devotional  poets 
represented  by  Herbert,  Vaughan,  and  Crashaw. 
They  were  Church  of  England  men,  not  Puritans 
(Crashaw  was  a  Catholic),  living  retired  and  pious 
lives,  and  singing  their  hymns  of  praise  and  prayer 
with  a  sweet  fervor,  uncorrupted  by  the  world. 
The  chief  literary  influence  upon  their  verse  is 
that  of  Donne,  and  the  elaborate  ingenuity  char- 
acteristic of  their  work  caused  Dr.  Johnson  to 
dub  them  "the  metaphysical  poets,"  although  the 
fondness  for  "conceit"  which  prompted  the  ap- 
pellation was  common  enough  in  English  poetry 
before  Donne  ever  set  pen  to  paper. 

General  references  on  the  Caroline  lyric  are 
the  same  as  for  the  Elizabethan.     A  good  an- 


BI0GR.1PHICAL  APPENDIX 


803 


thology,  with  an  excellent  introduction,  is  Spel- 
ling's Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics  (Ginn).  There 
is  a  delightful  essay  on  Herrick  in  E.  Gosse's 
Seventeenth  Century  Studies  (Dodd,  Mead,  and  Co.) 


SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  (1605-1682) 

Browne  was  born  in  London,  and  after  going 
through  Winchester  and  Oxford,  studied  at  the 
most  famous  medical  schools  of  Europe, — Mont- 
pelier,  Padua,  and  Leyden, — obtaining  an  M.  D. 
at  the  last.  He  returned  to  England,  settled  in 
Norwich,  and  there  passed  the  rest  of  his  life  as 
a  practicing  physician,  apparently  quite  undis- 
turbed by  the  turmoil  of  the  Civil  War.  He  was 
knighted  in  167 1. 

Browne's  prose  is  the  leisure  product  of  a  man 
who  is  both  a  scientist  and  a  mystic.  Rcligio 
Medici  (1643,  written  some  years  earlier),  a  con- 
fession of  his  personal  beliefs,  shows  the  duality 
of  his  nature  in  its  separation  of  science  and  re- 
ligion, and  its  acceptance  of  revealed  religion  as  a 
mystery  to  be  taken  on  faith.  Herein  occurs 
Browne's  perfect  self-characterization:  "Methinks 
there  be  not  impossibilities  enough  in  religion  for 
an  active  faith.  ...  I  love  to  lose  myself  in  a 
mystery;  to  pursue  my  reason  to  an  0  Altitudo!" 
The  Vulgar  Errors  (1646),  an  examination  of  pop- 
ular superstitions,  confutes  many  by  an  applica- 
tion of  scientific  principles,  and  accepts  as  possible 
others  equally  preposterous  simply  by  failure  to 
apply  the  same  principles.  Urn-Burial  (1658)  is 
Browne's  best  known  and  most  splendid  work. 
It  may  not  be  quite  fair  to  say  of  Browne  that  the 
style  makes  the  man,  for  a  most  agreeable  per- 
sonality appears  in  his  pages.  But  certainly  it  is 
their  unique  style  rather  than  their  intellectual 
qualities  which  has  kept  Browne's  books  alive. 
His  sentences  are  involved,  and  his  vocabulary 
staggers  under  its  load  of  polysyllabic  latinisms. 
But  these  same  ponderous  vocables  confer  a 
sonorous  majesty  and  a  subtle  harmony  of  rhythm 
which  make  this  prose  as  impressive  in  its  way  as 
Milton's  verse.  Shot  through  and  through  with 
imaginative  beauty  by  a  mind  that  loved  to  linger 
over  the  inscrutability  and  brevity  of  human  life, 
these  long  periods  sweep  on  with  the  subdued 
pomp  and  somber  glory  of  a  funeral  cortege. 


FULLER  ( 1 608- 1 66 1 ) 

After  eight  years  of  study  at  Cambridge  Fuller 
entered  the  church,  and  finally  became  preacher 
at  the  Savoy  Chapel  in  London,  being  famous  for 
his  witty  and  sensible  sermons.  In  the  Civil  War 
he  was  in  active  service  as  chaplain  to  one  of  the 
Royalist  regiments.  During  the  Commonwealth 
he  supported  himself  by  his  writing,  and  by  the 
aid  of  patrons  who  secured  him  preaching  ap- 
pointments and  private  chaplaincies.  After  the 
Restoration  he  returned  to  the  Savoy,  and  was 
made  chaplain-in-extraordinary  to  Charles  II,  but 
died  shortly  after  of  typhoid  fever. 

Fuller's  chief  works  are  the  History  of  the  Holy 
War  (1639),  an  account  of  the  Crusades;  The  Holy 
Stale  and  the  Profane  State   (1642),   a  series  of 


"characters,"  each  illustrated  by  a  brief  biography 
of  an  appropriate  person  in  history;  A  Church 
History  of  Britain  (1655),  from  the  birth  of  Christ 
to  1648;  and  The  History  of  the  Worthies  of  England 
(1662),  in  which  Fuller  takes  up  the  counties  of 
England  one  by  one,  lists  for  each  its  most  notable 
products  and  curiosities,  and  gives  short  accounts 
of  its  notable  men.  Fuller's  writing  lacks  the 
eloquence  of  Browne's  or  Taylor's,  but  it  is  clear, 
straightforward,  sensible,  and  witty.  He  is  fond 
of  antithesis,  pun,  quip,  anecdote,  and  even  his 
most  serious  work  is  enlivened  by  unexpected 
sallies. 

WALTON  (1593- 1 683) 

Izaak  Walton  was  born  at  Stafford,  in  1593. 
In  1614  he  was  engaged  in  trade  in  London.  Thirty 
years  later  he  left  the  city,  and  spent  the  remain- 
ing forty  years  of  life  in  quiet  retirement,  visiting 
his  many  clerical  friends,  writing  biographies  of 
Herbert,  Hooker,  and  others,  and  always  prac- 
ticing his  art  of  angling  and  gathering  information 
for  the  book  by  which  he  is  best  known. 

Walton's  memory  lives  because  of  The  Complete 
Angler.  This  he  published  first  in  1653;  the  fifth 
edition,  which  appeared  in  1676,  contained  much 
new  material  that  Walton  had  accumulated  dur- 
ing twenty-odd  years  of  leisure.  The  book  became 
at  once  the  locus  classicus  of  information  concern- 
ing angling;  it  remains  to  this  day  the  most  de- 
lightful treatise  on  the  pleasures  of  a  sport  con- 
cerning which  much  has  been  written. 


TAYLOR  (1613-1667) 

Jeremy  Taylor  was  born  under  the  shadow  of 
Cambridge  University,  and  spent  his  youth  in  a 
little  round  of  home,  school,  and  college,  taking  his 
first  degree  at  seventeen,  a  fellowship  and  holy 
orders  at  twenty,  and  the  master's  degree  at  twenty- 
one.  Though  Milton  and  other  famous  literary 
lights  were  at  Cambridge  in  his  time,  Taylor  seems 
to  have  had  no  contact  with  them.  In  1634  he  went 
to  London  to  preach  as  a  substitute  at  St.  Paul's, 
and  made  so  striking  a  success  in  the  pulpit  lately 
vacated  by  that  great  preacher  John  Donne,  that 
he  attracted  the  attention  of  Archbishop  Laud, 
who  made  him  a  fellow  of  All-Souls,  Oxford; 
later  he  was  given  a  living  at  Uppingham,  near 
Cambridge.  The  placid  course  of  his  life  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  Civil  War,  in  which  he  followed 
the  Royalist  cause  and  was  made  one  of  the 
King's  chaplains.  He  somehow  drifted  to  South 
Wales,  taught  in  a  private  school,  and  became 
chaplain  to  the  Earl  of  Carbery,  at  whose  resi- 
dence, Golden  Grove,  he  did  his  best  literary 
work — Holy  Living  (1650),  Holy  Dying  (1651),  and 
some  fine  sermons.  Between  1654  and  1658  he 
was  three  times  imprisoned  by  the  Puritans,  then 
obtained  a  small  position  in  Ireland,  and  after  the 
Restoration  was  made  Bishop  of  one  of  the  Irish 
sees,  and  Vice-Chancellor  of  Dublin  University. 
His  last  years  were  harassed  and  embittered  by 
controversy,  and  were  productive  of  no  first-rate 
literary  work. 

Taylor  enjoyed  a  great  reputation  as  a  pulpit 


(\c>4 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


orator,  and  his  sermons  are  notable  for  fervor  and 
brilliant  rhetoric.  It  is,  however,  upon  Holy 
Living,  practical  directions  for  the  conduct  of  life, 
and  the  more  beautiful  Holy  Dying,  that  his  fame 
chiefly  rests.  In  comparison  with  that  of  his 
great  contemporaries  Browne  and  Milton,  Tay- 
lor's prose  has  a  decidedly  modern  effect,  being 
simpler  in  vocabulary  and  sentence  structure.  It 
has  not  the  sustained  grandeur  of  Browne's,  but 
is  distinguished  by  its  wealth  of  illustration — 
figure,  anecdote,  and  quotation — happily  employed, 
and  lending  a  rich  poetic  quality. 

Holy  Living  and  Holy  Dying  are  reprinted  in 
Bohn's  Library.  The  best  short  life  is  by  E.  Gosse 
(E.  M.  L.). 


MILTON  (1608-1674) 

John  Milton,  the  voice  of  Puritan  England, 
was  born  in  a  London  home  which,  Puritan  though 
it  was,  yet  did  not  have  to  banish  the  refining 
graces  of  culture  to  make  room  for  piety.  From 
its  atmosphere  of  learning  and  music  he  had  not 
far  to  go  to  reach  St.  Paul's  School;  school  days 
over,  he  went  up  to  Christ's  College,  Cambridge, 
where  his  fair  beauty  of  complexion  and  hair  and 
fineness  of  spirit  gained  for  him  the  name — surely 
implying  no  effeminacy  of  temper — of  "the  Lady 
of  Christ's."  After  seven  years  of  residence  he 
took  his  master's  degree  in  1632,  and  retired  to  his 
father's  new  home  in  Horton,  a  quiet  village  on 
the  Thames,  where  he  spent  six  years  in  study  and 
deliberate  cultivation  of  his  literary  faculty.  In 
1638  he  started  on  the  grand  tour,  but  the  news 
of  troublous  times  in  England  cut  short  his  travels; 
"I  thought  it  shame,"  he  says,  "to  be  travelling 
for  amusement  abroad  while  my  fellow  citizens 
were  fighting  for  liberty  at  home."  So  home  he 
came  to  play  a  man's  part  in  the  civil  strife  of  the 
next  twenty  years.  With  his  pen  he  fought  on 
the  Puritan  side,  and  on  the  establishment  of  the 
Commonwealth  in  1649  was  appointed  Latin 
Secretary  to  conduct  the  foreign  correspondence 
of  Cromwell's  government.  Zealous  performance 
of  his  duties  brought  him  the  reward  of  total 
blindness,  but  with  the  aid  of  an  amanuensis 
he  labored  on,  until  the  Restoration  in  1660 
drove  him  into  retirement.  In  poverty,  obscur- 
ity, and  loneliness  he  spent  the  remaining  four- 
teen years  of  life,  doubtless  reflecting  in  bitter- 
ness of  spirit  on  the  license  of  those  Restoration 
days,  but  sustained  by  the  writing  of  his  greatest 
poetry. 

Milton's  work  falls  naturally  into  three  divi- 
sions: 1,  the  minor  poems;  2,  political  prose;  3,  the 
major  poems. 

1.  While  still  at  Cambridge  Milton  had  given 
earnest  of  his  powers  by  the  beautiful  Ode  on  the 
Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity,  the  fine  sonnet  On- 
Being  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty-three,  and  the 
lines  on  Shakespeare  prefixed  to  the  1632  folio  of 
Shakespeare's  plays.  The  six  years  at  Horton 
brought  forth  the  companion  pieces  V Allegro  and 
//  Penseroso,  fresh  with  the  beauty  of  country 
scenery,  and  yet  filled  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
scholar  for  his  book<;  the  masque  Comus,  composed 
for  an   inaugural  festivity  of  1634,  wherein  this 


favorite  form  of  courtly  diversion  is  made  to  serve 
as  handmaid  to  the  expression  of  a  serious  theme, 
the  praise  of  virtue;  and  Lycidas,  flower  of  English 
elegiac  poetry.  The  first  two  of  these  so-called 
"minor"  poems  are  done  in  the  full  spirit  of  the 
Renaissance;  Comus,  with  its  moral  earnestness, 
and  Lycidas,  notably  in  the  passage  on  the  cor- 
ruption of  the  church,  show  the  Puritan  in  Mil- 
ton. 

2.  The  prose  writings  consist  mainly  of  contro- 
versial pamphlets  on  political  and  religious  mat- 
ters. They  include  pamphlets  against  episcopacy, 
four  on  divorce,  the  wise  and  liberal  Tractate  on 
Education,  and  many  arguments  in  defense  of  the 
Puritan  party,  the  best  of  them  being  Eikonoklastes 
(The  Image  Smasher,  in  reply  to  Eikon  Basilike, 
The  Royal  Image,  an  idealization  of  Charles  I) 
and  the  Latin  Defense  of  the  English  People. 
The  greatest  of  Milton's  prose  works,  however, 
is  the  Areopagitica  (1644),  a  plea  for  freedom  of 
the  press,  eloquent  and  impassioned.  Milton  said 
of  prose  that  he  had  in  it  but  the  use  of  his  left 
hand.  But  although  his  is  in  some  points  of  style 
inferior  to  Bacon's,  it  has  a  grandeur  and  loftiness 
that  were  far  beyond  Bacon;  the  tremendous  con- 
viction of  a  righteous  cause  surges  through  it,  and 
lifts  it  at  times  to  magnificent  heights  of  elo- 
quence. 

3.  The  works  of  the  last  period  are  three:  Para- 
dise Lost  (1667),  Paradise  Regained  (1671),  and 
Samson  Agonistes  (1671).  The  last  is  the  story  of 
Samson,  cast  in  the  mould  of  Greek  tragedy;  its 
austere  beauty  gains  in  impressiveness  from  the 
likeness  between  the  situation  of  Milton,  old  and 
blind  and  forlorn  in  a  hostile  age,  and  that  of  the 
Israelite  champion,  a  blind  captive  among  the 
Philistines.  Paradise  Regained  shows  the  redemp- 
tion of  mankind  through  Christ's  temptation  in 
the  wilderness;  in  interest  and  beauty  it  is  in- 
ferior to  its  predecessor.  Paradise  Lost,  "  the  life 
history  of  the  universe,"  written  to 

"assert  eternal  Providence, 
And  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men," 

is  the  great  epic  of  the  modern  world,  equalled 
only  by  Dante's  Divine  Comedy  in  loftiness  of  con- 
ception and  grandeur  of  execution.  It  would  be 
idle  to  deny  that  the  execution  is  unequal;  there 
are  dreary  wastes  of  theological  dialectic  which 
all  readers  shun.  But  these  are  spots  on  the  face 
of  the  sun.  Milton  calls  to  the  service  of  his 
celestial  muse  all  the  resources  of  his  vast  learning 
and  all  the  splendors  of  an  imagination  of  un- 
bounded sweep  and  daring,  and  the  greater  part 
of  the  epic  is  not  only  morally  sublime,  it  is 
superbly  beautiful  poetry.  In  particular,  it  is 
written  in  blank  verse  unsurpassed  for  harmony 
and  majesty,  the  perfect  example  of  what  Arnold 
calls  "the  grand  style." 

The  Life  of  Milton  by  D.  Masson  (6  vols., 
Macmillan)  is  the  standard  source  of  informa- 
tion; good  shorter  biographies  are  by  M.  Pattison 
(E.  M.  L.)  and  Walter  Raleigh  (Putnams). 
Single  volume  editions  are  by  A.  W.  Verity  (Cam- 
bridge Univ.  Press),  Masson  (Macmillan),  W.  V. 
Moody  (Houghton  Mifflin).  The  prose  is  pub- 
lished in  Bohn's  Library. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


805 


PEPYS  (1633-1703) 

Samuel  Pepj's,  who  quite  unconsciously  made 
himself  one  of  the  most  interesting  if  not  most 
significant  figures  of  English  literature,  was  born 
in  1633.  From  St.  Paul's  School,  London,  he 
went  up  in  165 1  to  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge, 
where  he  remained  three  or  four  years.  On  leaving 
the  University  he  married,  and  soon  attached 
.  himself  to  his  cousin  Sir  Edward  Montagu,  later 
the  Earl  of  Sandwich,  to  whom  he  owed  much  of 
his  subsequent  advancement.  In  1660  he  went 
with  the  expedition  that  brought  Charles  II  back 
to  England,  acting  as  secretary  to  Montagu,  the 
commander-in-chief.  The  same  year  he  was  ap- 
pointed "Clerk  of  the  Acts"  in  the  Navy  Office, 
and  began  the  keeping  of  his  diary.  Until  1688 
he  was  actively  engaged  in  governmental  affairs, 
part  of  the  time  as  member  of  Parliament,  but 
chiefly  in  the  Admiralty,  where  his  record  was 
brilliant.  Because  of  his  intimate  friendship  with 
the  Duke  of  York  he  was  at  times  attacked  by 
political  enemies;  charges  of  peculation  were 
brought  against  him,  but  none  were  proved. 
With  the  exile  of  James  II  in  1688  Pepys's  official 
career  ended.  He  was  dismissed  from  the  Ad- 
miralty in  March,  1689;  the  remaining  years  of 
his  life  he  spent  in  retirement,  and  died  in  1703. 

The  manuscript  of  the  Diary,  by  which  Pepys 
is  known  to  the  world,  was  among  the  books  he 
willed  to  Magdalene  College.  It  was  written  in 
short-hand,  for  no  eye  but  his  own,  and  was  at 
once  an  honest  record  of  fact,  and  a  complete 
revelation  of  Pepys's  character.  Attention  was 
first  drawn  to  it  by  an  article  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's 
(1826),  reviewing  a  fragmentary  edition  of  the 
year  preceding.  Since  that  time  many  editions 
have  appeared,  the  last  and  best  being  that  edited 
by  Henry  Wheatley,  and  published  by  George  Bell 
and  Sons  in  eight  volumes. 


DRYDEN  (1631-1700) 

John  Dryden  was  born  in  1631,  in  Northampton- 
shire. Educated  at  Westminster  School  and 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  he  published  in 
1658  his  Stanzas  to  the  memory  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.  At  the  time  of  the  Restoration  he 
wrote  the  most  distinguished  of  the  many  wel- 
comes to  Charles  II,  Aslraa  Redux.  In  1663 
he  began  writing  for  the  stage,  and  by  1670  had 
attained  such  eminence  that  he  was  appointed 
Poet  Laureate  and  Historiographer  Royal,  with  a 
stipend  of  two  hundred  pounds.  A  pension  of  one 
hundred  pounds  was  later  added  to  this,  and  in 
1683  he  became  Collector  of  the  Port  of  London. 
The  revolution  of  1688  deprived  him  of  all  his 
public  honors,  and  forced  him  to  spend  the  last 
twelve  years  of  his  life  writing  for  a  living.  He 
died  in  1700,  generally  acknowledged  England's 
leading  man  of  letters. 

Of  Dryden  may  be  said  what  Dr.  Johnson  said 
of  Goldsmith:  "There  is  almost  no  form  of  writing 
which  he  did  not  attempt,  and  no  form  that  he 
attempted  did  he  fail  to  adorn."  His  dramas  were 
many  and  popular;  his  religious  poems,  Religio 


Laid  (1682)  and  The  Hind  and  the  Panther 
(1687),  the  first  a  poem  in  support  of  the  Church 
of  England,  and  the  second  Dryden's  poetical 
confession  of  faith  in  Roman  Catholicism,  illus- 
trate his  command  of  the  heroic  couplet  and  his 
ability  to  reason  in  verse,  at  the  same  time  that 
they  exhibit  the  least  pleasing  phase  of  Dryden's 
character,  his  willingness  to  abandon  an  un- 
profitable for  a  profitable  cause.  For  caustic 
wit  his  greatest  satires,  Absalom  and  Achitophel 
(1681)  and  MacFlecknoe  (1682)  have  never 
been  surpassed  in  English.  At  least  two  lyrics, 
the  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day  and  Alexander's 
Feast,  witness  his  ability  to  move  easily  in  forms 
other  than  the  heroic  couplet  which  he  virtually 
established.  As  a  translator  of  Virgil,  Homer,  and 
other  classical  poets,  he  did  much  to  familiarize 
English  readers  with  the  literatures  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  In  prose  works  such  as  the  Essay  on 
Dramatic  Poesy  (1668)  and  the  Preface  to  the 
Fables  (1699)  he  showed  keen  critical  ability  and 
the  power  to  write  clear  and  readable  prose.  Dur- 
ing the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  Dryden  was  a 
frequenter  of  Will's  Coffee  House,  where  in  his 
easy  chair  he  presided  over  the  English  literary 
world  much  as  Dr.  Johnson  was  to  do  seventy-five 
years  later  in  The  Club.  Although  generally  neg- 
lected to-day,  Dryden  was  a  man  of  great  power, 
and  both  by  example  and  precept  did  much  to 
establish  the  literary  fashions  that  were  to  prevail 
in  England  until  the  time  of  Wordsworth. 

The  best  one  volume  edition  of  Dryden  is  the 
Cambridge  (Houghton  Mifflin),  although  this  does 
not  contain  the  plays.  The  Scott-Saintsbury 
(Paterson,  Edinburgh)  is  complete,  although  too 
cumbersome  for  general  use.  The  best  brief 
biography  is  Saintsbury's  (E.  M.  L.).  Lowell's  es- 
say in  Among  My  Books,  and  William  Hazlitt's 
in  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,  are  suggestive 
and  valuable. 


DEFOE  (i66o?-i73i) 

Over  Daniel  Defoe's  life  and  character  there 
hangs  a  veil  of  mystery  which  baffles  accurate  biog- 
raphy. He  was  the  son  of  a  London  butcher,  a  Dis- 
senter, and  went  for  a  few  years  to  a  Dissenters' 
school.  Then  he  dropped  out  of  sight,  to  reappear 
in  1684  as  a  London  merchant  getting  married.  By 
1688  he  was  sufficiently  interested  in  politics  to  join 
actively  in  supporting  William  of  Orange.  What- 
ever his  business,  his  affairs  were  in  so  bad  a  state 
in  1691  that  he  went  bankrupt  to  the  tune  of 
£17,000;  a  managership  of  a  tile  factory  set  him 
on  his  feet  again.  His  literary  activity  dates  ap- 
parently from  about  1697,  though  he  had  done 
some  writing  before  that;  but  it  was  in  1701,  with 
The  True-born  Englishman,  that  Defoe  made  his 
first  great  hit,  for  it  brought  not  only  popular 
but  royal  favor,  and  perhaps  secret  employment 
by  the  King.  Defoe  was  now  launched  upon  a 
career  of  pamphlet  writing  which  lasted  through- 
out the  rest  of  his  life,  and  produced  an  almost 
unbelievable  number  of  articles  on  all  sorts  of 
subjects.  The  best  known  of  these,  The  Shortest 
Way  with  the  Dissenters  (1702),  led  to  the  author's 
imprisonment  and  exhibition  in  the  pillory.    After 


So6 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


his  release  from  Newgate  he  started  The  Review, 
a  tri-weekly  political  periodical,  which  ran  1704- 
13,  of  first-rate  importance  in  the  history  of  the 
newspaper.  For  many  years  Defoe  added  to  his 
pamphleteering  and  journalistic  activities  the 
business  of  a  government  agent,  ostensibly  on 
behalf  of  the  Tory  ministry,  but  certainly  with 
bad  breaches  of  faith  to  his  employers.  As  Trent 
says:  "For  more  than  twenty  years  he  practised 
every  sort  of  subterfuge  to  preserve  his  anonymity, 
and  he  soon  grew  sufficiently  callous  to  write,  pre- 
sumably for  pay,  on  all  sides  of  any  given  subject. 
Within  the  arena  of  journalism  he  was  a  treacher- 
ous mercenary  who  fought  all  comers  with  any 
weapon  and  stratagem  he  could  command."  In 
1 7 19  Defoe  displayed  in  the  large  the  com- 
bination of  journalistic  and  narrative  skill  he  had 
shown  on  a  small  scale  as  far  back  as  1706  in  The 
Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal  by  getting  an  account  of 
the  solitary  life  of  Alexander  Selkirk  on  the  island 
of  Juan  Fernandez  and  expanding  it  into  Robinson 
Crusoe.  The  immediate  popularity  of  the  book 
Defoe  turned  to  account  by  publishing  in  the 
next  few  years  the  series  of  prose  fictions  which 
constitute  his  real  title  to  fame:  Memoirs  of  a 
Cavalier  (1720),  Captain  Singleton  (1720),  Moll 
Flanders  (1722),  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year 
(1722),  Colonel  Jack  (1722),  Roxana  (1724).  The 
last  six  years  of  his  life  were  employed  in  writing 
books  of  no  moment  and  pamphlets  on  a  great 
variety  of  matters. 

Defoe's  importance  in  the  history  of  English 
literature  comes  (1)  through  The  Review,  which 
initiated  certain  ideas,  such  as  the  editorial  and  the 
special  article,  still  employed  in  journalism,  and 
but  for  which  The  Taller  and  The  Spectator  might 
never  have  been  conceived;  (2)  through  his  fictions, 
which  are  perhaps  not  novels  in  the  modern  sense  of 
the  word,  since  plot  and  characterization  are  only 
rudimentary,  but  which  by  their  verisimilitude,  ef- 
fectiveness of  single  situations,  and  general  popu- 
larity, paved  the  way  for  the  work  of  Richardson 
and  Fielding.  At  all  events  Defoe's  "genius  for 
lying  like  the  truth"  has  rarely  been  equalled  in 
English  fiction. 

Defoe's  chief  works  are  reprinted  in  the  Bohn 
Library;  there  is  a  good  edition  of  the  novels, 
with  introduction  by  G.  A.  Aitken  (Dent  &  Co.). 
The  most  up-to-date  biography  is  the  brief  chap- 
ter in  the  Cambridge  History  of  English  Litera- 
ture (vol.  ix)  by  W.  P.  Trent. 

SWIFT  (1667-1745) 

Jonathan  Swift's  involuntary  and  reluctant  con- 
nection with  Ireland,  which  he  always  resented  as 
a  trick  of  adverse  fate,  began  with  his  birth  there, 
though  his  parents  were  English.  His  father  died 
before  he  was  born,  leaving  his  mother  poor,  and  it 
was  only  through  the  assistance  of  relatives  that 
Swift  was  able  to  go  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin. 
There  he  made  no  brilliant  record,  obtaining  his  de- 
gree only  by  special  favor.  In  1689  place  was  made 
for  him  in  the  household  of  Sir  William  Temple,  a 
well  known  figure  in  English  politics  and  letters; 
though  his  secretarial  duties  were  light,  and  though 
Temple  seems  to  have  treated  the  young  man  with 


consideration,  Swift's  proud  temper  made  him 
intolerant  of  patronage,  and  to  secure  independ- 
ence he  entered  the  church.  During  the  years  of 
residence  with  Temple  at  Moor  Park,  Swift  wrote 
his  first  satires,  The  Battle  of  the  Books,  a  jeti 
d 'esprit  on  a  squabble  over  the  comparative  merits 
of  ancient  and  modern  literature,  and  The  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  a  powerful  attack  on  the  Catholics  and  Dis- 
senters in  particular,  and,  in  general,  on  the  folly 
of  creed  insistence  on  non-essentials.  At  Moor 
Park,  too,  Swift  met  and  came  to  love  Esther 
Johnson,  a  ward  of  Temple's,  some  years  younger 
than  Swift,  but  his  greatest  friend  through  life. 

On  Temple's  death  in  1699  Swift  was  given  a 
living  at  Laracor,  near  Dublin.  The  publication 
j  of  the  two  early  satires  in  1704  made  his  reputa- 
1  tion,  and  he  continued  to  use  his  pen  in  political 
j  and  religious  controversy.  At  first  a  Whig,  he 
I  joined  the  Tories  in  17 10,  and  for  several  years 
I  was  a  dominant  figure  in  public  life.  Of  the  writ- 
|  ings  of  these  years  The  Conduct  of  the  Allies  (17 n), 
a  pamphlet  written  in  opposition  to  Whig  support 
of  the  war  with  France,  is  the  best  example.  Swift 
hoped  for  an  English  bishopric,  but  The  Tale  of  a 
Tub  had  ruined  his  chances  and  he  was  forced  to 
be  content  with  being  made  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's, 
Dublin.  On  the  downfall  of  the  Tory  ministry 
in  1714  Swift  returned  to  Dublin,  and  there  spent 
the  rest  of  his  life,  exiled  from  the  society  where 
he  had  cut  so  brilliant  a  figure,  and  nursing  a 
grudge  against  all  the  world.  Of  Swift's  London 
days  The  Journal  to  Stella,  a  sort  of  diary  which 
Swift  kept  for  the  entertainment  of  Esther  John- 
son, gives  an  accurate  and  pleasing  account.  For 
Stella  Swift  cherished  a  devoted  affection,  and 
though  the  rumor  that  the  two  were  secretly  mar- 
ried has  never  been  proved  true,  it  was  Stella  who 
made  life  tolerable  for  the  lonely  Dean  until  her 
death  in  1728.  Despite  his  dislike  for  Ireland 
Swift's  heart  burned  at  the  wretchedness  and 
oppression  of  the  Irish  people,  and  he  endeared 
himself  to  them  by  such  writings  as  the  Drapier's 
Letters  (1724),  defeating  an  English  scheme  to 
debase  the  Irish  coinage,  and  the  mordant  Modest 
Proposal  (1729).  In  1726  was  published  Gulliver's 
Travels,  most  delightful  of  fictions  and  most  ter- 
rible of  satires.  Swift's  last  years  were  embit- 
tered by  loneliness  and  physical  agony  and  clouded 
by  madness. 

By  virtue  of  his  sheer  intellectual  power  and 
his  passionate  feeling  Swift  is  preeminent  among 
English  satirists,  particularly  in  the  use  of  irony. 
Under  the  childish  squabbles  of  the  brothers  in  The 
Tale  of  a  Tub  concerning  their  coats,  under  the 
marvels  of  Gulliver's  adventures,  under  the  coldly 
logical  brutality  of  the  Modest  Proposal,  seethes 
passionate  scorn  for  the  pettiness,  the  hypocrisy, 
and  the  inhumanity  of  the  human  race.  Swift, 
unlike  Dryden  and  Pope,  does  not  satirize  the  in- 
dividual; rather  he  expresses  his  savage  contempt 
for  man  himself,  and  in  the  depiction  of  the  Yahoos 
he  has  presented  the  most  terrible  indictment  of 
human  frailty  that  the  mind  of  man  has  ever  con- 
ceived. The  contrast  between  the  utter  misan- 
thropy of  his  writings  and  the  facts  of  his  private 
life — his  love  for  Stella,  his  service  of  the  Irish 
people,   and   his  secret   benefactions  among  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


807 


poor  of  Dublin — but  serves  to  emphasize  the  sad- 
ness of  a  life  which,  under  happier  circumstances, 
might  have  grandly  benefited  the  world. 

Swift's  works  are  all  published  in  the  Bohn 
Library.  There  is  a  good  two-volume  edition  of 
selections  by  H.  Craik  (Clarendon  Press).  Leslie 
Stephen  writes  the  Life  in  the  E.  M.  L.  The  essays 
by  Johnson  and  by  Thackeray  {English  Humorists) 
are  famous. 


ADDISON  (1672-1719) 

Joseph  Addison  was  born  in  May,  1672,  the  son 
of  a  Wiltshire  clergyman.  After  leaving  the 
Charterhouse  School,  where  he  met  Richard  Steele, 
he  went  up  to  Oxford  and  won  a  considerable  rep- 
utation by  his  scholarship  and  literary  ability, 
finally  being  elected  fellow  of  Magdalen.  During 
the  troubled  years  between  the  revolution  of  1688 
and  the  accession  of  George  I  in  17 14,  the  man 
who  could  write  was  sure  to  be  sought  out  by 
one  of  the  two  contending  parties.  Addison  was 
no  exception.  His  Latin  poem  on  the  Peace  of 
Ryswick,  Pax  Guliehni  (1697),  marked  him  as 
one  of  the  most  promising  Whig  men  of  letters, 
and  secured  him  a  pension  of  three  hundred 
pounds.  Later,  when  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
won  his  great  victory  at  Blenheim,  Addison's  The 
Campaign  (1704)  brought  him  new  honors  and 
started  him  on  a  political  career  which  culminated 
in  his  appointment  in  171 7  to  one  of  the  two 
Secretaryships  of  State.  He  died  in  17 19,  and 
was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

As  a  man  of  letters  Addison  is  remembered 
chiefly  for  his  mastery  of  the  familiar  essay,  a 
type  which,  though  introduced  into  English 
literature  by  other  persons,  has  never  been  handled 
with  greater  ease  or  more  certain  effectiveness 
than  by  Addison.  A  friend  of  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
he  contributed  some  forty  papers  to  The  Taller 
(1709),  a  tri- weekly  periodical  devoted  to  politics, 
literature,  and  miscellaneous  topics.  The  Taller 
was  succeeded  in  171 1  by  The  Spectator,  which 
appeared  six  times  a  week,  and  for  which  Addison 
and  Steele  furnished  most  of  the  papers.  ( The 
Spectator  was  non-political;  in  it  Addison  had  a 
free  hand  to  write  the  comments  on  the  gentle 
art  of  living  which  form  the  basis  of  his  literary 
fame.  Here  too  Addison  developed  the  character 
of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  whose  portrait  is  one 
of  the  most  finished  in  all  the  gallery  of  English 
fiction.  The  clearness,  ease,  and  urbanity  of 
Addison's  prose,  and  the  genial  serenity  of  his 
outlook  on  life,  have  long  caused  him  to  be  singled 
out  for  praise  and  emulation.  Johnson's  famous 
sentence,  reflecting  the  judgment  both  of  Addi- 
son's contemporaries  and  of  subsequent  genera- 
tions, remains  the  best  of  all  comments:  "Whoever 
wishes  to  attain  an  English  style,  familiar  but 
not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious, 
must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of 
Addison." 

The  Everyman  edition  of  The  Spectator  (E.  P. 
Dutton)  is  an  excellent  reprint  of  the  entire  pub- 
lication; Addison's  other  works  may  be  found  in 
the  Bohn  Library.  Courthope's  Life  in  the  E.  M. 
L.  is  the  best  brief  biography;  Dr.  Johnson's,  in 


his  Lives  of  the  Poets  (Standard  English  Classics, 
Oxford  Univ.  Press),  is  invaluable  as  giving  the 
verdict  of  the  eighteenth  century  on  Addison. 
Macaulay's  essay  is  easily  accessible;  Thack- 
eray's in  the  English  Humorists  is  sympathetic  and 
enlightening. 


STEELE  (1672-1729) 

Richard  Steele  was  born  in  March,  1672,  in 
Dublin,  and  never  outgrew  a  certain  extravagance 
and  prodigality,  which,  with  his  winning  good 
nature,  may  be  attributed  in  part  to  his  Irish 
ancestry.  He  attended  the  Charterhouse  School, 
and  afterwards  at  Oxford  continued  the  friendship 
with  Addison  begun  at  the  Charterhouse.  Unlike 
Addison,  however,  he  left  Oxford  without  a  degree 
to  enter  the  army,  where  his  career  was  somewhat 
eccentric,  though  his  talents  and  friendliness  won 
him  a  captaincy.  Before  making  a  name  for  him- 
self as  an  essayist,  Steele  had  written  plays,  and 
in  The  Conscious  Lovers  (1722)  wrote  one  of  the 
best  sentimental  comedies.  In  1707  he  began 
his  career  as  a  journalist  by  editing  The  Gazette, 
and  in  1709  established  The  Taller.  With  The 
Tatlcr  began  his  literary  association  with  Addison ; 
in  The  Spectator  (1711-12)  Steele  wrote  about  half 
of  the  papers,  and  drew  the  first  sketch  for  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley,  whose  character  Addison 
elaborated.  In  1713  The  Spectator  was  followed 
by  The  Guardian,  the  work  of  the  two  friends; 
subsequently  Steele  alone  produced  various  pe- 
riodicals, no  one  of  which  became  fairly  estab- 
lished. With  the  accession  of  George  I  in  1714 
Steele's  long  devotion  to  the  Whig  cause  was  re- 
warded. Knighted  in  1715,  he  was  appointed  to 
various  lucrative  offices,  but  was  unable  to  prac- 
tice economy,  and  in  1724  he  retired  to  Wales  in 
financial  embarrassment.    Here,  in  1729,  he  died. 

Steele's  fame  as  a  man  of  letters  is  closely  bound 
up  with  that  of  his  greater  if  somewhat  less  winning 
friend,  Addison.  Steele  was  the  first  to  acknowl- 
edge his  debt  to  Addison,  and  as  the  result  of  his 
generous  disclaimer,  posterity  has  done  scant 
justice  to  Steele  himself.  Lacking  Addison's 
poise,  he  had  an  enthusiasm  and  initiative  which 
contributed  much  to  the  success  of  the  literary 
partnership,  and  in  his  dramas  showed  a  vivacity 
of  humor  entirely  foreign  to  the  author  of  Cato. 
Moreover,  it  was  Steele,  not  Addison,  who  first 
realized  the  possibilities  of  the  periodical  essay, 
established  The  Tatlcr,  and  literally  prepared  the 
way  for  The  Spectator. 

Austin  Dobson's  Life  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  is  an  ex- 
cellent brief  biography.  As  in  the  case  of  Addison, 
Thackeray's  comment  in  the  English  Humorists  is 
sympathetic  and  suggestive.  Steele's  plays  may 
be  found  in  the  Mermaid  edition  (Scribner's); 
The  Taller,  The  Spectator,  and  other  periodicals 
have  been  reprinted  in  various  editions. 


POPE  (1688-1744) 

Alexander  Pope  was  born  in  London  of  Catholic 
parents,  and  by  reason  of  his  religion  and  of  a 
bodily  weakness  which   left  him  deformed  and 


8o8 


BIOGRA  PHICA  L  A  PPENDIX 


supersensitive,  he  was  barred  from  that  active 
participation  in  public  affairs  in  which  so  many 
eighteenth  century  men  of  letters  engaged.  His 
education  he  obtained  at  home,  largely  through 
wide  if  random  reading.  The  first  public  exhibi- 
tion of  his  skill  in  numbers  was  given  in  the  Pas- 
torals, printed  in  1700,  but  written,  he  said,  when  he 
was  sixteen.  The  Essay  on  Criticism  (1711)  was 
praised  by  Addison  in  The  Spectator,  and  won 
for  the  young  poet  a  reputation  which  became 
fame  on  the  appearance  of  The  Rape  of  the  Lock 
(1712,  1714.)  His  literary  position  secure,  Pope  un- 
dertook a  verse  translation  of  Homer:  the  Iliad  was 
finished  in  1720,  the  Odyssey  in  1725,  and  the  in- 
come made  Pope  independent.  He  bought  a  villa 
at  Twickenham,  and  took  an  almost  childish  pleas- 
ure in  developing  the  grounds  according  to  the 
sham  classic  taste  of  the  day.  An  edition  of  Shake- 
speare which  Pope  issued  in  1725  was  speedily 
shown  to  be  full  of  errors.  The  adverse  criticism 
added  to  an  already  long  list  of  literary  enemies 
whom  Pope  had  made;  he  took  revenge  on  his 
critics  and  heaped  scorn  on  a  large  number  of 
insignificant  writers  in  the  famous  satire  The  Dun- 
ciad.  The  history  of  the  composition  of  this 
poem,  and  of  the  changes  made  in  it  during  suc- 
cessive editions  from  1728  to  1743,  is  one  of  the 
most  curious  in  the  whole  range  of  literature. 
The  later  years  of  his  life  were  divided  between 
lampooning  his  enemies  in  polished  attacks,  often 
harsh  and  false,  such  as  the  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbulh- 
not  (1735),  and  writing  pseudo-philosophical 
poems  like  the  Essay  on  Man  (1732-35),  which 
sets  forth  the  deistic  theories  of  Pope's  friend 
Bolingbroke. 

There  is  little  in  Pope's  character  to  admire  ex- 
cept a  firm  devotion  to  literature  and  an  iron 
resolution  which  compelled  success  despite  the 
physical  weakness.  He  was  treacherous,  mali- 
cious, his  word  was  unreliable,  his  vanity  and 
resentment  of  criticism  were  excessive.  His 
poetry,  once  lauded  as  all  that  verse  should  be,  is 
now  generally  relegated  to  the  second  class,  though 
admittedly  at  the  head  of  that  class.  It  is  the 
complete  epitome  of  the  failings  and  excellences 
of  the  classical  school.  It  has  no  moral  elevation, 
no  loftiness  of  thought,  no  feeling  for  humanity  or 
nature,  no  passion  except  the  passion  of  personal 
animosity.  But  it  is  marvellously  finished,  clear 
as  crystal,  neat  and  pointed  as  no  other  English 
poetry  has  been.  Pope  is  the  absolute  and  ulti- 
mate master  of  the  heroic  couplet;  for  metrical 
perfection  and  epigrammatic  brilliance  his  couplets 
are  without  rival. 

"True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  ex- 
pressed": 

this  couplet  is  at  once  a  definition  and  an  illustra- 
tion of  Pope's  theory  and  practice.  As  a  satirist 
Pope  ranks  with  the  greatest.  He  does  not  com- 
pete with  Dryden  in  the  field  of  political  satire; 
he  does  not  attack  mankind  in  general  like  Swift. 
Against  the  foibles  of  society  he  directs  the  won- 
derfully clever  Rape  of  the  Lock;  but  he  is  at  his 
best — and  is  most  merciless — in  personal  satire. 


when  he  launches  a  polished  dart,  keen  and  poi- 
soned, against  some  real  or  fancied  enemy. 

The  standard  edition  is  that  by  Elwin  and 
Courthope  (10  vols.,  John  Murray).  The  best 
single  volume  edition  is  the  Globe  (Macmillan). 
The  best  biography  is  Leslie  Stephen's  (E.  M.  L.). 


GOLDSMITH  (17 28-1 774) 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  in  Ireland,  in  1728, 
the  son  of  a  poor  parson.  In  the  University  of 
Dublin  he  failed  to  distinguish  himself,  and  when 
after  graduation  he  undertook  to  enter  one  of  the 
professions,  he  was  for  some  time  unsuccessful. 
A  brief  experience  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  was 
studying  medicine,  was  followed  by  three  years  of 
wandering  about  on  the  continent.  Just  what  he 
did  during  these  years  it  is  hard  to  tell;  when  he 
returned  to  England  in  1756  he  claimed  to  have 
graduated  in  medicine  at  the  University  of  Ley- 
den;  probably  part  of  George  Primrose's  story,  in 
the  Vicar,  is  a  retelling  of  Goldsmith's  own  expe- 
riences. Unsuccessful  as  a  physician,  Goldsmith 
soon  was  doing  literary  hack  work  for  any  book- 
seller who  would  employ  him.  The  first  thing  to 
bring  him  any  real  reputation  was  his  series  of 
essays  The  Citizen  of  the  World  (1762).  In  1763 
he  became  one  of  the  original  nine  members  of 
The  Club,  and  was  thus  a  personal  friend  of  John- 
son, Burke,  and  Reynolds.  In  1764  appeared 
The  Traveller,  a  poem  reminiscent  in  part  of 
his  own  experiences,  and  hailed  as  the  best  work 
since  Pope.  Two  years  later  came  The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  and  in  1768  the  first  of  his  two  plays, 
The  Good-Matured  Man.  In  1770  The  Deserted 
Village  enhanced  his  reputation  as  a  poet;  in 
1773  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  had  a  deserved  success 
on  the  stage.  The  next  year  Goldsmith  died.  His 
warm  good  nature,  his  prodigality,  his  petty  van- 
ities and  his  large  unselfishness,  his  fine  independ- 
ence and  his  helplessness,  are  all  brought  out  in 
Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson.  He  was  a  man  whom 
everybody  loved;  when  he  died  Johnson  said: 
"Let  not  his  frailties  be  remembered;  he  was  a 
very  great  man." 

As  a  man  of  letters  Goldsmith  was  great  in  part 
at  least  because  of  his  versatility,  for  he  was 
essayist,  poet,  novelist,  and  dramatist.  But  his 
versatility  was  not  that  of  the  mediocre  hack. 
Between  Addison  and  Lamb  it  is  hard  to  find 
better  essays  than  Goldsmith's.  His  verse, 
especially  The  Deserted  Village,  though  written  in 
Popeian  couplets,  has  a  freshness  and  sweetness 
that  are  still  delightful.  His  dramas  were  clean 
and  pure,  and  "fulfilled  the  great  end  of  comedy, 
making  an  audience  laugh."  And  The  Vicar,  de- 
spite the  poor  plot,  is  a  novel  which  many  gener- 
ations have  loved  for  its  superb  characterization 
of  the  central  figure,  and  its  genial  portrayal  of 
domestic  manners. 

The  best  contemporary  source  of  information 
about  Goldsmith  is  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson. 
Black's  life,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  and  Dobson's  in 
the  Great  Writers  series,  are  good  brief  biog- 
raphies. The  plays,  poems,  and  the  Vicar,  have 
been  many  times  reprinted;  a  good  reprint  of  the 
Essays  is  that  edited  by  Aikin  and  Tuckerman 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


S09 


(Crowell).    Macaula)''s  Essay  is  reprinted  in  this 
volume. 


JOHNSON  (1 709-1 784) 

Samuel  Johnson  was  born  in  Lichfield,  the  son 
of  a  poor  bookseller.  As  a  child  he  was  sickly; 
the  scrofula,  for  which  he  was  "touched"  by 
Queen  Anne,  left  permanent  traces  upon  his  body 
and  his  habits.  With  some  financial  assistance 
Johnson  managed  to  get  to  Pembroke  College, 
Oxford,  but  poverty  compelled  him  to  leave  in 
1 73 1  before  he  had  obtained  a  degree.  Oxford 
later  honored  herself  by  making  him  a  Master  of 
Arts  and  finally  a  Doctor  of  Laws.  After  struggling 
along  for  some  time  at  teaching  and  hack  writ- 
ing Johnson  married,  and  with  the  money  brought 
him  by  his  wife  tried  to  start  a  private  school. 
The  venture  failed.  Johnson  then  abandoned 
Lichfield,  and  in  1737  tramped  up  to  London  with 
a  companion  as  impoverished  as  himself,  young 
David  Garrick,  destined  to  become  the  greatest 
actor  of  his  time.  Arrived  in  London,  Johnson 
was  speedily  submerged  in  the  wretched  life  of 
a  hack  writer.  He  attracted  a  little  attention 
with  a  satirical  poem  London  (1738),  more  with 
the  more  deserving  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 
(1749).  He  tried  twice  to  launch  a  periodical  of 
the  Spectator  type;  The  Rambler  (1750-52)  and  The 
Idler  (1758-60)  were  too  heavy  to  be  more  than 
moderately  successful.  The  greatest  work  of 
these  treadmill  years  was  the  famous  Dictionary, 
published  in  1755,  which  made  Johnson's  reputa- 
tion and  won  for  him  his  title  of  "the  Great 
Lexicographer."  It  is  the  least  impersonal  of 
all  such  books,  and  bristles  with  definitions  illus- 
trating Johnson's  eccentricities  and  prejudices. 
In  1759  Johnson  was  still  so  poor  that  when  his 
mother  died  he  defrayed  the  expenses  of  her 
funeral  by  writing  in  the  evenings  of  a  single 
week  his  moral  prose  romance  Rasselas;  1762 
brought  relief,  however,  when  Johnson  was  granted 
a  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds,  and  thence- 
forth he  was  never  again  in  want.  The  Club,  one 
of  the  most  famous  of  all  literary  fellowships,  was 
organized  in  1764;  it  had  as  members  the  most 
brilliant  men  of  their  day — Reynolds,  Garrick, 
Goldsmith,  Burke,  Gibbon,  and  others — but 
Johnson  outshone  them  all,  and  over  the  Club, 
as  over  the  world  of  letters,  ruled  as  dictator. 
The  chief  work  of  Johnson's  later  years  was  done 
in  his  edition  of  Shakespeare  (1765),  still  valuable 
for  the  sound  common  sense  of  its  notes,  and  the 
Lives  of  the  English  Poets  (1779-81),  a  series  of 
short  biographies  prepared  to  accompany  a 
standard  edition  of  the  poets  from  Cowley  to 
Gray.  In  1773  he  made  a  trip  with  Boswell 
through  Scotland  and  the  Hebrides,  an  odd  ex- 
pedition for  an  inactive  man  of  sixty-four,  who 
loved  London  and  despised  Scotland  with  almost 
equal  fervor;  A  Journey  to  the  Western  Islands  of 
Scotland  records  his  impressions.  He  died  in  his 
house  in  Fleet  Street  in  1784,  and  was  buried  in 
the  Abbey. 

Johnson  was  the  last  great  representative  of 
the  classical  school,  and  by  his  influence  doubtless 
held  off  for  some   time   the  impending  literary 


revolution.  As  a  writer  he  is  seen  at  his  best  in 
The  Lives  of  the  Poets.  The  taste  of  his  time  and 
his  personal  limitations  kept  him  from  a  due  ap- 
preciation of  the  work  of  certain  men,  notably 
Milton  and  Gray,  but  in  general  his  judgments 
are  fair  and  his  comparisons  enlightening;  his 
estimates  of  Dryden,  Addison,  and  Pope  are 
classics.  As  a  talker  Johnson  was  supreme:  his 
conversation,  so  faithfully  set  down  by  Boswell, 
was  simpler  and  more  brilliant  than  his  writing, 
not  so  laden  with  the  ponderous  Latinisms  which 
we  think  of  as  characteristically  "Johnsonese," 
though  it  should  be  added  that  his  later  writings 
are  not  so  pompous  in  style  as  the  earlier.  The 
man  Johnson  was  greater  than  his  works.  No 
famous  man  had  more  or  odder  peculiarities,  but 
these  were  mere  externals.  His  massive  common 
sense,  his  real  tenderness  of  heart,  his  generosity, 
his  sincere  piety,  his  transparent  honesty,  endear 
his  memory.  Macaulay,  writing  in  1856,  con- 
cludes thus:  "The  old  philosopher  is  still  among  us 
in  the  brown  coat  with  the  metal  buttons,  and 
the  shirt  which  ought  to  be  at  wash,  blinking, 
puffing,  rolling  his  head,  drumming  with  his 
fingers,  tearing  his  meat  like  a  tiger,  and  swallow- 
ing his  tea  in  oceans.  No  human  being  who  has 
been  more  than  seventy  years  in  the  grave  is  so 
well  known  to  us.  And  it  is  but  just  to  say  that 
our  intimate  acquaintance  with  what  he  would 
himself  have  called  the  anfractuosities  of  his 
intellect  and  his  temper,  serves  only  to  strengthen 
our  conviction  that  he  was  both  a  great  and  a  good 
man." 

There  is  a  good  volume  of  selections  from 
Johnson's  writings  in  the  Little  Masterpieces, 
edited  by  Bliss  Perry  (Doubleday  Page  and  Co.). 
The  best  edition  of  the  Lives  of  the  Poets  is  that  by 
Birkbeck  Hill  (Clarendon  Press).  The  essays  by 
Macaulay  and  Carlyle,  inspired  by  Croker's  edition 
of  Boswell's  Life,  should  be  known  to  all  students 
of  Johnson. 


BOSWELL  (1 740-1 795) 

James  Boswell  made  himself  famous  by  spread- 
ing Johnson's  fame.  He  was  the  son  of  a  Scotch 
lawyer  of  high  standing,  and  went  to  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh,  afterward  studying  law,  and 
practicing  in  Edinburgh  and  London.  The  year 
1763  made  Boswell's  fortune,  for  then  he  visited 
London  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  John- 
son. For  twenty  years  he  enjoyed  the  intimate 
friendship  of  the  great  man,  who  secured  his 
admission  to  The  Club.  Though  he  was  vain 
to  excess,  a  snob  imperturbably  impudent  on 
occasion,  Boswell  was  not  the  fool  he  has  some- 
times been  made  out  to  be.  He  had  wit  enough 
to  recognize  a  great  man  when  he  saw  one, 
and  sense  enough  to  make  the  most  of  his  op- 
portunities. The  accuracy  of  observation,  the 
liveliness,  the  veracity,  the  thorough  humanness 
of  his  Life  of  Johnson,  published  in  1791,  make  it 
the  best  biography  ever  written. 

The  definitive  edition  of  Boswell's  Life  is  by 
Birkbeck  Hill  (6  vols.,  Clarendon  Press).  The 
Everyman  Library  contains  a  complete  edition  in 
two  volumes. 


Sio 


BIOGRA  PHICA  L  A  PPENDIX 


BURKE  (1729-1797) 

Edmund  Burke  was  born  in  1729,  at  Dublin. 
He  graduated  from  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in 
1748,  and  soon  took,  up  the  study  of  law  in  the 
Middle  Temple,  London.  His  interest  in  litera- 
ture developed  early  in  life;  in  1756  the  In- 
quiry concerning  the  Sublime  and  the  Beautiful 
marked  his  appearance  on  the  stage  of  letters. 
Five  years  later  he  was  appointed  secretary  to 
the  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland;  from  this  time  until 
his  death  he  was  actively  engaged  in  governmental 
work.  His  political  career  was  of  the  noblest; 
although  never  holding  a  high  office,  he  was  rec- 
ognized as  the  unofficial  leader  of  the  Whig 
party,  and  virtually  shaped  the  policies  of  the 
nation  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  From 
1790  to  1797  he  was  concerned  with  France;  his 
first  great  interests,  however,  had  been  America 
and  India.  He  had  entered  Parliament  in  1766, 
and  had  at  once  taken  up  the  question  of  England's 
attitude  towards  her  American  colonies.  Burke  un- 
derstood America  better  than  anyone  else  in  Par- 
liament; he  was  passionately  devoted  to  the  cause 
of  human  justice;  and  he  pleaded  for  conciliation 
with  America  not  only  because  he  foresaw  that 
it  alone  would  save  the  empire,  but  because  it 
was  the  only  righteous  course  to  pursue.  Burke 
failed;  England  went  her  way  under  George  III 
and  Lord  North,  and  the  colonies  were  lost.  He 
then  turned  his  attention  to  India,  studying  it  as 
carefully  as  he  had  America,  vizualizing  with  the 
imagination  of  a  poet  the  results  of  English 
oppression,  and  finally  denouncing  the  English 
system  in  a  series  of  attacks  that  culminated  in 
the  impeachment  (1787-95)  of  Warren  Hastings, 
the  first  Governor  General.  The  publication  in 
1 790  of  the  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France 
marks  the  beginning  of  his  hostility  towards 
French  republicanism.  The  Appeal  from  the  New 
to  the  Old  Whigs  (1791),  and  the  Letters  on  a 
Regicide  Peace  (1796-97),  continued  in  the  same 
vein,  and  established  Burke  as  the  great  champion 
of  conservatism,  the  upholder  of  the  established 
order  of  things  against  the  forces  that  were  making 
for  destruction. 

Matthew  Arnold  speaks  of  Burke  as  a  man  who 
"saturated  politics  with  thought."  It  is  well 
known  that  as  an  orator  he  was  ineffective,  and 
that  the  qualities  which  make  his  essays  so  power- 
ful detracted  from  his  success  on  the  floor  of  the 
House.  But  he  could  afford  to  give  up  the  success 
of  the  moment  for  the  more  lasting  triumphs  he 
has  won.  His  was  the  noblest  prose  of  the  century 
in  England;  massive,  pregnant  with  ideas,  yet 
always  clear;  logically  concise,  yet  vibrant  with 
an  emotion  that  colors  his  paragraphs  as  a  kin- 
dred emotion  colors  the  great  utterances  of  Lin- 
coln. 

Lord  Morley's  Life,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  is  a  good 
biography  of  Burke.  Various  editions  of  his 
speeches  are  readily  accessible;  the  Select  Works, 
edited  by  E.  J.  Payne  (Clarendon  Press,  3  vols.), 
is  excellent. 


THE  PRECURSORS  OF  ROMANTICISM 

The  poets  thus  roughly  and  somewhat  inac- 
curately classed  together  are  more  important  to 
the  student  of  English  literary  history  as  a  group 
than  as  individuals.  They  wrote  during  the  years 
when  the  ideals  established  by  Dryden  and  Pope 
and  maintained  by  Johnson  were  dominant  in 
England,  and  they  mark_±he-gxaduaL turning  of 
the  tide  towards  Romanticism.  At  no  time  before 
Wordsworth  was  the  dominance  of  the  Pseudo- 
Classicists  seriously  challenged;  but  that  a  new 
spirit  was  abroad  even  during  the  hey-day  of  the 
old  order,  the  work  of  these  men,  and  of  Gray 
and  Cowper,  is  ample  testimony.  Injreedom.  from 
literary  rule  and  precept,  in  choice  of  forms  and 
material  which  if  not  actually  new  were  at  least 
comparatively  new  to  the  eighteenth  century,  in 
their  unusual  attitude  towards  nature  and  man, 
and  in  their  instinct  for  self-expression,  these  men 
unmistakably  foreshadowed  the  age  of  Words- 
worth and  Byron. 

Allan  Ramsay  (1686-1758),  a  Scotchman,  did 
much  to  continue  the  old  tradition  of  Scottish 
song  and  ballad,  and  furnished  Burns  with  models 
for  some  of  his  best  work.  James  Thomson 
(1700-48),  was  also  born  in  Scotland,  but  went  up 
to  London  in  1725.  Here  he  attained  renown  as 
the  author  of  The  Seasons  (1730),  a  descriptive 
poem  portraying  country  life  during  the  changing 
year.  Both  the  material  and  the  form — blank 
verse — were  new  to  the  eighteenth  century;  still 
more  unusual  was  The  Castle  of  Indolence  (1748), 
which  remains  to  this  day  one  of  the  best  imita- 
tions of  both  the  form  and  mood  of  Spenser's 
Faerie  Queene.  Robert  Blair  (1699-1746),  is  re- 
membered as  the  author  of  one  poem,  The  Grave 
(1743),  in  blank  verse,  a  gloomy  if  at  times 
effective  monologue  that  attained  a  considerable 
vogue  at  the  time  and  had  some  influence  on  later 
poets.  Edward  .Young  (1681-1765),  although  the 
author  of  much  besides  the  Night  Thoughts  (1742), 
owes  his  fame  to  this  one  poem.  In  blank  verse 
which  at  times  rises  to  a  genuine  eloquence, 
Young  discourses  on  "Life,  Death,  and  Immortal- 
ity," in  much  the  mood  of  Blair's  Grave.  James 
Macpherson  (1736-96)  was  the  author  of  the  so- 
called  poems  of  Ossian.  It  is  probable  that  Mac- 
pherson built  up  his  forgeries  around  some  genuine 
fragments  of  old  Celtic  verse;  but  for  the  mood 
of  the  poems,  the  "delight  in  sorrow,"  and  the 
striking  portrayal  of  mountain  scenery,  he  alone 
was  responsible.  During  his  lifetime  the  cheat 
was  suspected;  Dr.  Johnson,  for  instance,  refused 
to  be  taken  in;  but  despite  this  uncertainty  these 
"mountain  monotones"  attained  a  tremendous 
popularity  in  England  and  on  the  continent. 
William  Collins  (1721-59)  brought  to  the  mid- 
eighteenth  century  a  lyric  instinct  and  a  finished 
technique  that  mark  him  as  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished poets  of  the  period.  During  a  life  that 
was  short  and  clouded  by  insanity  Collins  wrote 
a  series  of  odes  and  a  few  lyrics  which,  however 
little  they  may  have  appealed  to  the  mass  of  his 
contemporaries,  have  found  admirers  in  every 
succeeding  generation.  Thomas  Chatterton  (1752- 
70)  is  like  Macpherson  famous  for  his  literary 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


811 


forgeries.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  planned  and  in 
large  part  executed  a  cycle  of  romantic  tales,  cast 
in  an  imitation  middle-English  dialect,  and  rep- 
resented as  the  work  of  a  fifteenth  century  poet 
named  Rowley.  Disappointed  in  his  hope  to 
make  a  living  as  a  man  of  letters,  Chatterton 
poisoned  himself  in  his  London  garret,  and  the 
world  has  not  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  largeness 
and  splendor  of  the  boy's  poetic  accomplishment 
and  promise.  William  Blake  (175 7- 1827),  poet, 
artist,  engraver,  and  mystic,  was  one  of  the  most 
eccentric  of  English  men  of  letters,  and  as  such 
has  had  little  influence  on  the  main  current  of 
English  verse.  But  the  simple  perfection  and 
daring  imagery  of  Blake's  lyrics,  especially  the 
Songs  of  Innocence  (1789),  and  Songs  of  Experience 
(1794),  are  untouched  by  the  obscurity  of  his 
longer  works,  and  mark  him  as  one  of  the  masters 
of  English  song.  George  Crabbe  (1754-1832), 
though  he  did  most  of  his  work  after  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  hdd  been  published,  clung  to  the  eighteenth 
century  couplet  that  connects  him  with  Pope. 
But  his  determination  to  picture  with  unvarnished 
truthfulness  the  life  of  a  small  English  town  makes 
The  Village  (1783)  and  The  Borough  (1810)  unlike 
the  conventional  description  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  Crabbe  is  on  the  whole  a  herald  of 
the  new  age. 

GRAY  (1716-1771) 

Thomas  Gray's  life  was  uneventful.  He  was 
born  in  London,  December,  1716.  At  Eton  he 
met  Horace  Walpole,  whose  name  is  connected 
with  the  publication  of  some  of  Gray's  most 
famous  poems.  He  went  to  Pembroke  College, 
Cambridge,  but  left  in  1738  without  a  degree.  In 
1739  Gray  and  Walpole  together  made  the  "grand 
tour,"  the  records  of  which  are  preserved  in  some 
of  Gray's  most  memorable  letters.  From  1742 
until  his  death  in  1771  he  lived  as  an  academic 
recluse  at  Cambridge.  In  1757  he  declined  the 
Iaureateship;  though  appointed  Professor  of 
Modern  History  in  1768  he  delivered  no  lectures. 
One  of  the  most  scholarly  of  English  poets,  he 
shrank  instinctively  from  the  notoriety  attendant 
upon  publication;  he  printed  but  few  verses,  and 
the  most  famous,  the  Elegy,  he  published  only 
because  of  the  fear  that  a  mangled  and  pirated 
copy  was  to  appear  in  a  magazine.  But  despite 
his  sensitive  and  shrinking  nature,  the  range  of 
Gray's  intellectual  life  was  very  wide;  his  letters 
and  miscellaneous  writings  witness  the  fact  that 
he  was  interested  both  in  the  worlds  of  art  and 
letters  and  in  the  political  and  social  development 
of  his  time. 

His  verse  would  be  important  in  whatever  age 
it  had  been  written;  but  coming  as  it  did  during 
the  years  of  transition  from  Pseudo-Classicism  to 
Romanticism,  it  is  unusually  significant.  Gray 
himself  illustrates  the  change  that  was  gradually 
to  take  place  in  all  English  literature.  Begin- 
ning as  a  classicist,  he  wrote  the  Ode  to  Spring 
(1742),  and  the  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of 
Eton  College  (1742),  in  conventional  eighteenth 
century  "poetic  diction,"  and  indulged  in  a  good 
deal  of  conventional  moralizing.  The  Elegy, 
published  1751,  although  begun  many  years  before, 


was  written  in  an  approved  classical  form,  but 
is  distinctly  different  in  mood  from  the  earlier 
work,  and  is  the  most  finished  example  of  the 
"grave-yard  school"  which,  including  Blair's 
Grave  and  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  looks  back  to 
//  Penseroso  for  much  of  its  inspiration.  The 
Progress  of  Poesy  and  The  Bard,  printed  by 
Walpole  in  1757,  are  still  farther  from  eighteenth 
century  ideals.  But  it  was  not  till  1761,  when 
Gray  wrote  The  Fatal  Sisters  and  The  Descent 
of  Odin,  that  his  work  became  thoroughly 
romantic. 

Dr.  Johnson's  criticism,  in  his  Life  of  Gray,  is  un- 
sympathetic, but  valuable  as  showing  the  attitude 
of  the  eighteenth  century  towards  a  poet  of 
the  new  order.  Gosse's  Life,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  is 
a  good  biography.  Phelps's  Selections,  in  the 
Athcnaum  Press  Series  (Ginn),  is  an  inexpensive 
edition  of  Gray's  best  work,  both  prose  and  poetry, 
and  contains  much  valuable  editorial  matter. 
Gosse's  edition  of  the  complete  works  (4  vols., 
Macmillan)  is  the  standard.  Arnold's  essay  on 
Gray  (Essays  in  Criticism,  Macmillan)  is  ap- 
preciative, and  in  most  respects  accurate. 


COWPER  (1731-1800) 

William  Cowper,  one  of  the  pathetic  figures  in 
English  literature,  lived  a  life  that  was  clouded  by 
periodic  attacks  of  religious  melancholia  and 
insanity,  and  was  otherwise  uneventful.  Born 
in  1 73 1,  in  Hertfordshire,  he  spent  seven  years  at 
the  Westminster  School.  In  1754  he  was  called  to 
the  bar;  the  dread  of  a  public  examination  before 
assuming  a  clerkship  in  the  House  of  Lords  pre- 
cipitated his  first  attack  of  insanity  in  1 763.  From 
this  he  did  not  recover  for  eighteen  months; 
never  again  was  he  free  from  the  spectre.  The 
rest  of  his  life  is  memorable  for  his  friendship  with 
Morley  Unwin  and  his  wife  Mary  Unwin.  Mr. 
Unwin,  a  clergyman,  died  in  1765;  in  1767  Cowper 
and  Mrs.  Unwin  began  their  life  together  at  Olney. 
It  is  probable  that  Cowper  would  have  married 
Mrs.  Unwin  had  he  not  suffered  a  second  attack 
of  insanity  in  1773.  After  recovering,  Cowper, 
in  need  of  some  regular  employment,  began  to 
write  verses,  and  amused  himself  by  carpentry, 
gardening,  and  caring  for  tame  hares  and  other 
household  pets.  His  first  great  work,  The  Task, 
appeared  in  1785.  In  this  long,  poem  Cowper 
allowed  his  fancy  to  play  over  things  in  general; 
as  a  result  The  Task  is  a  composite  of  verse  de- 
scriptive of  the  English  landscape  that  he  knew 
and  loved,  of  satire  and  comment  on  conditions 
in  Europe,  and  of  accounts  of  Cowper's  life.  It 
is  written  in  blank  verse;  the  fact  that  it  became 
generally  popular  is  indicative  that  the  tyranny 
of  the  couplet  was  already  being  broken.  John 
Gilpin,  Cowper's  most  famous  piece  of  humorous 
verse,  also  appeared  in  1785;  in  1791  he  completed 
his  translation  of  Homer.  The  remaining  years 
were  darkened  by  sorrow  and  melancholia.  In 
1794  he  was  again  insane;  in  1796  Mrs.  Unwin 
died.  The  Castaway  and  To  Mary  picture  with 
poignant  force  the  pathetic  blackness  of  this 
period. 

Aside  from  the  interest  attaching  to  Cowper's 


Sl2 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


poetry  because  of  its  inherent  worth,  there  is  a 
significance  in  his  work  which  students  of  literary 
history  have  not  failed  to  mark.  In  a  real  sense 
Cowper  was  the  spiritual  predecessor  of  the  great 
Romanticists.  He  had  a  sympathy  for  outcast 
humanity  as  sincere  as  Shelley's,  if  less  passionate; 
his  love  of  nature  was  as  deep-seated  as  Word- 
worth's,  though  his  musings  on  nature  never  led 
him  to  the  heights  which  Wordsworth  attained 
through   his   "impassioned   contemplation." 

The  best  one  volume  edition  of  Cowper  is  the 
Globe  (Macmillan);  the  volume  of  selections  in 
the  Athenaeum  Press  series  (Ginn)  is  representa- 
tive and  inexpensive.  Southey's  Life,  though 
written  long  ago,  is  still  valuable;  more  recent  is 
Goldwin  Smith's  in  the  E.  M.  L.  Leslie  Stephen's 
essay,  in  his  Hours  in  a  Library,  and  Bagehot's, 
in  his  Literary  Studies,  are  suggestive. 


BURNS  (i 759-1 796) 

Robert  Burns  lived  a  life  of  hard  work,  inter- 
rupted by  periods  of  reckless  and  enthusiastic 
relaxation;  a  life  which  from  some  points  of  view 
was  a  tragic  failure,  involving  many  besides  Burns 
himself  in  the  wreck.  Yet  it  is  noteworthy  that 
such  stern  moralists  as  Wordsworth  and  Whittier 
should  have  been  willing  to  forgive  Burns's  many 
weaknesses,  and  to  point  only  to  the  largeness  of 
his  accomplishment. 

He  was  born  in  Ayrshire,  near  the  west  coast 
of  Scotland,  in  1759.  His  father,  William  Burnes, 
was  a  hard-working  man  of  the  peasant  class,  but 
mentally  superior  to  the  average  small  farmer, 
and  the  equal  of  any  one  in  ambition  for  his 
children.  By  the  time  Burns  was  fifteen  he  was 
doing  much  of  the  work  of  his  father's  farm; 
in  1784,  when  his  father  died,  he  and  his  brother 
Gilbert  undertook  farming  for  themselves,  but 
with  poor  financial  results.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  he  met  Jean  Armour,  later  his  wife. 
During  1785  and  1786  he  wrote  much  of  the  verse 
on  which  his  fame  depends;  had  he  never  pub- 
lished anything  but  the  1786  volume  of  Poems, 
Chiefly  in  the  Scottish  Dialect,  he  would  have 
been  sure  of  ultimate  recognition.  Here,  in  the 
little  volume  printed  at  Kilmarnock,  the  proceeds 
of  which  were  to  defray  the  cost  of  Burns's  in- 
tended emigration  to  America,  were  The  Twa 
Dogs,  The  Holy  Fair,  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night, 
To  a  Mouse,  To  a  Daisy,  and  the  Epistle  to  Davie. 
The  success  of  this  venture  prompted  Burns  to 
change  his  plans,  and  in  the  same  year  he  went 
up  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  became  the  lion  of 
the  season.  A  second  volume,  published  in 
Edinburgh  in  1787,  brought  him  more  renown 
and  a  considerable  sum  of  money.  In  1788 
he  married  Jean  Armour,  and  took  up  farming 
at  Ellisland.  But  his  venture  proved  unsuccess- 
ful, and  in  1789  he  was  glad  to  fall  back  on  an 
appointment  to  the  excise  service  that  brought 
him  fifty  pounds  per  year.  In  1791  he  moved 
to  Dumfries,  and  there,  after  five  years  of  hard 
labor  as  exciseman,  he  died. 

Burns's  poetry  has  at  times  been  overpraised, 
especially  by  Scottish  critics;  but  after  all  allow- 
ances have  been  made  for  national  or  personal 


prejudices,  much  remains  of  permanent  value. 
His  best  songs,  written  in  most  part  during  the 
last  six  years  of  his  life,  his  simple  pictures  of 
Scottish  domesticity,  his  satires  on  cant  and  make- 
believe  in  Church  and  State,  and  his  two  unique 
contributions  to  English  poetry,  Tarn  O'  Shan- 
ter  and  The  Jolly  Beggars,— these  have  passed 
out  of  the  narrow  circle  of  Scottish  and  local 
verse,  and  have  become  part  of  the  world's  lit- 
erature. 

The  best  edition  of  Burns's  poetry  is  the  Cen- 
tenary (four  volumes,  T.  C.  and  E.  C.  Jack).  The 
one  volume  Cambridge  edition  (Houghton  Mif- 
flin) contains  the  Centenary  text  and  some  of  the 
notes.  Shairp's  Life,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  is  the  best 
brief  biography.  Carlyle's  well  known  essay, 
Stevenson's,  in  his  Familiar  Studies  of  Men  and 
Books,  and  Henley's,  in  the  Centenary  and  Cam- 
bridge editions,  are  all  valuable. 


WORDSWORTH  (1 770-1850) 

William  Wordsworth  was  born  at  Cockermouth, 
Cumberland,  in  1770.  After  spending  his  school 
years  among  the  lakes  and  hills  he  went  up  to 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  where  in  1791  he 
graduated.  Twice  during  the  Revolution  he 
visited  France;  the  first  time  on  a  walking  tour 
during  one  of  his  long  vacations  from  Cambridge, 
the  second  in  1791,  after  his  graduation.  The 
first  time  he  had  been  comparatively  unmoved 
by  the  events  that  were  taking  place  on  the  conti- 
nent; the  second,  he  was  drawn  into  the  whirl  of 
French  politics,  and  became  an  enthusiastic  sup- 
porter of  the  Revolution,  returning  to  England 
only  when  his  guardians  recalled  him  by  stopping 
his  allowance.  The  years  from  1792  to  1795  were 
darkened  by  doubt  and  spiritual  distress.  The 
excesses  of  the  Terror,  which  he  had  at  first  tried 
to  justify  as  the  necessary  preliminary  to  a  social 
regeneration,  became  more  and  more  appalling; 
gradually  his  faith  in  the  French  cause  was  shaken, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  began  to  lose  faith  in 
humanity.  From  this  state  of  despairing  uncer- 
tainty he  was  recalled  by  the  sympathetic  friend- 
ship of  his  sister  Dorothy.  On  a  precariously 
small  income  the  two  began  housekeeping,  and 
under  the  influence  of  Dorothy,  and  freed  from 
the  necessity  of  earning  his  daily  bread,  Words- 
worth devoted  himself  as  seriously  as  Milton  had 
done  to  preparation  for  the  writing  of  poetry. 
From  1795  to  1797  the  brother  and  sister  lived  at 
Racedown,  Dorsetshire;  here  they  were  visited 
by  Coleridge,  at  whose  suggestion  the  Words- 
worths  moved  to  Alfoxden,  Somersetshire,  within 
a  mile  and  a  half  of  Coleridge's  home  at  Nether 
Stowey.  Here  was  formed  one  of  the  most  notable 
of  literary  friendships.  Coleridge  encouraged 
Wordsworth  by  his  sympathetic  praise;  Words- 
worth in  turn  stimulated  Coleridge.  Together 
the  two  men  tramped  over  the  Quantock  hills, 
and  planned  the  volume  that  appeared  in  1798  as 
the  Lyrical  Ballads.  The  importance  of  the  work 
was  two-fold.  Historically  it  is  significant  in  the 
development  of  Romanticism  as  the  first  example 
of  conscious  protest  against  the  ideals  of  Pseudo- 
Classicism.     And  here  the  the  two  friends  pub- 


RIOGILA  PHICA  L  A  PPENDIX 


813 


lished  some  of  their  noblest  work — the  Lines  on 
Tintern  Abbey,  and  The  Rime  of  the  Ancient 
Mariner, — poems  which  would  have  brought  dis- 
tinction to  any  volume. 

When  the  Lyrical  Ballads  appeared  the  two 
poets,  with  Dorothy  Wordsworth,  were  already 
on  their  way  to  Germany,  where  Wordsworth 
wrote  some  of  his  brief  lyrics  and  began  The 
Prelude.  Returning  to  England  in  1799,  ne  to°k 
a  house  at  Grasmere,  in  the  lake  country  where 
he  had  grown  up,  and  where  he  was  to  make  his 
home  for-the  rest  of  his  life.  In  1802  he  married 
Mary  Hutchinson;  in  1813  he  moved  to  Rydal 
Mount,  a  few  miles  from  Grasmere.  The  same 
year  he  was  pensioned  by  the  government  by 
being  appointed  Distributor  of  Stamps  for  West- 
moreland. The  remainder  of  his  life  was  un- 
eventful. Like  others  of  his  circle,  he  grew  more 
and  more  conservative  as  time  passed;  occasion- 
all}'  he  made  a  trip  to  Scotland  or  the  continent, 
but  there  is  little  to  record  until  1843.  In  this 
year  the  laureateship  fell  vacant  through  the 
death  of  Southey;  the  appointment  of  Wordsworth 
was  a  tribute  to  his  genius  and  a  mark  of  the  es- 
teem in  which  he  was  held  by  the  nation.  Seven 
years  later  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the  church- 
yard at  Grasmere. 

Wordsworth  wrote  his  finest  verse  compar- 
atively early  in  his  life.  Tintern  Abbey  ap- 
peared in  1798;  the  best  sonnets  soon  after  the 
turn  of  the  century;  The  Prelude,  though  not 
published  until  1850,  was  completed  in  1805; 
the  Intimations  of  Immortality  was  published  in 
1807.  During  his  last  forty  years  he  added  much 
to  the  bulk  of  his  poetry,  but  wrote  few  of  his 
greatest  poems.  And  yet  fame  came  to  Words- 
worth late  in  life.  In  1800  he  was  an  innovator, 
whose  theories  appeared  heretical,  and  whose 
great  work  was  curiously  intermingled  with  poems 
that  the  critics  quickly  singled  out  for  ridicule. 
By  1840,  however,  the  theories  propounded  in 
the  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  the  Lyrical 
Ballads  had  in  part  been  accepted  by  the  public, 
and  in  part  modified  by  Wordsworth  himself; 
his  poor  work  was  being  forgotten;  and  his  great 
contribution  to  the  world's  literature  had  been 
recognized. 

The  precise  nature  of  this  contribution  cannot 
be  explained  in  the  present  limits,  but  two  sug- 
gestions can  be  made:  no  poet  had  ever  written 
so  nobly  of  the  beauties  of  nature;  few  poets  had 
done  more  than  Wordsworth  to  point  out  the 
essential  dignity  of  mankind.  And  in  one  respect 
Wordsworth  was  unique.  Always  keenly  sensitive 
to  the  beauty  of  nature,  and  aware  that  from 
association  with  nature  came  peace  and  consola- 
tion to  mankind,  Wordsworth  cast  about  for  a 
reason  for  a  phenomenon  difficult  to  explain  by 
any  theory  that  regarded  nature  as  inanimate 
or  unconscious.  In  Tintern  Abbey  he  suggests 
his  solution  of  the  problem.  In  moments  of 
mystic  contemplation  it  had  been  vouchsafed  to 
him  to  see  the  divine  unity  of  all  creation;  a 
spiritual  unity,  in  which  nature  and  man  were 
but  different  manifestations  of  the  same  creative 
Power,  and  capable  of  influencing  one  another 
because  each  was  conscious  of  the  other's  sym- 


pathy and  understanding,  and  both  were  animated 
by  the  same  Divinity 

"Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man: 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Other  men  had  held  such  a  philosophy;  it  remained 
for  Wordsworth  to  give  expression  to  it  in  the 
noblest  verse  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

The  best  one-volume  editions  of  Wordsworth  are 
the  Oxford  (Oxford  Univ.  Press),  the  Cambridge 
(Houghton  Mifflin),  and  the  Globe  (Macmillan). 
The  Life  by  Myers,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  is  an  adequate 
survey;  Legouis's  La  Jeunesse  de  Guillaume  Words- 
worth (translated  by  Matthews,  Dent  and  Co.),  is 
an  exhaustive  study  of  the  years  covered  by  The 
Prelude.  Arnold's  essay  in  the  Essays  in  Criti- 
cism, Pater's  in  Appreciations,  and  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh's  Wordsworth  are  all  authoritative.  For 
contemporary  criticism  nothing  is  better  than 
Coleridge's  in  the  Biographia  Literaria. 


COLERIDGE  (1772-1834) 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  in  Devon- 
shire, in  1772.  He  received  his  preparatory 
education  at  Christ's  Hospital,  London,  where 
his  precocity  gained  for  him  the  title  of  "the  in- 
spired charity  boy."  Here  he  met  Lamb,  whose 
essays  picture  the  life  of  these  early  years,  and 
who  remained  one  of  his  few  constant  friends. 
From  Christ's  Hospital  Coleridge  went  up  to 
Cambridge  University  just  as  Wordsworth  was 
leaving.  His  career  was  erratic,  and  in  1794  he 
left  without  a  degree.  He  had  already  met 
Robert  Southey,  with  whom  he  planned  the  ideal 
commonwealth  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hanna which  the  dreamers  named  "Pantisoc- 
racy."  In  1795  he  married;  in  1796  he  brought 
out  his  first  volume  of  verse.  In  1797  he  visited 
the  Wordsworths  at  Racedown;  the  next  year,  in 
company  with  Wordsworth,  he  was  planning  the 
Lyrical  Ballads.  To  this  volume  Coleridge  con- 
tributed four  poems,  most  important  of  which 
was  The  Rime  of  The  Ancient  Mariner.  In 
1798,  the  year  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  Coleridge 
went  with  Wordsworth  to  Germany,  and  plunged 
into  the  study  of  German  philosophy  and  litera- 
ture. In  1800  he  settled  at  Keswick,  a  few  miles 
from  Grasmere,  where  he  had  the  companionship 
of  Wordsworth  and  Southey.  The  remainder  of 
his  life  was  in  many  ways  unfortunate.  His 
poetical  powers  were  stunted  by  his  addiction 
to  laudanum;  he  planned  much,  but  accomplished 
little.  Occasional  lectures  on  literature,  much 
brilliant  but  rather  formless  conversation  on 
philosophy,  and  very  little  actual  writing,  occupied 
his  last  twenty  years.  Like  Wordsworth  and 
Southey,  he  became  more  and  more  conservative 
as  he  grew  older,  and  looked  back  with  horror  on 
the  youthful  enthusiasms  of  his  republican  days. 

Much  of  Coleridge's  prose  work  is  significant 
and  interesting,  but  it  is  as  the  author  of  the 


Si4 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


Ancient  Mariner,  Kubla  Khan,  and  Chrislabcl, 
that  he  is  remembered.  In  these  poems  he  was 
using  material  the  most  unusual,  often  frankly 
supernatural;  but  by  the  witchery  of  his  art  was 
able  to  induce  in  the  reader  what  he  himself  in  a 
fine  phrase  calls  the  "momentary  suspension  of 
disbelief  which  constitutes  poetic  faith."  He 
was  one  of  the  great  geniuses  of  English  literature, 
and  one  of  the  pathetic  group  the  promise  of 
whose  early  years  was  never  completely  fulfilled. 
But  in  the  case  of  Coleridge  the  actual  accomplish- 
ment, fragmentary  though  it  is,  is  sufficient  to 
merit  all  the  praise  that  time  has  brought  him. 
The  best  edition  of  Coleridge's  poetry  is  the 
two  volume  publication  of  the  Oxford  University 
Press;  the  Globe  (Macmillan)  is  convenient,  and 
contains  an  admirable  biographical  sketch  by 
J.  D.  Campbell,  which  is  not  surpassed  in  value  by 
Traill's  Life  in  the  E.  M.  L.  William  Hazlitt's 
My  First  Acquaintance  With  Poets  is  a  classic 
portrait  of  Coleridge  as  he  appeared  to  a  gifted 
contemporary;  Carlyle's  portrait  in  his  Life  of 
John  Sterling  (chap.  "Coleridge")  is  brilliant  if 
somewhat  unsympathetic. 


SCOTT  (1771-1832) 

Sir  Walter  Scott  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  in 
1 771,  the  son  of  an  attorney,  and  a  member  of 
the  Clan  Buccleuch.  After  a  boyhood  spent  in 
reading,  and  assimilating  Scottish  legend,  he  en- 
tered the  University  of  Edinburgh,  but  did  not 
take  a  degree.  When  he  was  twenty-one  he  was 
called  to  the  bar,  and  though  his  practice  was 
never  extensive,  he  was  always  in  more  or  less 
intimate  contact  with  the  law.  His  first  literary 
work  of  importance  was  a  group  of  translations 
from  the  German,  Burger's  Lenore  appearing 
as  Scott's  William  and  Helen.  In  1802-03  he 
published  The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border, 
the  best  collection  of  Scottish  ballads  until  Child's 
great  work  began  to  appear  in  1882.  Between 
1805  and  1810  Scott  won  an  international  reputa- 
tion as  a  narrative  poet  through  The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel,  Marmion,  and  The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 
In  181 3  he  bought  Abbotsford,  where  he  estab- 
lished himself  as  a  country  gentleman.  About 
this  time  Byron's  poetry  began  winning  the  popu- 
larity which  Scott's  had  formerly  enjoyed.  Real- 
izing that  he  could  not  compete  with  Byron, 
Scott  took  up  a  manuscript  untouched  since 
1805,  wrote  the  last  two- thirds  of  it  in  six  weeks, 
and  in  18 14  published  Waverley,  the  first  of  his 
historical  novels.  Between  1814  and  1832  he 
wrote  in  all  thirty-two  novels,  and  did  a  good 
deal  of  other  literary  work  besides.  At  the  acces- 
sion of  George  IV  Scott  was  knighted  and  created 
a  baronet;  at  this  time — 1821 — he  was  probably 
the  largest  figure  in  the  English  literary  world. 
But  in  1826  the  wheel  of  Fortune  turned.  In 
this  year  two  publishing  houses  in  which  Scott 
was  interested  failed  with  large  liabilities.  Re- 
fusing to  take  advantage  of  the  bankruptcy  laws, 
although  he  knew  that  he  was  legally  entitled  to 
their  protection,  Scott  undertook  single-handed 
to  pay  off  an  indebtedness  of  nearly  one  hundred 
and  twenty  thousand  pounds.     For  six  years  he 


worked  at  the  task,  writing  novels  and  receiving 
compensation  at  a  rate  unheard  of,  and  turn- 
ing over  the  proceeds  to  the  creditors.  But  his 
life  was  not  long  enough.  In  1831  a  paralytic 
stroke  enfeebled  his  powers,  if  not  his  will;  in 
1832  he  died,  leaving  a  part  of  the  debt  to  be 
cleared  off  by  royalties  received  after  his  death. 

Scott's  contribution  to  English  literature  was 
great  and  many-sided.  His  work  as  editor  and 
collector  of  Scottish  ballads  was  more  valuable 
than  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries;  his  poet- 
ical romances  are  among  the  best  examples  of 
English  narrative  verse.  But  his  chief  glory  is 
the  magnificent  series  of  novels:  the  studies  of 
Scottish  life  and  manners,  such  as  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian,  and  the  tales  of  past  history,  such  as 
Ivanhoe  and  Quentin  Durward.  Through  these 
novels  Scott  made  the  largest  single  contribution 
to  the  great  stock  of  English  fiction. 

The  best  source  of  information  about  Scott  is 
the  Life  by  his  son-in-law,  J.  G.  Lockhart  (7  vols., 
Black).  Briefer  biographies  are  Hutton's,  in 
the  E.  M.  L.,  and  Saintsbury's  (Scribner's).  Sir 
Walter's  own  Journal  (David  Douglas)  gives 
interesting  first-hand  information  concerning  the 
later  years  of  his  life. 


BYRON  (1 788-1824) 

George  Gordon  Byron  was  born  in  London, 
January,  1788,  but  lived  for  some  years  of  his 
youth  in  Scotland.  In  1798,  through  the  death 
of  a  great-uncle,  he  became  the  sixth  Baron  Byron, 
and  the  inheritor  of  the  ruined  family  seat,  New- 
stead  Abbey.  As  a  boy  he  was  hot-tempered, 
proud,  and  unnecessarily  sensitive  on  account  of 
a  lameness  that  never  left  him.  In  1805  he  began 
at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  a  career  which 
was  boisterously  irregular,  and  only  slightly  dis- 
tinguished by  the  appearance  in  1807  of  a  volume 
of  poems  called  Hours  of  Idleness.  In  1809,  when 
he  had  come  of  age,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  and  in  the  same  year  began  the  wander- 
ings over  Europe  which  were  later  to  be  described 
in  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  of  which  the  first 
two  cantos  appeared  in  181 2.  The  result  of  this 
publication  Byron  has  recorded  in  his  statement 
that  he  awoke  one  morning  and  found  himself 
famous.  The  next  year,  1813,  The  Giaour  began 
the  series  of  oriental  tales  that  outdid  even  Childe 
Harold  in  popularity.  In  January,  181 5,  he  mar- 
ried Miss  Anna  Milbanke;  a  year  later  the  two 
had  separated,  Lady  Byron  returning  to  her 
father's  home,  and  the  poet,  ostracized  by  society, 
going  to  Switzerland,  where  for  some  time  he  was 
in  the  company  of  the  Shelleys.  From  1816  to 
1 819  he  was  much  of  the  time  in  Venice,  living  a 
life  that  was  currently  reported  to  be  a  riot  of 
debauchery,  and  in  which,  when  all  allowances 
have  been  made  for  the  exaggerations  of  scandal- 
ous gossip,  there  were  many  black  passages.  The 
third  and  fourth  cantos  of  Harold  appeared  in 
1818;  the  same  year  he  began  Don  Juan,  publish- 
ing it  at  intervals  from  1819  till  his  death.  His 
dramas,  of  which  Cain  and  Manfred  are  the 
greatest,  appeared  between  182 1  and  1824;  in 
1822  he  published  the  Vision  of  Judgment,  a  reply 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


SiS 


to  Southey's  eulogy  of  George  III,  and  one  of  the 
most  successful  of  all  parodies.  In  1823  the 
Greek  revolutionists  appealed  to  Byron  for  help 
against  Turkey;  to  their  call  he  responded  enthu- 
siastically and  unselfishly.  In  January,  1824,  he 
reached  Greece;  three  months  he  spent  at  Mis- 
solonghi,  drilling  troops  and  combating  fever;  and 
then  he  died. 

Byron  has  to  his  credit  four  distinct  accomplish- 
ments, any  one  of  which,  unless  it  be  the  first, 
would  have  made  him  a  poet  of  rank.  He  ex- 
pressed in  his  verse,  and  in  his  personality,  the 
melancholy  pride  and  despair,  and  the  revolt 
against  society,  which  were  general  in  Europe 
during  the  years  following  the  collapse  of  the 
French  Revolution,  but  which  have  come  to  be 
considered  characteristically  "Byronic."  He 
was  a  brilliant  teller  of  tales,  which,  though  lack- 
ing many  of  the  finer  poetic  qualities,  are  yet 
masterly  narratives.  He  was  a  descriptive  poet 
whose  pictures  of  the  grander  manifestations  of 
Nature's  power  were  painted  with  a  sweep  and 
magnificence  unequalled  in  English  verse.  And 
in  Don  Juan,  his  masterpiece,  he  showed  himself 
a  daring  and  trenchant  critic  of  contemporary 
society,  and  of  the  foibles  of  human  nature  at  large. 
It  is  to  his  carelessness  of  form,  and  his  lack  of 
intellectual  power,  that  Byron  owes  the  refusal  of 
the  world  to  grant  him  a  place  in  the  small  circle 
of  the  greatest  poets. 

The  best  one  volume  edition  of  Byron  is  the 
Cambridge  (Houghton  Mifflin);  the  standard 
library  edition  is  that  of  G.  E.  Prothero  and  E  H. 
Coleridge  (John  Murray).  Essays  and  bio- 
graphical memoirs  have  been  numerous;  Nichol's 
Life,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  and  Noel's,  in  the  Great 
Writers  series,  are  both  good.  Matthew  Arnold's 
volume  of  selections  in  the  Golden  Treasury  series 
is  prefaced  by  a  valuable  essay. 


SHELLEY  (1792-1822) 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  was  born  in  Field  Place, 
Sussex,  in  1792.  After  some  years  at  Eton,  where 
the  yoke  of  educational  tradition  galled  him,  he 
went  up  to  Oxford  in  October,  1810.  In  March, 
181 1,  he  was  expelled  for  having  written  a  pam- 
phlet entitled  On  the  Necessity  of  Atheism,  and 
left  college  determined  to  give  his  life  to  the 
cause  of  intellectual  freedom.  During  the  summer 
of  the  same  year  he  eloped  with  Harriet  West- 
brook,  a  London  school-girl,  whom  he  married  in 
Edinburgh.  His  life  with  her  came  to  an  end  in 
the  summer  of  1814  when  he  left  England  with 
Mary  Godwin,  the  brilliant  daughter  of  William 
Godwin,  whose  philosophical  liberalism  strength- 
ened Shelley  in  his  defiance  of  law  and  tradition. 
In  181 6  Harriet  Westbrook  Shelley  drowned  her- 
self; shortly  thereafter  Shelley  married  Mary  God- 
win. By  1818  he  was  living  in  Italy,  virtually 
as  an  exile,  deprived  by  law  of  the  custody  of 
Harriet's  children,  and  fearing  to  return  to  Eng- 
land lest  further  legal  action  be  taken  against 
him.  But  here  in  Italy  he  did  his  greatest  work, 
Prometheus  Unbound,  The  Cenci,  Adonais,  and 
Hellas,  besides  a  large  number  of  magnificent 
lyrics,  all  appearing  between  1818  and  1822.     In 


July  of  1822  Shelley  was  drowned  while  sailing 
in  the  Gulf  of  Spezzia. 

To  understand  Shelley  one  must  think  of  him  as 
both  poet  and  philosopher.  His  poetical  reputa- 
tion rests  primarily  upon  his  lyric  power.  Even 
in  Prometheus  it  is  the  lyrical  and  not  the  dramatic 
elements  that  make  the  work  successful;  in  the 
better  known  and  briefer  works,  such  as  The 
Cloud,  To  a  Skylark,  To  Night,  and  the  Ode 
to  the  West  Wind,  the  imagery  is  daringly  mag- 
nificent, and  the  technique  virtually  perfect.  But 
Shelley  was  at  least  as  much  interested  in  his 
message  as  in  the  form  which  this  message  as- 
sumed. Living  in  the  years  when  the  conserva- 
tive reaction  after  the  failure  of  the  French 
Revolution  was  most  pronounced,  he  never 
allowed  his  faith  in  humanity  to  be  shaken,  but 
constantly  urged  the  perfectibility  of  mankind, 
and  the  power  of  love  to  regenerate  the  world. 
When  once  custom  had  been  abolished,  warfare 
ended,  and  the  tyranny  of  church  and  state 
forever  broken,  then,  Shelley  believed,  the  golden 
age  of  freedom  and  love  shadowed  forth  in  the 
last  act  of  Prometheus  Unbound  would  be  real- 
ized on  the  earth.  There  was,  of  course,  much 
of  the  dreamer  in  Shelley;  but  to  call  him  with 
Arnold  "a  beautiful  and  ineffectual  angel,  beating 
in  the  void  his  luminous  wings  in  vain,"  is  to  do 
him  scant  justice.  For  in  some  respects — as 
witness  his  sympathy  for  animals,  his  hatred  of 
war,  and  his  passionate  longing  for  intellectual 
and  religious  freedom, — Shelley's  weakness  was 
only  that  of  the  man  "ahead  of  his  times."  And 
the  very  essence  of  his  philosophy,  self-sacrifice  for 
the  good  of  the  world,  was  nearer  the  essence  of 
Christianity  than  the  Churchmen  who  condemned 
him  for  atheism  were  willing  to  admit. 

Good  one  volume  editions  of  Shelley's  poetry 
are  the  Globe  (Macmillan),  Cambridge  (Houghton 
Mifflin),  and  Oxford  (Oxford  Univ.  Press).  The 
Life  by  Dowden  (two  vols.,  Lippincott),  is  exhaus- 
tive, but  is  somewhat  injured  by  a  good  deal  of 
special  pleading.  Symonds's  Life,  in  the  E.  M.  L., 
is  an  excellent  brief  biography.  Trelawney's  Recol- 
lections of  the  Last  Days  of  Byron  and  Shelley  is  a 
vivid  contemporary  account  of  the  close  of 
Shelley's  life. 


KEATS  (1795-1821) 

John  Keats  was  born  in  London,  in  1795.  He 
was  the  son  of  Thomas  Keats,  at  first  chief  hostler 
and  later  manager  of  the  "Swan  and  Hoop"  inn, 
and  of  Frances  Jennings,  whose  father  was  the 
proprietor  of  the  inn.  When  Keats  was  eight 
years  old  his  parents,  eager  for  his  advancement, 
sent  him  to  school  at  Enfield.  Here  he  won  the 
literary  prizes  "as  a  matter  of  course."  His 
father  died  in  1804,  and  at  the  death  of  his  mother 
in  1810  Keats  found  himself  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  two  successful  but  somewhat  narrow- 
minded  merchants.  They  at  once  withdrew  him 
from  school  and  apprenticed  him  to  a  surgeon  at 
Edmonton.  In  1814,  when  his  indenture  was 
cancelled  by  mutual  agreement,  he  was  sufficiently 
interested  in  medicine  to  continue  his  studies  in 
the   London    hospitals.      But   already   his   chief 


8i6 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


concern  was  with  poetry,  and  in  1815  he  wrote 
at  least  one  of  his  great  sonnets,  On  First  Look- 
ing Into  Chapman's  Homer.  By  the  latter  part 
of  1816  he  had  definitely  made  up  his  mind  to 
give  his  life  to  poetry;  in  181 7  appeared  his  first 
volume,  Poems  by  John  Keats,  containing  the 
sonnet  on  Homer  and  Sleep  and  Poetry,  besides 
some  less  noteworthy  verse.  In  the  spring  of 
1818  came  Endymion,  which  at  first  passed  un- 
noticed, but  later  was  savagely  attacked  by 
Blackwood's  and  the  Quarterly  for  its  formlessness 
and  lack  of  restraint.  Towards  the  end  of  1818 
Keats  met  Fanny  Brawne,  with  whom  he  was 
soon  in  love,  but  whom  he  could  not  marry  on 
account  of  his  poor  health.  In  February  of  1820 
he  was  definitely  threatened  with  consumption; 
when  in  July  his  third  volume,  containing  the 
great  odes  and  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  appeared, 
Keats  was  so  ill  that  a  voyage  to  Italy  was  pro- 
posed as  the  only  means  of  saving  his  life.  In  the 
middle  of  September  he  sailed  with  his  friend 
Severn,  and  reached  Rome  in  December.  Here, 
in  February,  1821,  he  died,  and  was  buried  in  the 
Protestant  cemetery. 

Keats  was  first  and  last  an  artist,  keenly  sen- 
sitive to  beauty,  and  comparatively  unaffected 
by  the  changes  that  came  over  Europe  during 
his  lifetime.  Yearning  for  an  ideal  beauty  as  his 
own  hero  Endymion  longed  for  his  moon-goddess, 
Keats  gratified  this  desire  through  the  creation 
of  beauty  in  his  verse.  In  the  1817  volume,  and 
in  Endymion,  it  was  largely  beauty  of  detail  that 
occupied  him,  beauty  of  lines  and  passages  rich 
with  "a  fine  excess"  of  sensuous  imagery.  But 
the  poems  of  1820,  especially  St.  Agnes  and 
the  odes,  have  all  the  imaginative  richness  of  the 
earlier  work,  and  are  strengthened  by  a  sense  of 
form  that  had  hitherto  been  lacking. 

Good  editions  of  Keats's  poems  are  the  Cam- 
bridge (Houghton  Mifflin),  the  Globe  (Macmillan), 
and  the  Oxford  (Oxford  Univ.  Press).  The  best 
is  H.  Buxton  Forman's  (Gowans  and  Gray,  Glas- 
gow; 4  vols.).  Sir  Sidney  Colvin's  Life  in  the  E. 
M.  L.  is  a  good  brief  biography. 


LAMB  (1775-1834) 

Charles  Lamb  was  born  in  London  in  1775,  the 
son  of  a  lawyer's  clerk.  From  1782  to  1789  he 
was  a  student  at  Christ's  Hospital,  where  he 
formed  with  Coleridge  a  friendship  that  was  to  be 
life-long.  After  leaving  school  he  went  to  work 
as  a  clerk  in  the  South  Sea  House;  in  April  of  1792 
he  moved  to  the  East  India  House  and  began  the 
service  that  was  to  be  ended  thirty-three  years 
later  when  Lamb  was  pensioned  by  the  Company. 
The  year  1796  brought  tragedy  into  the  house- 
hold of  his  father,  with  whom  Lamb  was  still 
living.  A  taint  of  insanity  ran  in  the  family;  in 
this  year  Mary  Lamb  became  violently  insane 
and  killed  her  mother.  The  rest  of  his  life  Lamb 
spent  in  caring  for  his  sister — the  Bridget  Elia  of 
the  essays- — who  was  subject  to  the  recurrence 
of  her  malady,  but  who  in  her  rational  periods 
was  a  sympathetic  and  stimulating  companion. 
Lamb's   first   literary    work   of   importance   was 


written  in  actual  collaboration  with  his  sister: 
the  Tales  from  Shakespeare  (1807).  But  although 
Lamb  had  written  some  verse  and  a  good  deal  of 
prose  before  the  Tales  appeared,  and  had  pub- 
lished his  collected  Works  in  181 8,  it  was  not  till 
1820  that  he  began  the  series  of  essays  by  which  he 
is  best  known.  In  this  year  the  London  Magazine 
was  established;  to  it  Lamb  contributed  the 
Essays  of  Elia.  The  latter  years  of  his  life  were 
uneventful.  His  sister  demanded  an  increasing 
amount  of  care,  and  though  his  pension  brought 
him  leisure,  he  did  little  after  its  bestowal  to  add 
to  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  letters. 

The  charm  of  Lamb's  essays  is  due  in  part  to 
the  humor  and  pathos  which  pervade  them,  and 
in  part  to  the  intimate  relationship  which  Lamb 
at  once  establishes  between  himself  and  the 
reader.  Writing  as  if  for  a  circle  of  friends,  Lamb 
has  put  his  own  personality  into  his  essays  so 
completely  that  he  has  become  one  of  the  best 
known  of  English  writers,  while  by  his  simple 
unpretentiousness  he  has  concealed  an  art  as 
great  as  Addison's,  albeit  of  a  very  different 
sort. 

The  best  edition  of  Lamb's  works  is  that  of 
E.  V.  Lucas  (Methuen),  who  is  also  the  author  of 
the  best  biography. 


HAZLITT  (1 778-1830) 

William  Hazlitt,  the  son  of  a  Unitarian  minister, 
was  educated  for  the  ministry,  studied  art  for  a 
time,  was  encouraged  by  Coleridge  to  pursue  an 
interest  in  metaphysics,  and  first  came  before  the 
public  as  a  writer  on  philosophical  subjects.  The 
maturing  of  his  tastes  finally  led  him  to  literature 
and  journalism.  He  wrote  for  several  of  the 
dailies  and  periodicals,  doing  most  work  for  Leigh 
Hunt's  Examiner.  He  was  acquainted  with  the 
Lake  poets,  Lamb,  and  the  London  literary  set, 
and  though  he  sooner  or  later  quarrelled  with 
almost  all  his  friends  the  estrangement  was  not 
usually  permanent.  His  work  of  greatest  general 
interest  was  done  in  Characters  of  Shakespeare's 
Plays  (1817),  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets  (1818), 
English  Comic  Writers  (1819),  Dramatic  Literature 
of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  (1821),  and  two  collections 
of  miscellaneous  essays,  Table  Talk  and  The 
Plain  Speaker.  His  interest  in  the  French  Revo- 
lution and  Napoleon  led  him  to  write  a  life  of 
Napoleon,  not  very  much  esteemed.  Personally 
Hazlitt  was  shy,  irascible,  and  curiously  suscept- 
ible to  feminine  attraction.  As  a  critic  he  is  at 
once  independent  and  dogmatic,  of  fine  taste,  and 
on  the  whole  sympathetic  in  his  attitude  toward 
the  newer  spirit  in  literature.  With  Lamb  and 
Coleridge  he  did  valuable  service  to  the  cause  of 
literature  by  helping  to  establish  a  proper  ap- 
preciation of  Shakespeare  and  his  fellow  drama- 
tists. His  style,  not  so  intimate  or  charming  as 
Lamb's,  has  a  rich  personal  flavor  and  vivacity, 
and  is  superior  to  Lamb's  in  point  and  vigor. 

The  standard  edition  of  Hazlitt  is  edited  by 
Waller  and  Glover  (Dent).  Augustine  Birrel's 
Life  (E.  M.  L.)  is  good;  more  extensive  are  the 
Memoirs  (2  vols.,  1867)  by  W.  C.  Hazlitt. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


817 


DE  QUINCEY  (1785-1859) 

Thomas  De  Quincey  was  born  at  MancAester 
in  1785.  He  was  a  precocious  boy,  and  when  in 
1803  he  went  up  to  Oxford  University  he  took 
with  him  not  only  the  ability  to  converse  with 
ease  in  Greek  and  Latin,  but  a  considerable  ex- 
perience with  modern  life  as  well, — experience 
gained  during  a  runaway  sojourn  in  Wales  and 
a  year's  existence  in  the  slums  of  London.  He 
left  Oxford  in  1808  to  begin  the  study  of  law; 
in  1809,  however,  he  leased  Wordsworth's  old 
home  at  Grasmere,  and  began  his  career  as  a  man 
of  letters.  Here  he  remained  till  1820,  when  he 
went  up  to  London  to  write  for  the  London  Maga- 
zine, to  which  during  182 1  he  contributed  the 
Confessions  of  an  English  Opium  Eater.  In  1828 
he  moved  again,  this  time  to  Edinburgh,  where 
he  wrote  for  Blackwood's  and  the  Edinburgh  Lit- 
erary Gazette.  He  died  in  Edinburgh  towards  the 
close  of  1859,  after  half  a  century  of  arduous  and 
persistent  journalistic  work. 

De  Quincey's  fame  would  be  greater  had  he 
done  less  discursive  and  trivial  work;  the  Con- 
fessions, however,  have  placed  him  among  the 
masters  of  English  prose.  This,  his  most  char- 
acteristic production,  is  in  part  a  record  of  his 
experiences  with  opium,  and  in  part  a  chronicle 
of  his  early  years.  He  first  tasted  opium  during 
his  residence  at  Oxford;  by  1819  he  was  in  com- 
plete bondage  to  the  drug.  The  Suspiria  de  Pro- 
fundis,  in  which  the  eloquent  prose  of  the  Confes- 
sions becomes  even  richer  and  more  exotic  in  its 
splendor,  is  also  associated  with  opium,  for  it  is 
here  that  De  Quincey  pictures  with  poetic  mag- 
nificence the  phantasmagoric  creations  of  his 
dreams.  It  is  in  large  part  this  stylistic  richness 
that  makes  De  Quincey's  work  memorable;  his  is 
thoroughly  romantic  prose;  prose  that  could  have 
been  written  only  during  the  early  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  or,  with  some  differences  of 
language,  in  the  seventeenth.  To  the  writers  of 
Elizabethan  England  De  Quincey  undoubtedly 
owed  much;  the  rarest  qualities  of  his  style,  how- 
ever, he  imitated  from  nobody. 

De  Quincey's  chief  works  are  accessible  in  many 
editions;  an  excellent  collected  edition  is  that  by 
David  Masson  (A.  and  C.  Black).  Lord  Morley's 
Life  (E.  M.  L.)  is  a  good  biography. 


LANDOR  (1 775-1864) 

Walter  Savage  Landor  was  born  at  Warwick, 
in  January,  1775.  After  studying  at  Rugby  he 
entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1793, 
only  to  leave  one  year  later  under  discipline  be- 
cause of  the  exuberance  of  his  republican  princi- 
ples. His  early  verses  were  published  in  1795;  in 
1 798  came  Cebir,  his  first  work  of  great  importance. 
His  enthusiasm  for  liberty  prompted  him  in  1808 
to  raise  and  equip  a  regiment  in  the  Spanish  army 
that  was  fighting  Napoleon;  his  military  career, 
however,  was  short.  In  181 1  he  published,  anony- 
mously, his  drama  Count  Julian.  In  1821  he  re- 
moved to  Italy;  three  years  later  appeared  the  first 
series  of  Imaginary  Conversations.    These,  with  the 


Hellenics  (1847),  are  the  works  on  which  Landor's 
fame  rests  most  securely;  though  his  later  years 
were  unusually  productive,  he  never  wrote  more 
nobly  than  in  these  two  collections.  From  1835  to 
1858  he  lived  in  England,  somewhat  embittered  by 
domestic  disturbances;  in  1858  he  returned  to  Italy, 
where  he  lived  until  his  death  in  1864. 

To  one  who  reads  chiefly  the  Hellenics  and 
Imaginary  Conversations,  Landor  appears  re- 
strained and  austere,  and  very  unlike  the  enthusi- 
astic Romanticists  who  were  his  contemporaries. 
But  it  is  largely  because  of  his  lofty  dignity  and 
restraint  that  Landor  is  significant.  These  qual- 
ities he  found  in  the  classical  literature  from 
which  came  his  inspiration;  no  English  poet  save 
Milton  has  done  more  to  bring  over  into  English 
literature  the  temper  and  ideals  of  the  genuine 
Classicism  that  had  been  so  misrepresented  by 
the  poets  of  the  eighteenth  century.  That  Lan- 
dor, writing  from  1798  to  1840,  should  have  been 
able  to  do  this,  indicates  at  once  how  far  removed 
he  was  from  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries, 
and  how  great  were  his  own  powers. 

Landor's  Complete  Works  have  been  edited  by 
C.  G.  Crump  (Dent  and  Co.);  selections  from  the 
Conversations  are  in  the  Camelot  Series;  from  the 
poetry,  in  the  Canterbury  Poets  (Parker  P.  Sim- 
mons). The  best  Life  is  by  Sir  Sidney  Colvin, 
in  the  E.  M.  L. 


TENNYSON  (1809-1892) 

The  year  1809  was  good  to  England,  for  it  gave 
her  Gladstone,  Darwin,  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and 
Alfred  Tennyson.  The  last  was  born  in  the  little 
village  of  Somersby,  in  Lincolnshire,  where  his 
father  was  rector.  The  family  was  a  large  one, 
consisting  of  eight  brothers  (of  whom  Alfred  was 
the  fourth)  and  four  sisters,  and  poetry  ran  in  it, 
for  they  nearly  all  wrote  verse,  and  Charles  and 
Frederick  gained  some  reputation  as  poets.  The 
Tennysons  used  to  spend  their  summers  at  Mable- 
thorpe,  where  the  "league-long  rollers"  of  the 
North  Sea  thunder  in  upon  flat  beaches;  Tenny- 
son's many  and  varied  descriptions  of  waves  are 
to  be  traced  back  to  this  early  acquaintance  with 
the  ocean,  just  as  his  landscapes  frequently  re- 
call the  rolling  wolds  of  the  Lincolnshire  country. 
Charles  and  Alfred  went  together  to  Louth 
Grammar  School,  but  after  1820  were  taught  at 
home  by  their  father. 

In  1827  a  Louth  bookseller  printed  a  little 
volume  entitled  Poems  by  Two  Brothers,  the 
authors  being  Charles  and  Alfred  Tennyson. 
These  juvenilia  make  a  somewhat  amusing  parade 
of  schoolboy  learning,  and  are  pervaded  by  an 
assumed  melancholy,  in  which  the  great  contem- 
porary influence  of  Byron  is  evident.  Alfred  was 
an  ardent  admirer  of  Byron.  He  has  told  us  how 
he  was  affected  by  the  news  of  Byron's  death  in 
1824:  "I  thought  the  whole  world  was  at  an  end; 
I  thought  everything  was  over  and  finished  for 
everyone — that  nothing  else  mattered.  I  remem- 
ber I  walked  out  alone  and  carved  '  Byron  is  dead ' 
into  the  sandstone."  In  1828  the  two  brothers 
went  up  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  where 
they  formed  friendships  with  several  men  later 


Si8 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


well  known;  in  particular,  the  intimacy  of  Alfred 
with  Arthur  Hal  lam,  son  of  the  historian,  was  to 
bear  the  noblest  poetic  fruit.  He  continued 
writing  verse,  and  in  1829  gained  the  Chancellor's 
medal  with  his  poem  Timbuctoo,  in  which  now 
and  then  we  catch  the  first  faint  echoes  of 
the  sonorous  roll  and  melody  of  the  Tennysonian 
blank  verse.  He  left  Cambridge  in  February,  1831, 
without  taking  a  degree,  recalled  to  Somersby 
by  the  illness  of  his  father,  who  died  in  March. 
While  yet  at  Cambridge  he  had  published  the 
first  volume  bearing  his  own  name,  Poems,  Chiefly 
Lyrical,  containing  among  much  that  was  merely 
pretty  and  too  sugary  some  really  good  things  like 
Mariana  and  The  Poet.  Late  in  1S32  appeared 
another  volume  of  Poems,  wherein  the  pres- 
ence of  such  things  as  The  Lady  of  Shalott,  Oenone, 
The  Palace  of  Art,  and  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 
foreshadowed  the  coming  greatness. 

In  1S33  Arthur  Hallam  died  in  Vienna.  The 
blow  fell  heavily  on  Tennyson,  and  for  ten  years 
he  published  no  more  poetry.  The  years  were 
far  from  wasted,  however,  for  he  was  busy  con- 
stantly revising  old  verse  and  writing  new.  The 
result  of  this  steady  labor  of  self-criticism  was 
seen  in  the  two  volumes  of  Poems  of  1842.  The 
more  varied  interest,  the  broader  human  sym- 
pathy, and  the  perfect  artistry  of  this  work  made 
Tennyson's  fame  secure.  Many  of  the  poems  of 
1832  were  reprinted  in  their  present  form,  and 
Tennyson  never  wrote  finer  poetry  than  in 
Ulysses  and  Morte  d' Arthur.  One  result  of  the 
public  recognition  accorded  to  these  volumes 
was  the  granting  to  the  poet  in  1845  of  an  annual 
pension  of  two  hundred  pounds.  The  Princess 
appeared  in  1847,  though  the  lyrics  which  con- 
stitute one  of  its  chief  beauties  were  not  added 
till  a  third  edition.  The  year  1850  was,  as  Hallam 
Tennyson  says,  the  "golden  year"  of  Tennyson's 
life.  He  published  In  Mcmoriam,  upon  which  he 
had  been  working  for  sixteen  years;  he  married 
Emily  Sellwood,  with  whom  he  had  been  in  love 
for  years,  but  whom  he  had  been  unable  to  marry 
because  of  comparative  poverty;  and  on  the  death 
of  Wordsworth  he  was  made  Laureate.  Three 
years  later  the  Tennysons  moved  to  the  house  in 
Farringford,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  which  was  their 
home  for  the  rest  of  their  lives.  Maud  came  out 
in  1855,  and  four  years  later  the  first  four  of  the 
Idylls  of  the  King;  four  more  were  added  in  1869, 
one  in  187 1,  one  in  1872,  and  the  series  was  com- 
pleted in  1885.  In  1864  were  printed  Enoch 
Arden  and  many  of  the  English  idylls.  Late  in 
life  Tennyson  turned  to  the  writing  of  poetic 
drama,  writing  a  trilogy  on  English  history, 
Queen  Mary  (1875),  Harold  (1877),  and  Bccket 
(1884),  of  which  the  last  was  acted  with  great 
popular  favor  by  Henry  Irving.  Two  or  three 
other  plays  also  made  acting  successes.  The  last 
years  of  Tennyson's  life  were  full  of  travel,  of 
work,  and  of  honor.  He  was  raised  to  the  peerage 
in  1884,  an  honor  which  he  accepted  as  a  tribute 
to  literature  rather  than  to  himself.  He  died  in 
1892,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey 
beside  his  friend  Browning. 

Tennyson  has  been  called  the  representative 
poet,  and  In  Memoriam  the  representative  poem 


of  the  Victorian  era,  because  it  expresses  the  com- 
promise between  religion  and  science  which  the 
era  worked  out.  Tennyson  accepts  the  nebular 
hypothesis,  the  theory  of  evolution,  and  other 
teachings  of  modern  science,  but  succeeds  in 
reconciling  them  with  his  faith  in  a  benevolent 
and  loving  Power  which  makes  all  things  work 
together  for  good.  Along  other  lines,  too, 
Tennyson  best  represents  the  thought  of  Eng- 
land during  his  period.  He  is  thoroughly  and 
typically  English  in  his  political  ideas,  standing 
conservatively  for  sobriety  in  freedom  against 
what  he  considered  the  tendency  to  rash  excess 
across  the  channel.  As  poet  laureate  he  wrote  a 
good  deal  of  patriotic  verse  glorifying  England 
and  her  great  men.  Although  the  English  idylls 
contain  many  pictures  and  figures  from  common 
life,  Tennyson  was  by  temper  aristocratic,  never, 
for  instance,  speaking  for  humanity  as  do  Burns 
and  Wordsworth. 

Tennyson  is  a  good,  if  not  a  great,  story  teller, 
but  the  idyll  is  the  form  he  manages  most  suc- 
cessfully, a  form  in  which  he  can  use  ornament 
freely,  and  upon  which  he  can  bestow  his  remark- 
able power  of  detailed  description.  The  Idylls 
of  the  King  and  The  Princess  are  full  of  superb 
descriptive  passages,  and  no  poet  has  been  more 
successful  in  providing  a  suitable  setting  and 
creating  a  proper  atmosphere  for  his  narrative. 
In  sheer  artistry  Tennyson  is  perhaps  the  first  of 
English  poets.  In  majesty  and  harmony  his 
blank  verse  rivals  that  of  Milton,  and  has  a  flex- 
ibility and  variety  surpassing  Milton's.  In  lyric 
verse,  too,  Tennyson  is  one  of  the  supreme  artists, 
exhibiting  a  felicity  of  phrase  and  a  command  of 
poetic  device  which  at  times,  as  in  The  Bugle  So>ig, 
rise  to  pure  magic. 

The  new  Works  of  Tennyson  (Macmillan  1913), 
with  a  memoir  by  the  poet's  son  and  Tennyson's 
own  notes,  is  the  best  single-volume  edition. 
The  authoritative  life  is  the  two-volume  Memoir 
by  Hallam,  the  present  Lord  Tennyson  (Mac- 
millan). Tennyson,  His  Art  and  Relation  to  Mod- 
ern Life,  by  Stopford  Brooke  (G.  P.  Putnam's 
Sons)  is  a  good  commentary. 

BROWNING  (181 2-1889) 

Robert  Browning  was  born  in  Camberwell, 
on  the  outskirts  of  London,  three  years  after 
Tennyson.  Of  formal  schooling  the  boy  had  not 
much.  A  few  years  in  a  private  school  near  home, 
some  private  tutoring,  a  few  months  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  London — this  sums  it  up.  His  real 
education  was  gained  in  the  family  circle.  Robert 
Browning,  Senior,  a  clerk  in  the  Bank  of  England, 
was  scholarly  and  artistic  by  temperament,  a 
good  linguist,  and  the  possessor  of  a  large  and 
curiously  varied  library.  Young  Browning  was 
an  omnivorous  reader,  and  in  his  father's  library 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  many  of  the  odd, 
obscure  people  who  figure  so  largely  in  his  poetry. 
His  mother,  moreover,  was  something  of  an 
artist,  and  a  good  musician,  and  the  boy  inher- 
ited her  love  of  art  and  music.  An  understand- 
ing of  Browning's  family  life,  of  the  manner  of  his 
training,  and  of  the  nature  of  his  reading,  makes 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


819 


more  intelligible  the  curious  character  of  his  knowl- 
edge and  his  subject  matter.  A  fact  of  first  rate 
importance  in  Browning's  life  was  his  chance 
introduction  to  Shelley's  poetry.  Shelley's  in- 
fluence, to  which  Memorabilia  bears  strong  witness, 
is  seen  in  Browning's  first  published  poem,  Paul- 
ine (1833);  this  first  effort  evinces  that  interest 
in  soul-development  and  personality  which  the 
poet  exhibited  all  through  his  life.  Pauline  was 
followed  in  1835  by  Paracelsus,  a  study  of  the  me- 
diaeval philosopher;  though  not  widely  read,  it 
made  for  Browning  friends  in  literary  circles.  It 
was  through  the  encouragement  of  one  of  these 
friends,  Macready  the  actor-manager,  that  Brown- 
ing wrote  his  first  play,  Strafford,  produced  with- 
out much  success  in  1837.  A  visit  to  Italy 
in  the  next  year  opened  to  Browning's  eyes  the 
fascination  of  that  country,  which  from  that 
time  on  he  loved  almost  as  devotedly  as  he  did 
England.  The  journey  bore  fruit  in  Sordello 
(1840),  a  long  study  of  an  obscure  Italian  poet, 
so  difficult  in  style  that  it  put  a  blight  upon 
Browning's  reputation  which  took  years  to  remove. 
From  1 841  to  1846  appeared,  in  cheap  pamphlet 
form,  a  series  of  plays  and  poems  called  Bells  and 
Pomegranates;  in  two  of  the  numbers,  Dramatic 
Lyrics  (1843)  and  Dramatic  Romances  (1845),  are 
some  of  Browning's  finest  short  poems.  Of  the 
plays  only  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  was  performed 
at  the  time,  and  that  failed,  partly  on  account  of 
a  quarrel  between  Browning  and  Macready. 

In  1845  Browning  became  acquainted  with 
Elizabeth  Barrett,  who  had  already  proved  her- 
self to  be  the  most  gifted  of  all  English  woman 
poets.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  had  been  for 
years  an  almost  hopeless  invalid,  and  without  the 
consent  of  her  savagely  selfish  father.  Browning 
persuaded  her  to  marry  him  in  1846,  and  the  two 
went  at  once  to  Italy,  which  was  their  home  for  the 
fifteen  years  of  their  married  life.  History  has 
recorded  no  marriage  more  ideal,  and  the  perfect 
union  of  heart  and  mind  and  soul  is  revealed  in 
several  fine  poems  of  Browning's,  and  with  super- 
lative beauty  in  Mrs.  Browning's  sequence  of 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.  After  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's death  in  1861  her  husband  returned  to  Eng- 
land. His  life  thenceforth  was  uneventful,  marked 
only  by  annual  visits  abroad,  and  the  publication 
of  a  very  large  number  of  volumes.  He  died  in 
Italy,  but  his  body  was  brought  back  to  England 
and  laid  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Browning's  work  falls  naturally  into  three  pe- 
riods, the  first  ending  in  1840  and  containing  the 
poems  already  mentioned.  The  publication  of 
Pippa  Passes  in  1841  as  the  first  number  of  Bells 
and  Pomegranates  marks  the  beginning  of  his 
'finest  work,  which  includes  the  two  series  of  dra- 
matic monologues  entitled  Men  and  Women  (1855) 
and  Dramatis  Persona  (1864),  and  his  master- 
piece, The  Ring  and  the  Book  (1868-69).  The  work 
of  the  last  period  from  1870  on,  large  in  extent, 
and  showing  no  diminution  in  vigor,  is  mainly 
philosophical  and  analytical,  is  inferior  in  beauty, 
and  exhibits  the  poet's  eccentricities  in  their  worst 
form. 

Browning's  most  characteristic  contribution 
to  literature  is  the  dramatic  monologue,  a  form 


which  he  practically  invented  and  perfected.  It 
gives  him  abundant  opportunity  for  the  display 
of  his  marvellous  power  of  dramatic  characteri- 
zation, and  for  the  use  of  the  grotesque  in  material 
and  method  which  distinguishes  him  from  all  other 
poets.  At  the  same  time  he  has  won  by  a  large 
number  of  fine  lyrics  a  place  as  one  of  the  great 
lyric  poets  of  his  country.  All  Browning's  work 
bears  the  impress  of  a  tremendously  virile  per- 
sonality. His  very  difficulties  are  stimulating  to 
a  thoughtful  reader.  His  robust  optimism,  based 
on  a  profound  faith  in  the  power  of  love,  human 
and  divine,  and  a  profound  belief  in  God  and  im- 
mortality, and  summed  up  in  the  lines 

"God's  in  his  heaven, 
All's  right  with  the  world," 

must  always  be  a  tonic  force  upon  his  readers. 

The  Life  by  G.  K.  Chesterton  (E.  M.  L.)  is  en- 
tertaining and  suggestive.  Longer  and  more  de- 
tailed biographies  are  those  by  Mrs.  Sutherland 
Orr  (new  ed.,  Houghton  Mifflin),  and  W.  H. 
Griffin  and  H.  C.  Minchin  (Macmillan).  Useful 
aids  to  study  are  Mrs.  Orr's  Handbook  to  the  Works 
of  Robert  Browning  (Bell)  and  Berdoe's  Browning 
Cyclopedia  (Macmillan).  Complete  single  volume 
editions  are  the  Globe  (new  ed.  1915,  with  some 
material  not  readily  accessible  elsewhere,  Macmil- 
lan) and  the  Cambridge  (Houghton  Mifflin). 


FITZGERALD  (1809-1883) 

Fitzgerald  was  beyond  cavil  a  genius,  and  there 
must  have  been  attraction  of  personality  in  a  man 
who  could  win  and  keep  such  friends  as  Tennyson, 
Thackeray,  and  Carlyle.  But  he  drifted  through 
life  like  a  derelict,  aimless,  irresolute,  and  obscure. 
After  graduating  from  Cambridge  in  1830  he 
lived  the  life  of  a  secluded  country  gentleman, 
publishing  from  time  to  time  books  which  at- 
tracted little  attention.  The  best  of  his  work  is 
translation:  Six  Dramas  of  Calderon,  the  Span- 
ish playwright,  and  translations  from  /Eschylus 
and  Sophocles.  The  translation,  or  rather,  para- 
phrase of  Omar  Khayyam's  Rubdiydt  was  first 
printed  in  1859;  so  few  of  the  first  edition  of 
two  hundred  copies  were  sold  that  the  remainder 
were  marked  down  to  a  penny  and  placed  in  a 
second-hand  book  stall.  Here  the  book  was  dis- 
covered by  Rossetti  and  Swinburne,  who  spread 
the  knowledge  of  its  beauty  through  their  set. 
The  circle  of  readers  gradually  widened,  and 
Fitzgerald  made  changes  through  three  subse- 
quent editions;  it  is  the  fourth  edition,  of  1879, 
which  is  now  generally  read.  There  have  been 
other  translations  of  the  Rubdiydt  more  faithful 
to  the  letter,  but  no  other  has  so  perfectly  rendered 
the  spirit,  or  has,  like  this,  made  a  profound  impres- 
sion on  English  literature.  In  Fitzgerald  old  Omar 
found  an  ideal  interpreter;  for  his  philosophy, 
epicurean,  agnostic,  and  fatalistic,  yet  tinged  with 
a  wistful  longing  that  will  not  down,  was  perfectly 
attested  to  the  key  of  the  modern  poet's  tempera- 
ment. 

The  definitive  edition  of  Fitzgerald's  works  is 
edited  by  F.  Bentham  and  E-  Gosse  (7  vols.,  Mac- 


S20 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


millan).  His  interesting  letters  are  edited  by 
W.  A.  Wright  (Macmillan).  The  best  life  is  that 
by  A.  C.  Benson  (E.  M.  L.) 


CARLYLE  (1795-1881) 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  born  in  the  Scottish  village 
of  Ecclefechan  in  1795.  After  graduating  from 
the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where  he  spent  four 
rather  unsatisfactory  years,  he  had  some  difficulty 
in  getting  started  in  life.  The  ministry,  law,  and 
teaching  he  rejected  one  after  another;  finally  he 
settled  down  to  be  a  man  of  letters,  and  began 
writing  for  reviews  and  encyclopaedias.  From 
1828  to  1834  he  lived  with  his  bride,  Jane  Welsh 
Carlyle,  at  Craigenputtoch,  where,  in  a  "solitude 
almost  Druidical"  Carlyle  wrote  various  critical 
essays,  and  his  most  original  work,  Sartor  Resartus. 
At  Craigenputtoch  Carlyle  and  Emerson  first  met, 
and  began  their  life-long  and  intimate  friendship. 
Sartor  appeared  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  London, 
during  1833  and  1834.  After  1834  Carlyle  was  a 
resident  of  London.  In  1837  he  published  The 
French  Revolution,  and  in  1841  Heroes  and  Hero- 
Worship,  a  series  of  essays  that  had  been  delivered 
as  lectures  before  London  audiences.  In  1843 
came  Past  and  Present,  and  in  1845  the  Letters  and 
Speeches  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  all  of  them  books  that 
won  many  readers  in  England,  and,  thanks  to 
Emerson's  services,  found  even  larger  audiences 
across  the  Atlantic.  By  1845,  however,  Carlyle's 
health  was  badly  shaken,  and  his  next  great  work, 
the  History  of  Fricderich  II,  did  not  begin  to  ap- 
pear till  1858.  Carlyle  had  suffered  from  dyspepsia 
during  his  college  course;  he  was  a  sick  man  much 
of  his  life.  When  in  1866  his  wife  died,  the  shock, 
added  to  his  chronic  suffering  from  disease,  "broke 
his  life  in  two."  Never  again  did  he  do  anything 
which  added  to  his  fame;  some  of  his  later  writ- 
ings, harsh  protests  against  the  times  in  which  he 
lived,  might  better  have  been  left  unpublished. 
In  1881  he  died. 

It  was  Carlyle's  fortune  to  be  out  of  sympathy 
with  his  age.  He  wasted  much  energy  railing 
against  science  and  democracy,  the  two  most  char- 
acteristic developments  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
To  him  science  appeared  only  as  the  destroyer  of 
wonder  and  worship;  democracy,  "government 
by  the  worst,"  was  the  doom  of  hero  and  king. 
But  despite  this  hostility  to  the  contemporary 
world,  Carlyle  accomplished  much.  His  History 
of  the  French  Revolution,  though  criticized  for  its 
lack  of  understanding  of  the  French  temper,  is  a 
brilliant  picture  of  a  nation-wide  upheaval;  the 
Friederich  II  is  epic  in  its  scope,  and  of  astonish- 
ing accuracy.  In  the  Cromwell  he  painted  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  the  Protector,  and  did  much  to 
convince  England  of  his  sincerity.  And  in  Heroes, 
Past  and  Present,  and  Sartor,  he  urged  the  claims 
of  the  spirit  and  preached  the  gospels  of  labor  and 
self-sacrifice  with  superb  eloquence.  If  in  some 
of  his  work  Carlyle's  voice  was  too  strident  and 
his  recriminations  too  general,  in  these,  his  noblest 
utterances,  he  spoke  with  all  the  fervor  and  solemn 
passion  of  a  Hebrew  prophet. 

The  best  brief  biography  of  Carlyle  is  by  Gar- 
nett,  in  the  Great  Writers  series.     Editions  of  his 


better  known  works  are  numerous;  MacMechan's 
editions  of  Sartor  and  Heroes,  in  the  Athenceum 
Press  series  (Ginn),  are  inexpensive  and  complete 
in  every  desirable  feature. 


RUSKIN  (1819-1900) 

John  Ruskin,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  London  wine- 
merchant,  was  born  in  February,  1819.  His 
formal  education  did  not  begin  till  he  was  fifteen; 
by  that  time,  however,  he  had  gained  for  himself 
a  knowledge  of  literature  and  art  so  great  as  to 
make  the  teaching  of  an  English  school  seem 
elementary.  His  university  course  at  Christ's 
Church,  Oxford,  was  distinguished  by  his  winning 
the  Newdigate  Prize  for  poetry;  it  was  also  during 
his  undergraduate  days  that  his  boyish  love  for 
Turner's  landscapes  developed  into  the  enthu- 
siasm which  prompted  Modern  Painters  (1843- 
60).  This,  the  first  of  Ruskin's  great  books 
on  art,  is  ostensibly  a  defence  of  Turner  against 
the  charge  of  painting  unnaturally;  in  fact, 
however,  it  is  a  survey  of  many  schools  and  types 
for  the  purpose  of  determining  the  bases  of  artis- 
tic effects.  In  1849  appeared  the  Seven  Lamps  of 
Architecture;  in  1851-53  The  Stones  of  Venice. 
In  these  three,  his  most  important  books  on  art, 
Ruskin  propounded  and  defended  his  thesis  that 
a  nation's  art,  particularly  its  architecture,  is  a 
sure  index  of  its  moral  and  social  condition,  and 
that  great  art  is  impossible  unless  it  rests  back 
upon  national  greatness.  Interested  in  the  im- 
provement of  art,  and  considering  it  the  result  of 
social  conditions,  it  was  natural  for  Ruskin  to 
turn  his  attention  away  from  the  result  to  the 
cause;  after  i860  he  was  no  longer  primarily  an 
art  critic,  but  a  social  reformer.  He  heralded  his 
appearance  in  this  new  field  by  publishing  in  i860 
Unto  This  Last,  a  collection  of  papers  on  political 
economy;  Fors  Clavigera  (1871),  written  in  the 
form  of  letters  to  working  men,  indicates  how 
radical  were  the  changes  proposed  by  Ruskin, 
and  how  impractical  many  of  his  views.  Ruskin 
believed  himself  to  have  failed  in  his  attempts  to 
better  the  condition  of  the  English  working  classes; 
certainly  his  influence  in  this  field  was  much 
slighter  than  it  had  been  in  the  domain  of  criticism. 
He  died  in  1900,  leaving  as  his  last  work  a  delight- 
ful volume  of  reminiscences,  Praterita,  written 
at  the  suggestion  of  his  American  friend,  Charles 
Eliot  Norton. 

To  the  student  of  to-day  Ruskin  is  significant 
chiefly  on  account  of  his  style.  That  he  did  much 
to  establish  the  criticism  of  art  on  a  substantial 
philosophical  basis  is  indisputable,  as  is  the  fact 
that  in  his  sociological  writings  he  was  moved  by 
the  noblest  aspirations  and  ideals.  But  it  is  after 
all  for  his  magic  power  over  words  that  Ruskin 
is  remembered,  for  his  brilliant  descriptions,  his 
full,  rich,  and  almost  lyrical  rhythms,  and  for  a 
power  of  organization  that  is  not  always  a  con- 
comitant of  the  romantic  temperament. 

The  great  edition  of  Ruskin  is  that  of  Cook  and 
Wedderburn  (George  Allen  &  Co.) ;  less  expensive 
editions  of  such  of  his  works  as  are  out  of  copy- 
right are  numerous.  The  best  biography  is 
W.  G.  Collingwood's  (2  vols.,  Houghton  Mifflin); 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


821 


Harrison's,  in  the  E.  M.  L.,  is  briefer,  and  trust- 
worthy. 

MACAULAY  (1800-1859) 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay,  Baron  Macaulay, 
was  born  in  October,  1800.  His  precocity  as  a 
youth  has  been  the  subject  of  many  an  anecdote; 
his  memory  was  of  the  sort  which  enabled  him  to 
learn  by  heart,  and  without  undue  exertion,  all 
of  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Paradise  Lost.  In  1818 
he  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  of  which 
he  was  later  elected  Fellow.  When  he  was  twenty- 
five  years  old  he  began  his  career  as  journalistic 
critic  by  publishing  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  his 
essay  on  Milton.  Immature  in  judgment,  it  was 
nevertheless,  startlingly  readable,  and  made  its 
author  known  and  popular  at  once.  Five  years 
later  Macaulay  found  himself  virtually  destitute, 
his  family  fortune  exhausted,  and  his  fellowship 
expiring.  At  this  juncture  he  was  sent  to  the 
House  of  Commons  by  Lord  Lansdowne,  who 
under  the  old  system  controlled  the  seat  for  Calne. 
Macaulay  found  the  House  perplexed  by  the 
problems  of  Parliamentary  reform,  and  although 
the  passage  of  the  Reform  Bill  might  have  de- 
prived him  of  his  seat,  he  gave  himself  enthu- 
siastically to  the  support  of  the  measure,  and  won 
a  marked  success  by  his  speeches.  From  1834  to 
1838  he  was  in  India  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme 
Council.  On  his  return  to  England  he  once  more 
entered  Parliament,  and  in  1839  was  appointed 
Secretary  for  War.    His  tenure  of  office  ended  in 

1841  with  the  fall  of  the  ministry;  the  next  year 
he  published  the  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  and  in 
1843  the  collected  Essays.  From  this  time  to  the 
end  of  his  life  Macaulay's  interests  were  chiefly 
in  literature.  In  1848  he  published  the  first  two 
volumes  of  his  History  of  England;  nine  years 
later  his  elevation  to  the  peerage  as  Baron  Macau- 
lay of  Rothley  was  symbolic  of  the  esteem  his 
literary  accomplishment  had  won  him  from  the 
nation  at  large.  He  died  in  December,  1859,  and 
was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

The  great  source  of  information  about  Macaulay 
is  Trevelyan's  Life  and  Letters  (Harper's);  Mori- 
son's  Life  in  the  E.  M.  L.  is  briefer.  Numerous 
editions  of  his  works  are  accessible;  the  Albany 
(Longmans,  Green,  and  Co.),  is  complete  in  twelve 
volumes. 

CLOUGH  (1819-1861)       • 

The  son  of  a  cotton  merchant  who  lived  for  a 
time  in  Charleston,  S.  C,  Clough  spent  part  of 
his  boyhood  in  this  country.  He  was  sent  to 
school  at  Rugby,  where  he  fell  strongly  under  the 
influence  of  Thomas  Arnold,  Rugby's  great  head- 
master. On  going  from  Rugby  to  Oxford  he 
passed  from  an  atmosphere  of  strong  religious 
faith  to  one  of  great  uncertainty,  for  in  1836,  when 
Clough  entered  Balliol,  the  Tractarian  movement 
was  shaking  Oxford  to  its  foundations.  From 
the  unsettling  of  his  religious  views  Clough  never 
recovered.  He  made  a  good  scholarship  record 
at  Oxford,  and  held  a  fellowship  at  Oriel  from 

1842  to  1848.  After  some  desultory  tutoring  and 
travelling  he  came  to  the  United  States,  settled 


at  Cambridge,  where  he  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  Cambridge  literary  circle,  and  attempted 
to  gain  a  living  by  tutoring  and  writing.  He  re- 
turned to  England  in  1853  to  take  a  position  in 
the  Education  Office,  and  passed  the  rest  of  his 
life  in  filling  its  duties.  He  died  in  Florence  while 
travelling  in  search  of  health.  His  memory  is 
preserved  in  Matthew  Arnold's  fine  elegy  Thyrsis. 
Clough's  life,  interesting  to  Americans  because 

\  of  his  friendships  with  Emerson,  Lowell,  and 
Charles  Eliot  Norton,  was  not  a  happy  or  a  suc- 
cessful one  because  of  his  spiritual  unrest.     His 

,  poetry  reflects  his  sceptical,  questioning  attitude, 
and  is  typical  of  an  age  when  many  men  did  not 
succeed,  as  Tennyson  did,  in  keeping  a  spiritual 
equilibrium  amid  the  disturbance  caused  by 
scientific  progress  and  theory. 

Clough's  works  are  published  in  two  volumes, 
one  of  poems,  one  of  prose,  the  latter  with  a 
memoir  by  Mrs.  Clough  (Macmillan.)  There  are 
good  essays  by  Bagehot  in  Literary  Studies  and 
Stopford  Brooke  in  Four  Victorian  Poets. 


ARNOLD  (1822-1888) 

Matthew  Arnold  was  the  son  of  Thomas  Arnold, 
the  famous  headmaster  of  Rugby,  and  the  father's 
intense  moral  earnestness  makes  readily  intelligible 
the  son's  lifelong  interest  in  problems  of  conduct 
and  culture.  From  Rugby  he  went  to  Oxford, 
and  in  1845  won  the  distinguished  honor  of  a 
fellowship  in  Oriel.  After  a  few  months  of  teach- 
ing at  Rugby,  and  a  short  term  of  service  as 
secretary  to  the  Liberal  leader,  Lord  Lansdowne, 
he  was  in  1851  made  an  Inspector  of  Schools, 
and  for  thirty-five  years  faithfully  performed  the 
duties  of  his  office  to  the  great  profit  of  popular 
education. 

Most  of  Arnold's  poetry  was  written  in  the 
years  between  1849  and  1867.  It  is  small  in 
amount  and  narrow  in  scope,  largely  meditative, 
tinged  by  the  spiritual  unrest  of  the  time  with  a 
decided  pessimism.  This  should  not,  however, 
be  taken  to  imply  any  lack  of  lyrical  fervor. 
Indeed,  in  the  utterance  of  his  melancholy  re- 
flections he  is  genuinely  impassioned,  as  in  Dover 
Beach,  that  beautiful  and  sad  confession  of  loss 
of  faith.  The  bent  of  Arnold's  genius  was  well 
suited  to  the  elegy,  and  he  has  given  to  English 
poetry  some  of  the  finest  expressions  of  the  ele- 
giac mood,  The  Scholar  Gipsy  and  Thyrsis  being 
outstanding  examples.  In  the  field  of  narrative 
verse  Sohrab  and  Rustum  is  too  well  known  to 
need  comment;  Balder  Dead,  likewise  an  epic 
fragment,  and  Tristram  and  Iscult,  a  pictur- 
esque but  perhaps  over-moralized  version  of 
Malory's  story,  are  less  successful,  though  ex- 
cellent. All  Arnold's  poetry  is  marked  by  its 
undertone  of  sadness,  a  melancholy  ground-swell, 
as  well  as  by  a  fine  restraint  which  makes  im- 
possible anything  like  sentimentality.  The  pre- 
vailing influences  upon  it  are  classical,  and  in  its 
stoic  philosophy,  its  restraint  and  lucidity,  it  is 
the  best  modern  expression  of  the  classical  spirit. 

In  1857  Arnold  became  Professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford,  and  ceased  to  write  poetry  to  talk  about 
it.    During  the  years  of  his  professorship  he  issued 


822 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


several  notable  volumes  of  critical  essays,  of 
which  the  best  known  is  the  first  series  of  Essays 
in  Criticism  (1865).  During  the  following  decade, 
from  1867  to  1877,  Arnold  was  the  critic  of  society 
and  religion.  Culture  and  Anarchy  (1869)  ex- 
pounds his  views  on  the  nature  and  function  of 
culture,  its  mission  in  spreading  "sweetness  and 
light"  to  combat  the  prevailing  "Philistinism" 
of  modern  society.  In  Literature  and  Dogma  (1873) 
he  gives  fullest  expression  to  his  unorthodox  views 
on  religion,  rejecting  creeds  and  preaching  a 
rather  vague  doctrine  of  general  morality.  In  the 
last  ten  years  of  his  life  Arnold  returned  to  litera- 
ture for  the  subject-matter  of  his  essays;  he  also 
lectured  much,  making  two  American  tours.  Not- 
able volumes  of  these  years  are  the  Discourses 
in  America  (1885)  and  Essays  in  Criticism, 
Second  Series  (1888),  of  which  the  first  essay  on 
"The  Study  of  Poetry"  contains  the  famous 
definition  of  poetry  as  "a  criticism  of  life  under 
the  conditions  laid  down  for  such  criticism  by  the 
laws  of  poetic  truth  and  poetic  beauty." 

As  a  literary  critic  Arnold  stands  in  the  first 
class.  He  is  an  ethical  critic  and  his  predilection 
for  the  ethical  and  moral  value  of  poetry  involves 
a  certain  narrowness  of  judgment,  but  his  criti- 
cism is  always  distinguished  by  fine  taste,  an 
insistence  on  the  best,  and  a  sane  conservatism. 
He  had  a  knack  for  picking  up  or  coining  phrases 
such  as  "sweetness  and  light,"  "a  criticism  of 
life,"  "the  grand  style,"  which  by  reiterating  he 
impressed  on  the  thought  of  his  time  until  many 
of  them  passed  into  common  speech. 

Arnold's  works  are  published  by  the  Macmillan 
Co.,  the  poetry  in  the  Globe  edition.  There  is  a 
good  life  by  H.  W.  Paul  (E.  M.  L.);  a  fine  essay 
on  Arnold's  prose  is  that  by  L.  E.  Gates  in  Three 
Studies  in  Literature;  good  estimates  of  the  poetry 
are  those  by  R.  H.  Hutton  in  Literary  Essays,  and 
G.  E.  Woodberry  in  Makers  of  Literature. 


HUXLEY  (1825-1895) 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley  considered  himself  pri- 
marily a  biologist;  by  virtue  of  his  masterly  prose 
style  he  has  come  to  be  ranked  among  the  great 
English  essayists  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Born 
in  1825,  he  virtually  educated  himself,  studying 
science,  German,  French,  and  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen beginning  a  medical  course  at  Charing  Cross 
Hospital.  On  the  completion  of  his  work  here  he 
entered  the  navy;  in  1846  he  started  on  a  four 
years'  cruise  as  surgeon  of  the  biological  survey 
ship  Rattlesnake.  His  duties  were  light;  he  gave 
himself  enthusiastically  to  the  study  of  tropical 
marine  life,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life  he  found  his 
chief  interest  to  lie  not  in  medicine,  but  in  the 
new  biology  to  which  he  was  one  of  the  chief  con- 
tributors. When  Darwin,  in  1859,  published 
The  Origin  of  Species,  Huxley  accepted  and  soon 
championed  with  belligerent  enthusiasm  the  idea 
of  evolution,  and  did  much  of  his  finest  work  as  an 
essayist  in  the  capacity  of  apologist  for  the  Dar- 
winian theories.  His  attainments  in  science  were 
widely  and  generously  recognized,  and  though  his 
name  was  anathema  to  religious  orthodoxy,  his 
fellow  laborers  in  the  cause  of  intellectual  liberty 


accorded  him  all  the  honors  in  their  power.  From 
1870  to  1880  he  was  secretary  of  the  Royal 
Society,  and  president  from  1881  to  1885.  In  1892 
he  was  appointed  Privy  Councillor;  three  years 
later  he  died. 

It  is  particularly  in  his  Lay  Sermons  that  Huxley 
appears  both  as  the  scientist  and  man  of  letters. 
His  purpose  was  to  explain  new  and  sometimes 
distasteful  truths  to  English  readers;  the  clear- 
ness and  logical  convincingness  with  which  he  set 
forth  his  views  are  due  in  no  small  measure  to  his 
scientific  training;  the  richness  of  allusion  and 
illustration  and  the  quietly  emotional  quality  of 
the  best  passages  attest  the  unusual  breadth  of 
his  culture,  and  the  richness  of  his  imagination. 

The  best  edition  of  the  Essays  is  that  published 
by  Appleton  in  nine  volumes;  the  standard  biog- 
raphy, the  Life  and  Letters,  is  by  his  son,  Leonard 
Huxley  (Macmillan). 


NEWMAN  (1801-1890) 

John  Henry,  Cardinal  Newman,  was  born  in 
1 801,  the  son  of  a  London  banker.  As  a  boy  he 
was  a  serious  student  of  theology  and  the  Bible, 
and  when  in  181 7  he  went  up  to  Trinity  College, 
Oxford,  his  interests  lay  almost  entirely  in  the 
same  field.  After  graduating  and  taking  orders 
he  was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel,  and  in  1828  be- 
came vicar  of  St.  Mary's,  Oxford.  As  University 
Preacher  Newman  exerted  a  profound  influence 
upon  the  religious  life  of  Oxford,  and,  as  his  fame 
spread,  upon  that  of  all  England.  In  1832  he 
visited  Rome;  when  he  returned  it  was  to  begin 
a  long,  and  to  his  mind  a  losing,  fight,  for  the  re- 
form of  the  English  Church,  and  for  its  restoration 
to  its  earlier  position  of  honor  and  independence. 
Newman  and  his  associates,  who  fought  their 
battle  by  means  of  a  series  of  pamphlets  called 
Tracts  for  the  Times,  felt  that  the  liberalizing 
tendencies  of  the  age  were  affecting  the  church 
unfortunately,  and  that  it  was  losing  the  dignity 
and  mystic  beauty  which  belonged  to  it  by  in- 
heritance. They  hoped  that  the  English  church 
would  be  a  real  "Via  Media"  between  Protestant- 
ism and  Romanism,  and  that  without  giving  up 
its  independence,  or  adopting  all  the  dogmas  of 
Rome,  it  might  stand  once  more  as  the  direct 
descendant  of  the  primitive  Apostolic  Church. 
It  soon  became  evident  that  the  tendency  of 
Newman's  arguments  was  towards  Romanism; 
he  himself  resigned  his  living  at  St.  Mary's  in 
1843,  after  the  Tract  No.  go  had  been  disavowed 
by  the  University.  The  next  two  years  he  spent 
in  quiet  study;  in  1845  he  was  received  into  the 
Roman  communion.  The  rest  of  his  life  Newman 
labored  as  a  Catholic  priest  and  teacher.  Ordained 
in  1846,  and  in  1854  appointed  Rector  of  the 
Catholic  University  of  Dublin,  he  served  the 
church  so  effectively  that  in  1879  he  was  elevated 
to  the  Cardinalate.    He  died  in  1890. 

Newman's  work  as  a  man  of  letters  was  inci- 
dental to  his  service  in  the  cause  of  religion,  and 
yet  his  literary  gifts  were  so  great  that  his  prose 
has  come  to  be  considered  almost  the  ideal  of  ex- 
pository writing.  He  is  at  his  best  in  the  Apologia 
Pro  Vita  Sua  (1864),  written  to  convince  England 


BIOGRAPHICAL  APPENDIX 


82^ 


of  the  sincerity  of  his  motives  in  becoming  a 
Catholic,  and  in  The  Idea  of  a  University  (1852), 
a  series  of  addresses  delivered  to  the  Catholics  of 
Dublin.  It  is  not  always  possible  for  the  twenti- 
eth century  reader  to  take  Newman's  point  of 
view,  and  his  work  loses  part  of  its  charm  when 
it  is  read  unsympathetically.  But  the  supple 
clearness  of  his  style,  and  the  artistic  precision 
with  which  he  makes  the  expression  conform  ex- 
actly to  the  sense,  can  be  appreciated  even  when 
the  point  of  view  is  utterly  foreign. 

Newman's  works  are  published  in  uniform  style 
by  Longmans,  Green,  and  Co.  The  best  Life 
is  by  Wilfrid  Ward  (2  vols.,  Longmans).  Dean 
Church's  The  Oxford  Movement  (Macmillan)  is  the 
best  discussion  of  the  religious  movement  that  re- 
sulted in  Newman's  leaving  the  English  Church. 


ROSSETTI  (1828-1882) 

The  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century  pro- 
duced a  group  of  poets  who  stand  apart  from  the 
intellectual  movements  of  the  time.  The  advance 
of  science,  with  its  effect  on  religious  thought, 
acted  upon  poets  like  an  electromagnet  with 
positive  and  negative  poles :  it  attracted  Tennyson, 
Arnold,  Clough,  and,  speaking  broadly,  Browning; 
it  repelled  Rossetti,  Morris,  and  Swinburne.  These 
last,  dissatisfied  with  the  materialism  of  their  age, 
create  for  themselves  a  world  of  the  imagination 
aesthetically  more  beautiful  than  the  world  of 
actuality,  casting  back  to  antiquity  or  to  the 
middle  ages  for  subject-matter  and  poetic  forms. 

The  first  of  the  group  to  attain  prominence  was 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  born  in  London,  son  of 
an  Italian  political  refugee,  who  was  Professor  of 
Italian  in  King's  College,  and  author  of  a  well 
known  commentary  on  Dante.  Of  the  three  other 
children  William  Michael,  the  elder  brother, 
won  a  reputation  as  a  poet  and  critic,  and  Chris- 
tina, the  youngest  of  the  family,  is  second  only  to 
Mrs.  Browning  among  the  woman  poets  of  Eng- 
land. Dante  Rossetti  was  so  obviously  an  artist 
born  that  he  received  practically  all  his  education 
in  London  art  schools,  and  he  is  equally  well 
known  as  painter  and  as  poet.  In  painting  he  was 
one  of  the  leading  members  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood,  who  first  claimed  public  attention 
in  1849,  and  whose  cause  was  championed  by 
Ruskin  in  the  face  of  early  popular  criticism. 
Rossetti's  best  known  poem,  The  Blessed  Damo- 
zel,  was  written  when  he  was  nineteen,  and  pub- 
lished in  The  Germ,  a  short-lived  periodical  in- 
tended to  express  in  prose  and  verse  the  ideas  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelites.  To  The  Germ  Rossetti  also 
contributed  his  symbolic  tale  of  Hand  and  Soul, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  imaginative 
prose  in  English.  Painting  occupied  most  of 
Rossetti's  attention  for  a  number  of  years,  but  in 
1861  he  published  a  collection  of  fine  translations 
called  The  Early  Italian  Poets.  A  volume  of  poems 
appeared  in  1870,  and  a  collected  edition  of 
Poems  and  Ballads  in  1881.  Toward  the  end  of 
his  life  Rossetti  became  the  victim  of  a  drug  habit, 
and  led  the  life  of  a  recluse  until  his  death  in  1882. 

Rossetti's  poetry,  which  owes  much  to  Keats, 
exhibits  some  of  the  same  characteristics  which 


mark  his  work  as  a  Pre-Raphaelite  painter:  a 
mediaeval  flavor,  a  tendency  toward  symbolism, 
and  a  lavish  attention  to  picturesque  detail.  His 
ballads  are  done  in  the  manner  of  the  old  folk 
ballad,  and  their  abrupt  and  startling  directness, 
their  pictorial  suggestiveness,  and  their  skillful 
use  of  a  refrain,  make  them  highly  effective.  As 
a  writer  of  sonnets  Rossetti  stands  in  the  front 
rank:  his  collection  called  The  House  of  Life  vies 
with  Mrs.  Browning's  as  the  finest  sonnet  sequence 
written  in  English  since  the  days  of  Shakespeare. 

The  Collected  Works  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti, 
edited  by  W.  M.  Rossetti  (2  vols.,  Ellis  and  Elvey, 
no  longer  in  print)  is  the  standard  edition  because 
it  includes  the  prose  as  well  as  the  poetry.  A  good 
brief  account  of  bis  life  is  that  by  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica, 
particularly  illuminating  as  to  Rossetti's  use  of 
the  supernatural  and  his  connection  with  the 
"Renascence  of  Wonder."  Fine  appreciative 
essays  are  those  by  Pater  in  Appreciations  and 
Swinburne  in  Essays  and  Studies. 


MORRIS  (1834-1806) 

William  Morris  was  fortunate  in  being  born  of  a 
well-to-do  family  so  that  he  had  always  plenty  of 
money  to  follow  his  artistic  and  creative  impulses. 
At  Marlborough  School  he  spent  more  time  in  the 
library  poring  over  architectural  books  than  on 
the  prescribed  studies.  From  1853  to  1855  he  was 
at  Oxford,  and  on  leaving  the  university  studied 
for  a  time  in  an  architect's  office;  then,  under  the 
influence  of  Rossetti,  with  whom  his  friend  Burne- 
Jones  was  working,  turned  to  painting.  This  in 
turn  was  abandoned  for  the  designing  and  manu- 
facture of  house  furnishings  and  decorations;  the 
move  resulted  in  the  founding  of  the  famous  firm 
of  Morris  and  Co.,  of  which  Rossetti  and  Burne- 
Jones  were  originally  members,  and  which  gave 
the  impetus  to  the  modern  Arts  and  Crafts 
movement.  A  reorganization  of  the  firm  in  1875 
made  Morris  sole  proprietor,  with  headquarters 
at  Hammersmith,  London;  his  permanent  abiding 
place,  however,  was,  from  1871  on,  beautiful 
Kelmscott  Manor  on  the  upper  Thames. 

Morris  began  to  write  early,  contributing  both 
prose  and  verse  to  a  college  magazine  which  he 
financed  himself.  His  first  volume  of  poetry, 
The  Defence  of  Guenevere,  published  in  1858, 
showed  Pre-Raphaelite  influence.  It  passed  al- 
most unnoticed  by  the  critics,  but  the  epic  Life 
and  Death  of  Jason,  followed  in  1868-70  by  the 
tremendous  Earthly  Paradise,  established  Morris 
among  the  major  English  poets.  Meanwhile  he 
had  begun  the  study  of  Icelandic  poetry,  and  in 
1870  made  a  prose  translation  of  the  Volsunga 
Saga,  following  it  with  a  verse  rendering  in  1876; 
parts  of  the  Earthly  Paradise  and  some  prose  ro- 
mances likewise  attest  his  love  for  the  Scandinavian 
mythology  and  hero-tales.  Late  in  the  seventies 
Morris  became  interested  in  politics  and  joined  the 
Socialist  party;  he  devoted  practically  all  his  time 
in  1883-85  to  this  cause,  lecturing  and  writing,  and 
in  the  eighties  produced  much  socialistic  verse. 
The  most  interesting  exposition  of  Morris's  social- 
istic views  is  to  be  found  in  News  from  Noizhere 


824 


BIOGRA  PHICA  L  A  PPENDIX 


(1891),  a  prose  romance  describing  England  as  a 
Utopia  organized  on  communistic  principles. 
Toward  the  end  of  his  life  Morris  became  in- 
terested in  bookmaking.  He  established  the 
Kelmscott  Press  in  1891,  where  the  whole  process 
of  the  making  of  a  book  was  under  his  personal 
supervision.  The  greatest  triumph  of  modern 
bookmaking,  the  superb  Kelmscott  Chaucer,  was 
completed  just  before  his  death  in  1896. 

A  mere  enumeration  of  Morris's  interests  is  suf- 
ficiently astounding.  They  included  architecture, 
painting,  decorative  arts  of  all  kinds,  printing,  and 
literature.  The  man  was  an  artist  to  his  finger 
tips  and  his  energy  was  enormous.  He  performed 
an  invaluable  service  to  the  modern  world  by 
doing  his  best  to  banish  the  ugly  commonplaceness 
of  mid-Victorian  life,  and  by  insisting  that  honesty 
of  craftsmanship  and  beauty  of  design  should  be 
the  aims  of  all  production  from  a  cathedral  down 
to  the  last  humble  utensil  of  household  use. 

Morris's  contribution  to  English  literature 
comprises  translation — from  the  classics,  Anglo- 
Saxon,  and  Scandinavian — prose  fiction,  social- 
istic prose  and  verse,  and  his  major  poetry.  The 
latter  may  be  divided  into  ballads  in  the  mediaeval 
manner  and  Arthurian  romances  such  as  The 
Defence  of  Guenevere,  classical  legend  in  The  Life 
and  Death  of  Jason,  and  a  combination  of  the 
foregoing  with  Norse  romance  in  The  Earthly 
Paradise.  This  is  Morris's  masterpiece.  He  is  a 
wonderful  story-teller  in  verse,  probably  the  best 
that  England  has  had  since  Chaucer,  whom  he 
loved  and  followed  as  his  master. 

The  separate  volumes  of  Morris's  works  are 
published  at  cheap  prices  by  Longmans,  Green, 
and  Co.  The  authoritative  biography,  delight- 
fully written  and  with  fine  critical  comment,  is  by 
J.  W.  Mackail  (2  vols.,  Longmans). 


PATER  (1839-1894) 

Walter  Horatio  Pater  was  born  in  August,  1839. 
From  a  school  at  Canterbury  he  went  up  to 
Queen's  College,  Oxford,  in  1858.  Four  years 
later  he  graduated;  in  1864  he  was  elected  to  a 
Brasenose  fellowship,  and  at  once  settled  into  a 
quiet  life  of  academic  seclusion  that  was  broken 
only  by  occasional  trips  to  the  continent.  In  his 
essay  on  Wordsworth  he  praises  the  life  of  "im- 
passioned contemplation."  The  phrase  aptly 
characterizes  Pater's  own  existence.  A  specula- 
tive philosopher,  with  a  strong  tendency  to  mystic- 
ism and  a  sensitiveness  to  beauty  so  great  as  to 
be  all  but  all-absorbing,  Pater  lived  an  intense 
and  a  broad  life  spiritually,  though  the  physical 
orbit  of  his  life  was  unusually  restricted. 

Pater's  earliest  work  of  importance  was  his 
Studies  in  the  History  of  the  Renaissance  (1873), 
which  contains  among  other  work  his  essays  on 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Michael  Angelo.  Marius 
the  Epicurean,  in  form  an  approximation  to  the 
novel,  appeared  in  1885.  This,  Pater's  largest 
single  work,  is  an  exposition  of  his  own  theory  of 
life,  and  particularly  of  his  ideas  concerning  the 
effect  of  beauty  on  the  soul.  In  1889  he  published 
Appreciations,  from  which  the  two  selections  in 
this    volume   are    taken.      Plato    and   Platonism 


(1893),  and  Greek  Studies  (1895),  are  interpreta- 
tions of  the  Hellenic  life  and  temperament  in 
which  Pater  always  found  much  inspiration.  In 
all  his  work  Pater  was  exactingly  scrupulous  con- 
cerning the  form  in  which  he  cast  his  ideas;  he  did 
all  in  his  power  to  live  up  to  the  high  ideals  set 
forth  in  the  Essay  on  Style.  As  a  result  of  this 
constant  striving  after  perfection  of  form,  Pater's 
work  appears  to  some  readers  unduly  polished, 
and  lacking  in  the  warmth  and  apparent  spon- 
taneity of  the  best  prose.  But  the  beautiful  pre- 
cision of  his  language,  and  the  fine  proportion  and 
structure  of  all  his  work,  make  amends  for  the 
loss  of  some  of  the  more  appealing  qualities  of 
style;  while  beneath  the  somewhat  cold  exterior 
there  is  a  vein  of  thought  which  stimulates  and 
enriches  whoever  approaches  the  study  of  Pater 
in  a  sympathetic  mood. 

The  best  brief  biography  of  Pater  is  A.  C. 
Benson's,  in  ftie  E.  M.  L.  Thomas  Wright's 
Life  (2  vols.,  Putnam),  is  much  more  detailed. 
His  works  are  published  in  uniform  style  by  the 
Macmillan  Company. 


STEVENSON  (1850-1894) 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  born  in  Edin- 
burgh, in  November,  1850.  After  a  somewhat 
irregular  preparatory  course  he  entered  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh  in  1867,  and  remained  as  a 
student  till  1873.  Instead  of  adopting  the  family 
profession  of  engineering,  and  following  his  father 
and  grandfather  as  a  builder  of  lighthouses,  he 
read  law,  and  in  1875  was  called  to  the  bar.  But 
he  felt  as  little  interest  in  legal  as  in  engineering 
problems;  even  as  an  undergraduate  he  had 
formed  the  determination  to  be  a  writer.  In  1878 
he  published  his  first  book,  An  Inland  Voyage, 
and  in  1879  Travels  With  a  Donkey,  chronicles  of 
two  of  the  many  trips  he  was  forced  to  make 
in  search  of  health.  In  1879  he  came  to  Cal- 
ifornia, where  in  the  following  year  he  married 
Mrs.  Osborne.  It  was  this  journey  that  gave 
him  the  experiences  recorded  in  An  Amateur 
Emigrant  and  Across  the  Plains.  The  year  of  his 
marriage  he  returned  to  Scotland,  but  found  the 
climate  so  harsh  that  he  spent  much  of  the  time 
for  the  next  seven  years  in  southern  Europe.  In 
1883  appeared  Treasure  Island,  and  three  years 
later  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  the  first  books  to 
bring  Stevenson  his  international  popularity. 
In  1887,  after  the  death  of  his  father,  he  came 
once  more  to  America,  spending  the  winter  of 
1887-88  in  the  Adirondacks,  writing  for  American 
magazines.  In  the  summer  of  1888  he  went  again 
to  San  Francisco,  where  he  chartered  a  yacht  and 
began  a  cruise  of  three  years  that  carried  him  over 
much  of  the  southern  Pacific,  and  furnished  the 
materials  for  many  of  his  later  works.  In  1891 
his  wanderings  ended  at  Samoa,  where  he  built 
his  home,  "Vailima."  Here  he  lived,  writing 
much,  and  winning  the  friendship  of  the  natives 
by  his  kindliness,  and  his  protests  against  the  in- 
competent rule  of  their  European  governors,  until 
his  death  in  1894. 

The  charm  of  Stevenson's  personality  has  had 
much  to  do  with  the  popularity  of  his  books. 


BIOGRA  PHICA  L  A  PPENDIX 


825 


Lovable,  romantic,  enthusiastic,  glorying  in  life 
and  its  possibilities  despite  the  fact  that  for  many 
years  he  was  face  to  face  with  death,  he  trans- 
fused much  of  himself  into  all  that  he  wrote.  His 
early  work  was  chiefly  cast  in  the  form  of  essays, — 
literary  criticism,  and  comment  on  life  and  its 
values.  Later  he  became  a  teller  of  tales,  and 
added  more  to  the  stock  of  English  romantic  fic- 
tion than  any  man  since  Scott.  But  the  man  was 
the  same,  whether  as  essayist  or  novelist, — 
scrupulously  exact  in  his  craftsmanship,  always 
an  artist,  and  conceiving  highly  of  his  art,  and 
always  putting  into  his  books  the  same  qualities 
that  made  the  man  himself  so  beloved. 

The  best  moderately  priced  edition  of  Steven- 
son is  the  Biographical  (Scribner's) ;  his  Letters  in 
four  volumes  give  interesting  biographical  in- 
formation. The  two  volume  Life  by  Balfour 
(Scribner's)  is  excellent. 


SWINBURNE    (1837-1909) 

The  life  of  the  last  of  the  great  Victorian  poets 
was  one  of  almost  pure  devotion  to  literature. 
Born  of  a  wealthy  and  aristocratic  family,  he  was 
educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  but  left  the  univer- 
sity in  i860  without  a  degree.  Almost  immedi- 
ately he  published  two  poetic  dramas  on  the  Eliza- 
bethan model,  The  Queen  Mother  and  Rosamond. 
Atalanta  in  Calydon  (1865)  is  as  distinctly  Greek 
in  inspiration.  Poems  and  Ballads  of  the  follow- 
ing year  made  Swinburne  one  of  the  most  talked 
about  men  in  England.  Its  eroticism,  coupled 
with  its  metrical  novelty,  gave  it  a  startling  vogue, 
and  when  Buchanan,  in  his  famous  article  "The 
Fleshly  School  of  Poetry,"  in  187 1,  included 
Swinburne  in  his  attack  on  Rossetti  no  better 
advertising  could  have  been  devised.  The  rev- 
olutionary ideas  of  Swinburne's  time  affected 
him  as  the  French  Revolution  had  affected  the 
poets  of  the  older  romantic  school,  and  The  Song 
of  Italy  (1867)  and  Songs  Before  Sunrise  (1871) 
gave  full  expression  to  his  republicanism.  The 
latter  volume  was  composed  under  the  influence 
of  Victor  Hugo,  whom  Swinburne  came  to  regard 
as  the  greatest  poet  of  modern  Europe.  Poetical 
drama  continued  to  engage  his  attention,  until 
his  plays  numbered  eleven.  His  best  dramatic 
work  was  done  in  the  trilogy  dealing  with  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots — Chastelard  (1865),  Bothwell 
(1874),  and  Mary  Stuart  (1881).  Romantic  epic 
was  represented  by  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  (1882) 
and  The  Tale  of  Balen  (1896);  the  former  ranks 
with  the  best  modern  versions  of  Arthurian 
material,  and  the  free  handling  of  its  heroic  couplet 
gave  an  entirely  new  idea  of  what  that  conven- 
tionalized form  was  capable  of  in  the  way  of  rich- 
ness and  variety.  Of  pure  lyrics  Swinburne 
produced  many  volumes  during  the  later  years 
of  his  life.  On  the  technical  side  English  poetry 
has  had  no  greater  artist  than  he.    There  is  no 


metrical  form  of  which  he  is  not  master,  and  his 
use  of  new  meters  revealed  possibilities  hitherto 
undreamed. 

In  addition  to  this  large  and  varied  output  of 
poetry  Swinburne  was  a  prolific  writer  of  prose 
criticism.  He  is  an  impressionistic  critic,  so 
strongly  swayed  by  enthusiasms  and  aversions 
that  he  is  not  a  safe  guide,  but  there  is  scarcely 
one  of  his  essays  which  has  not  fine  things  in  it. 
His  prose  style  displays  the  same  characteristics 
as  does  his  poetry:  it  is  diffuse  and  overwrought, 
but  its  torrential  eloquence  is  impressive. 

The  standard  edition  of  poetry  and  prose  is  in 
eleven  volumes  (Harpers).  A  good  selection  of 
lyrics  is  that  by  W.  M.  Payne  (Belles  Lettres 
Series,  D.  C.  Heath  and  Co.).  An  authoritative 
biography  is  lacking,  but  G.  E.  Woodberry's 
Swinburne  (Macmillan)  is  a  good  critical  study. 
The  chapter  on  Swinburne  in  Stedman's  Victorian 
Poets  is  excellent. 


MEREDITH  (1828-1909) 

George  Meredith  was  born  at  Portsmouth  in 
1828.  When  he  was  twenty-one  he  contributed 
his  first  poem  to  an  English  magazine;  in  the 
years  immediately  following  he  did  a  good  deal  of 
journalistic  writing.  In  1851  appeared  his  first 
volume  of  verse,  containing  Love  in  the  Valley, 
Five  years  later  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat  marked 
his  appearance  in  the  world  of  fiction,  although 
these  romantic  tales,  suggested  by  the  Arabian 
Nights,  are  very  different  from  Meredith's  later 
and  better  known  work.  His  first  novel  to  attract 
wide  attention  was  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Fever  el 
(1859);  here  he  struck  into  and  developed  the 
vein  of  realism  and  psychological  analysis  that 
was  destined  to  prove  so  rich.  In  1862  came  a 
second  volume  of  poems,  and  then  through  many 
years,  a  series  of  novels,  of  which  Beauchamp's 
Career  (1874-75),  The  Egoist  (1879),  and  Diana  of 
the  Crossways  (1885),  are  perhaps  the  most  sig- 
nificant. Towards  the  end  of  his  life  Meredith 
turned  again  to  poetry,  and  wrote  much  that  won 
the  enthusiastic  praise  of  the  few,  although  he  never 
rivalled  Tennyson  or  Browning  in  popularity. 

Meredith  was  unquestionably  one  of  the  most 
gifted  of  all  the  Victorians.  Whether  writing  in 
verse  or  prose  he  shows  the  same  qualities — great 
intellectual  power,  a  fine  sense  of  form,  a  rich 
imagination,  and  a  piercing  analytical  sense. 
And  yet  he  never  caught  the  ear  of  the  great  public. 
He  was  perhaps  too  subtle  in  his  analysis;  his 
diction  at  times  is  obscure  if  not  willfully  per- 
verse.. But  in  his  simplest  poems  he  is  so  ob- 
viously a  master  of  his  craft  that  even  the  casual 
reader  can  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  beauty  that 
is  sometimes  elusive. 

Meredith's  novels  are  published  by  Scribner's; 
his  poems  (2  vols.,  1912)  are  issued  by  the  same 
firm. 


APPENDIX 

THE  NEW  TESTAMENT 

The  four  selections  here  given,  from  four  of  the  great   English  Bibles,  represent  the  state  of  the 

language  at  the  times  indicated. 


John  i.  1-14 


In  Late  Anglo-Saxon  (Circa  1050) 


1.  On  frymSe  waes  Word,  and  paet  Word  waes 
mid  Gode,  and  God  waes  paet  Word. 

2.  paet  waes  on  fruman  mid  Gode. 

3.  Ealle  ping  waeron  geworhte  Surh  hyne;  and 
nan  ping  naes  geworht  butan  him. 

4.  paet  waes  lif  pe  on  him  geworht  waes;  and  paet 
lif  waes  manna  leoht. 

5.  And  paet  leoht  lyht  on  Systrum;  and  pystro 
paet  ne  genamon. 

6.  Mann  waes  from  Gode  asend,  paes  nama  waes 
Iohannes. 

7.  Des  com  to  gewitnesse,  paet  he  gewitnesse 
cySde  be  Sam  leohte,  paet  ealle  menn  purh  hyne 
gelyfdon. 

8.  Naes  he  leoht,  ac  paet  he  gewitnesse  forS 
baere  be  pam  leohte. 

9.  SoS  leoht  waes  paet  onlyht  aelcne  cumendne 
man  on  pisne  middaneard. 

10.  He  waes  on  middanearde,  and  middaneard 
waes  geworht  purh  hine,  and  middaneard  hine  ne 
gecneow. 

11.  To  his  agenum  he  com,  and  hig  hyne  ne 
underfengon. 

12.  Soolice  swa  hwylce  swa  hyne  underfengon, 
he  sealde  him  anweald  paet  hi  waeron  Godes  beam, 
pam  Se  gelyfap  on  his  naman: 

13.  pa  ne  synt  acennede  of  blodum,  ne  of  flaesces 
willan,  ne  of  weres  willan,  ac  hig  synt  of  Gode 
acennede.    . 

14.  And  paet  Word  waes  flaesc  geworden,  and 
eardode  on  us,  and  we  gesawon  hys  wuldor, 
swylce  ancennedes  wuldor  of  Feeder,  paet  waes  ful 
mid  gyfe  and  so<5fastnysse. 


In  Wyclif's  Bible  (Circa  1385) 


1.  In  the  bygynnynge  was  the  worde,  that  is, 
Goddis  sone,  and  the  worde  was  at  God,  and  God 
was  the  worde. 

2.  This  was  in  the  bigynnynge  at  God. 

3.  Alle  thingis  ben  made  by  hym,  and  with- 
outen  hym  is  made  nou3t,  that  thing  that  is  made. 

4.  In  hym  was  lijf,  and  the  lijf  was  the  li3te  of 
men. 

5.  And  the  li3te  schyneth  in  dirkenessis,  and 
dirkenessis  comprehenden,  or  taken,  not  it. 

6.  A  man  was  sente  fro  God,  to  whom  the 
name  was  loon. 

7.  This  man  came  into  witnessynge,  that  he 
schulde  bere  witnessynge  of  the  li3t,  that  alle  men 
schulde  bileue  by  hym. 

8.  He  was  not  the  H3 tT  but  that  he  schulde  bere 
witnessynge  of  the  I13 1. 

9.  It  was  verrey  li3te  the  whiche  li3teneth  eche 
man  comynge  into  this  worlde. 

10.  He  was  in  the  worlde,  and  the  worlde  was 
made  by  hym,  and  the  worlde  knew  hym  not. 

11.  He  came  into  his  owne  thingis,  and  his 
receyueden  hym  not. 

12.  Forsothe  how  many  euer  receyueden  hym, 
he  3aue  to  hem  power  for  to  be  made  the  sones  of 
God,  to  hem  that  bileueden  in  his  name; 

13.  The  whiche  not  of  bloodis,  nether  of  wille 
of  fleysche,  nether  of  wille  of  man,  but  ben  borne 
of  God. 

14.  And  the  worde,  that  is  Goddis  sone,  is  made 
fleysche,  or  man,  and  hath  dwellide  in  vs,  and  we 
haue  seen  the  glorie  of  hym,  the  glorie  as  of  the 
one  bigoten  of  the  fadir,  the  sone  ful  of  grace  and 
treuthe. 


In  Tyndale's  Bible  (1534) 

1.  In  the  beginnynge  was  the  worde,  and  the 
worde  was  with  God:  and  the  worde  was  God. 

2.  The  same  was  in  the  beginnynge  with  God. 

3.  All  thinges  were  made  by  it,  and  without  it 
was  made  nothing  that  was  made. 

4.  In  it  was  lyfe,  and  the  lyfe  was  the  lyght 
of  men, 

5.  And  the  lyght  shyneth  in  the  darcknes,  but 
the  darcknes  comprehended  it  not. 

6.  There  was  a  man   sent   from   God,   whose 
name  was  Iohn. 

7.  The  same  cam  as  a  witness  of  the  lyght,  that 
all  men  through  him  myght  beleve. 


In  the  Authorized  Version  (161  i) 

1.  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word,  and   the 
Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word  was  God. 

2.  The  same  was  in  the  beginning  with  God. 

3.  All  things  were  made  by  him;  and  without 
him  was  not  anything  made  that  was  made. 

4.  In  him  was  life;  and  the  life  was  the  light  of 
men. 

5.  And  the  light  shineth  in  darkness;  and  the 
darkness  comprehended  it  not. 

6.  There  was  a  man  sent  from  God,  whose  name 
was  John. 

7.  The  same  came  for  a  witness,  to  bear  witness  of 
the  Light,  that  all  men  through  him  might  believe. 


827 


828 


APPENDIX 


8.  He  was  not  that  lyght:  but  to  beare  witnes 
of  the  lyght. 

9.  That  was  a  true  lyght,  which  lyghteth  all 
men  that  come  into  the  worlde. 

10.  He  was  in  the  worlde,  and  the  worlde  was 
made  by  him:  and  yet  the  worlde  knewe  him  not. 

11.  He  cam  amonge  his  (awne)  and  his  awne 
receaved  him  not. 

12.  But  as  meny  as  receaved  him,  to  them  he 
gave  power  to  be  the  sonnes  of  God  in  that  they 
beleved  on  his  name: 

13.  which  were  borne,  not  of  bloude  nor  of  the 
will  of  the  flesshe,  nor  yet  of  the  will  of  man:  but 
of  God. 

14.  And  the  worde  was  made  flesshe  and  dwelt 
amonge  us,  and  we  sawe  the  glory  of  it,  as  the 
glory  of  the  only  begotten  sonne  of  the  father, 
which  worde  was  full  of  grace  and  verite. 


8.  He  was  not  that  Light,  but  was  sent  to  bear 
witness  of  that  Light. 

9.  That  was  the  true  Light,  which  lighteth  every 
man,  that  cometh  into  the  world. 

10.  He  was  in  the  world,  and  the  world  was 
made  by  him,  and  the  world  knew  him  not. 

11.  He  came  unto  his  own,  and  his  own  re- 
ceived him  not. 

12.  But  as  many  as  received  him,  to  them  gave 
he  power  to  become  the  sons  of  God,  even  to  them 
that  believe  on  his  name: 

13.  Which  were  born,  not  of  blood,  nor  of  the 
will  of  the  flesh,  nor  of  the  will  of  man,  but  of  God. 

14.  And  the  Word  was  made  flesh,  and  dwelt 
among  us,  (and  we  beheld  his  glory,  the  glory  as 
of  the  only  begotten  of  the  Father,)  full  of  grace 
and  truth. 


NOTES 

Figures  in  bold  face  refer  to  the  page,  others  to  the  line. 


CHAUCER 


THE    PROLOGUE 


4. 


i.  Whan  that  Aprille,  etc.  When  April 
with  its  sweet  showers  hath  pierced  the 
drought  of  March  to  the  root,  and  bathed 
every  vein  in  the  moisture  by  means  of 
which  power  the  flower  is  grown. 
8.  The  Ram.  The  expression  means: 
"  When  the  sun  had  completed  the  half- 
course  in  the  zodiacal  sign  of  the  Ram." 
During  the  first  half  of  April  the  sun  is 
in  Aries,  the  Ram;  during  the  second,  in 
Taurus,  the  Bull.  The  time  is  therefore 
about  the  middle  of  April. 
53-65.  Pruce — Palatye.  The  proper 
names  are  those  of  various  countries  and 
cities  in  the  regions  involved  in  the  wars 
between  the  Christian  nations  of  western 
Europe  and  their  Moslem  enemies. 
Pruce,  Lettow,  Ruce — Prussia,  Lithuania, 
Russia.  Gemade,  Algezir — Granada,  Al- 
geciras,  in  Spain.  Belmarye,  Tramis- 
sene — Moorish  kingdoms  in  Africa.  Lyeys, 
Satalye,  Palatye — in  Asia  Minor. 
125.  The  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe.  A 
Benedictine  convent  at  Stratford-le-Bow, 
near  London.  There  is  no  slur  here  on 
the  Prioress's  French;  Chaucer  merely 
tells  us  that  her  pronunciation  was  not 
Parisian. 

159.  Gauded.       Furnished    with    "  gau- 
dies," the  five  large  beads  in  a  rosary. 
173.  Seint    Maure.      St.    Maur   and    St. 
Benedict.     The  latter  founded  the  Bene- 
dictine order  of  monks;  St.  Maur  was  one 
of  his  disciples. 
187.  Austin.    St.  Augustine. 
210.  Ordres     four.       The     Dominicans, 
Franciscans,      Carmelites,     and     Augus- 
tinians. 

258.  Love-dayes.  Certain  days  which 
were  appointed  for  settling  disputes  out 
of  court,  through  the  mediation  of  an 
umpire,  often  a  friar. 
310.  Parvys.  "  The  church-porch,  or  por- 
tico of  St.  Paul's,  where  the  lawyers  were 
wont  to  meet  for  consultation."  (Skeat). 
319.  Al  was  fee  simple.  No  matter  how 
encumbered  property  might  be,  the  Ser- 
geant could  handle  it  as  if  it  were  held  in 
fee  simple.  His  conveyancing  could  not 
be  attacked. 

340.  Seynt     Iulian.       Saint    Julian     was 
famed  for  his  generous  providing. 
364.  Fraternitee.     They  all  belonged  to 
one  guild. 


11. 


377.  Vigilyes.  Ceremonies  on  the  eve 
of  a  church  or  guild  festival. 
417-420.  Well  coude  he  fortunen,  etc. 
The  doctor  was  an  astrologer;  in  addi- 
tion, he  was  familiar  with  the  humors  of 
the  body,  and  knew  the  causes  of  all 
diseases. 

In  every  person,  according  to  the  Ga- 
lenic physiology,  there  were  four  humors, 
viz.:  blood,  phlegm,  bile  or  choler,  and 
black  bile  or  melancholy.  A  person's 
health  depended  upon  maintaining  a 
proper  proportion  between  the  four.  Thus 
if  blood  predominated,  the  person  became 
too  sanguine;  if  phlegm,  he  became  too 
phlegmatic. 

429.  Esculapius,    etc.      These    were    the 
chief   physicians   and   medical   writers  of 
the  ancient  and  mediaeval  worlds. 
460.  Housbondes    at    chirche-door.      It 
was  customary  for  the  wedding  ceremony 
to  be  performed  at  the  door  of  the  church. 
486.  Full  looth  were  him.     He  did  not  ex- 
communicate   persons    in    order    to    force 
them  to  pay  their  tithes. 
507.  He  sette  nat  his  benefice.     He  did 
not  sub-let  his  parish,  that  he  might  be 
appointed  to  a  chantry  in  St.  Paul's. 
525.    He  wayted  after.     He  did  not  look 
for,  or  expect,  pomp  and  ceremony. 
563.  He  hadde  a  thombe  of  gold.    He  was 
a  prosperous  fellow. 

624.  Fyr-reed  cherubinnes  face.  Cher- 
ubim, in  mediaeval  art,  were  painted 
with  red  faces. 

646.  Questio  quid  iuris?  What  is  the 
law? 

652.  A  finch  eek  coude  he  pulle.     In  the 
idiom   of   Wall   Street,   he   knew   how   to 
shear  a  lamb.     (Skeat). 
662.  War  him  of  a  significavit.    The  writ 
of   excommunication,    which    usually    be- 
gan with  the  word  Significavit. 
667.  For  an  ale-stake.     Ale-houses  were 
usually   marked    by  a    pole,   ale-stake,   on 
which  was  hung  a  garland. 
685.  A  vernicle.    A  copy  of  the  picture  of 
Christ    supposed    to    have    been    miracu- 
lously imprinted  on  the  handkerchief  of 
St.  Veronica. 

826.  The  watering  of  seint  Thomas.  The 
watering  place  was  at  a  brook  a  short 
distance  out  from  Southwark. 

THE   NUN'S   PRIEST'S   TALE 

24.  She  fond  no  lak.  She  found  no  fault. 
35.  By  nature  knew  he  ech  ascensioun. 


829 


83o 


NOTES 


This  is  one  of  the  many  passages  in  which 
Chaucer  uses  the  language  of  astronomy 
for  telling  time.  The  meaning  is  that  the 
cock  crew  each  hour,  when  the  sun  had 
risen  fifteen  degrees  higher. 

12.  59.  My  lief  is  faren  in  londe.  My  loved 
one  has  gone  away. 

103.  Swevenes  engendren,  etc.  See  note 
on  Prol.,  1.  417. 

13.  120.  Lo  Catoun.  Dionysius  Cato,  to 
whom  was  ascribed  a  collection  of  maxims, 
De  Moribus,  used  in  Chaucer's  time  as  a 
text-book  for  beginners  in  Latin. 

143.  Lauriol,  centaure,  etc.  For  an 
explanation  of  these  botanical  names  see 
the  Oxford  Chaucer,  v.  252. 
16.  303.  Macrobeus.  Latin  writer  of  the 
fifth  century,  annotator  of  Cicero's 
Somnium  Scipionis. 

16.  367.  The  month  in  which  the  world  bi- 
gan.  There  was  an  old  notion  that  the 
creation  took  place  on  the  eighteenth  of 
March. 

369.  Y-passed  were  also,  etc.  When 
March  was  gone,  and  thirty-two  days 
more;  i.  e.,  when  it  was  the  third  of  May. 
374.  The  signe  of  Taurus.  The  sun  was 
in  the  zodiacal  sign,  or  constellation,  of 
Taurus,  and  had  passed  the  twenty-first 
degree. 

407.  Genilon.  The  traitor  who  caused 
the  death  of  Roland,  in  the  Chanson  de 
Roland.  Sinon  persuaded  the  Trojans 
to  admit  the  wooden  horse. 
421.  Augustyn  .  .  .  Boece  .  .  .  Brad- 
wardyn.  Famous  ecclesiastical  writers, 
St.  Augustine,  Boethius,  and  Thomas 
Bradwardine,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
in  1349. 

17.  451.  Phisiologus.  A  work  on  natural 
history,  in  Latin,  well  known  to  the 
Middle  Ages. 

473.  Boece.     Boethius   (see  1.   421)   was 
also  author  of  a  treatise  on  music. 
492.  Daun  Burnel  the  Asse.     A  satirical 
poem   of   the   twelfth   century,   by   Nigel 
Wireker. 

18.  527.  O  Gaufred.  Geoffrey  de  Vinsauf, 
who  wrote  verses  lamenting  the  death  of 
Richard  I. 

536.  Ilioun.    The  citadel  of  Troy. 

574.  Iakke  Straw.     One  of  the  leaders  in 

the  Peasants'  Rebellion  of  1381. 

THE   PARDONER'S    TALE 

20.  211.  Turnen  substaunce  into  accident. 
The  cooks  knew  how  to  prepare  food  so 
that  its  real  nature,  or  substance,  should 
be  concealed,  and  only  its  accidental, 
or  secondary  characteristics,  revealed. 
See  the  Oxford  Chaucer,  v.  279. 

256.  Lamuel.  "  King  Lemuel,  men- 
tioned in  Prov.  xxxi:  1."     (Skeat). 

21.  324.  That  it  is  in  Hayles.  The  Abbey  of 
Hailes,  in  Gloucestershire,  was  supposed 
to  possess  a  few  drops  of  the  blood  of 
Christ. 


22.  406.  Chaunge  my  cheste.  "  The  old 
man  is  ready  ...  to  exchange  his  chest, 
containing  all  his  worldly  gear,  for  a  single 
hair-cloth,  to  be  used  as  his  shroud." 
(Skeat). 

24.  561.  Avicen.  Avicenna,  an  Arabian 
physician,  wrote  as  his  chief  work  a 
medical  treatise  known  as  the  Canon. 
The  subdivisions  are  in  Arabic  called  fen. 

BALADE   DE   BON   CONSEYL 

25.  2.  Suffyce  unto  thy  good.  Let  thy  wealth 
be  sufficient  unto  thee. 

9.  In  trust  of  hir.     Fortune. 
22.  Thou  Vache.     Sir  Philip  la  Vache,  to 
whom    the   poem   is   addressed.      See   an 
article  by  Miss  Edith  Rickert  in  Modern 
Philology,  xi.  209  /. 

THE   COMPLAINT   OF   CHAUCER 

26.  22.  Conquerour  of  Brutes  Albioun.  King 
Henry  IV,  who  came  to  the  throne  in 
1399  through  the  deposition  of  Richard  II. 
Brutes  Albioun — the  Albion,  or  England, 
of  Brutus,  a  legendary  descendant  of 
Aeneas,  who  first  reigned  in  the  island. 

PIERS  THE  PLOWMAN 

26.  Of  this  poem,  which  until  lately  has  been 
accepted  as  the  work  of  William  Lang- 
land,  there  are  several  versions,  the  work 
of  different  men,  and  produced  at  dif- 
ferent times  during  the  last  forty  years  of 
the  fourteenth  century.  The  earliest,  or 
so-called  A-text,  was  written  about  1365, 
and  was  the  basis  of  subsequent  revisions. 
The  question  of  authorship  has  been 
argued  at  great  length  by  Professor  John 
M.  Manly,  and  others,  in  Modem  Phi- 
lology; and  though  uncertainties  still 
exist,  it  is  hardly  to  be  questioned  that 
several  people  had  a  share  in  the  work, 
and  that  the  traditional  ascription  to 
Langland  is  erroneous. 

27.  39.  Qui  loquitur,  etc.  He  who  speaks 
evil. 

55.  Al  the  foure  ordres.  The  mendicant 
friars  were  the  Carmelites,  or  white 
friars;  the  Augustinians;  the  Dominicans, 
or  black  friars;  and  the  Minorites,  or  grey 
friars. 

NOAH'S  FLOOD 

The  play  is  taken  from  the  Chester  miracle 
cycle.  The  text  here  followed  is  that  of 
Harleian  MS.  2124,  edited  by  Dr.  Her- 
mann Deimling  for  the  Early  English  Text 
Society  (Extra  Series,  lxii).  The  text  has 
been  modernized,  except  that  rhyme-words 
and  the  original  word  order  have  been 
preserved.  Stage  directions  have  been 
translated  from  the  original  Latin. 
Waterleaders  and  Drawers  of  Dee. 
Members  of  the  gild  of  water-carriers,  who 
presented  the  play.  The  River  Dee  flows 
through  Chester. 


NOTES 


831 


27.  5-7.      Not  .  .  .  but.       Only;    my    spirit 
shall  remain  .  .  .  only  till,  etc. 

28.  42.  Art  in  such  will.    Hast  such  a  purpose 
toward  me. 

100.  Frankish  fare.  Foolish  behavior; 
exact  meaning  of  frankish  is  not  known. 

29.  114.  In  the  ship,  etc.    Hasten  to  get  into 
the  ship. 

149.  Note  the  naively  simple  method  of 
indicating  the  passage  of  time. 
151.  The  sense  requires  the  addition  of 
some   phrase  like  "  To  see  "   at   the   be- 
ginning of  the  line. 
155.  That.     Would  that. 
172.  Cowle.     Forage. 

30.  198.  With  evil  hail.    Bad  luck  to  you. 
236.  For  his  love,  etc.     For  the  love  of 
him   who   redeemed   you.     The   anachro- 
nistic reference  to  Christ  is  quite  charac- 
teristic of  the  miracle  plays. 

31.  269.  Between  269  and  270  a  line  is  miss- 
ing. 

301.  Comes.  Probably  an  imperative, 
addressed  to  the  members  of  Noah's 
family.    In  all  wise.     By  all  means. 


THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH 
POPULAR  BALLADS 

32.  With  one  exception  the  texts  here  re- 
printed are  from  Child's  English  and  Scot- 
tish Popular  Ballads.  "  Bonnie  George 
Campbell  "  is  given  in  Motherwell's  ver- 
sion. 

SIR    PATRICK    SPENS 

34.  On  the  question  of  the  historical  basis 
for  the  ballad,  see  Child,  ii,  17-20. 

THE   HUNTING   OF  THE   CHEVIOT 

39.  The  ballad  is  an  inaccurate  account  of 
the  battle  of  Otterburn,  which  took  place 
in  August,  1388.  For  a  detailed  account, 
see  Child,  iii,  289-293. 

MALORY 

LE    MORTE   DARTHUR:    PREFACE 

44.  William  Caxton.  Caxton  (c.  14 22-1491), 
the  first  English  printer.  The  first  book 
to  be  printed  in  English  was  issued  at 
Bruges  in  1474;  two  years  later  Caxton 
set  up  his  press  in  Westminster. 
The  Morte  Darthur  was  published  in 
1485. 

37.  Stalled.    Installed. 
72.    Aretted.     Considered  to  be. 
76.  Polichronicon.       A    history     of     the 
world,    and    encyclopaedia     of     universal 
knowledge,  by  Ranulph  Higden  (d.  1364). 
82.  Bochas.     Boccaccio.     De  Casu,  etc: 
Concerning  the  Fall  of  Great  Men. 
84.  Galfridus.      Geoffrey   of   Monmouth, 
author  of  the  Historia  Regum  Britanniae, 
(c.   1 136),  the  most  famous  of  all  Anglo- 
Latin  chronicles. 


45.  no.  Camelot.       The    Arthurian    capital 
city. 

134.  Enprised  to  imprint.  Undertaken 
to  print. 

chapter  rv 

King  Arthur  has  been  on  the  continent; 
during  his  absence  Mordred,  his  nephew, 
has  treasonously  seized  the  throne,  and 
attempted  to  marry  Guinevere.  A  first 
battle  at  Dover  has  been  won  by  Arthur, 
returning  to  his  kingdom;  the  two  armies 
are  now  drawn  up  for  the  decisive  con- 
flict. 

1.  Condescended.    Agreed. 
9.  And.    If. 

46.  44.  Put  him  in  devoir.    Did  his  utmost. 
94.  Ran  until  him.     Ran  unto  him. 

97.  Foin.    Thrust. 

101.  The  bur.     The  guard  near  the  butt 

of  the  spear. 

118.  Do  me  to  wit.    Tell  me. 

123.  Pillers.     Pillagers. 


48.  17.  Besants. 
tinople. 


chapter  VI 
Gold    coins    of    Constan- 

CHAPTER    VII 

10.  Hie  jacet,  etc.  Here  lies  Arthur, 
formerly  king,  and  to  be  king  in  the 
future. 

SPENSER 

THE   FAERIE   QUEENE :   LETTER  TO   RALEIGH 

49.  This  letter  was  prefixed  to  the  first  edi- 
tion, which  appeared  in  1590  and  con- 
tained the  first  three  books  of  the  poem. 
47.  These  first  twelve  books.  Of  the 
twelve  books  projected  Spenser  com- 
pleted six,  and  three  cantos  of  a  seventh. 
60.  Accounted  by  their  showes.  Judged 
by  their  appearances. 

BOOK   I,   CANTO   I 

In  reading  Spenser's  verse,  a  final  -cd  should 
always  be  given  syllabic  value.  Book  I 
narrates  the  adventures  of  the  Knight  of 
Holiness. 
61.  20.  Gloriana.  Standing  in  the  allegory 
for  Queen  Elizabeth. 

28.  Lovely  ladie.  Una,  the  personifica- 
tion of  Truth. 

52.  79.  Warlike  beech.  Lances  were  fre- 
quently of  beech  wood. 

53.  127-234.  The  passage  omitted  gives  an 
account  of  the  Knight's  combat  with  the 
foul  monster  Error,  and  of  his  ultimate 
triumph. 

54.  253.  Aged  sire.  Archimago,  the  en- 
chanter, represents  hypocrisy  or  false 
religion. 

55.  314.  Saintes  and  popes.  In  accordance 
with  the  purpose  of  the  allegory,  Archi- 
mago is  made  a  Catholic. 


SZ2 


NOTES 


55.  318.  Morpheus.       God  of  sleep. 

328.  Blacke  Plutoes  griesly  dame.  Pro- 
serpine, wife  of  Pluto,  king  of  the  lower 
regions. 

332.  Gorgon.  Demogorgon,  one  of  the 
greatest  of  the  infernal  powers,  whose 
name  it  was  dangerous  to  utter. 

333.  Cocytus,  Styx.     Rivers  of  Hades. 

348.  Tethys.     The  ocean. 

349.  Cynthia.     The  moon. 

352.  Double  gates.  According  to  clas- 
sical legend,  true  dreams,  sent  to  men 
from  the  house  of  Sleep,  issued  forth 
through  a  door  of  horn;  false  dreams, 
through  a  door  of  ivory.  Cf.  1.  393. 
Spenser  substitutes  silver  for  horn. 
S6ijf.  Note  in  this  stanza  the  skilful  sug- 
gestion of  sense  by  sound. 

56.  376.  Dryer  braine.  Brain  too  dry  or 
feverish.  It  was  supposed  that  lack  of 
moisture  in  the  brain  was  the  cause  of  fit- 
ful, dream-broken  sleep. 

Stanza  XLV/f.  Archimago  fashions  one 
of  his  sprites  into  the  likeness  of  Una,  and 
by  the  aid  of  the  false  dream  deceives  the 
Red  Cross  Knight  into  believing  Una  false 
to  him.  In  Canto  II  the  Knight  deserts 
Una  and  flees  from  Archimago's  cabin. 
Meeting  on  his  way  a  Saracen  knight 
Sansfoy,  with  a  beautiful  lady,  he  kills 
the  knight  and  takes  the  lady  Duessa 
(Falsehood,  though  she  is  at  present  going 
under  the  name  of  Fidessa — Faith),  as  his 
companion.  Una  meanwhile  has  set  forth 
in  search  of  her  knight,  and  has  lost  her 
way  in  a  wood. 


57.  In  the  interval  between  the  third  and 
eleventh  cantos  Una  and  the  Red  Cross 
Knight,  who  had  been  parted  from  each 
other  by  Archimago,  and  forced  to  under- 
go many  hardships,  are  reunited  by 
Arthur,  who  rescues  the  Knight  from  the 
castle  of  the  giant  Orgoglio.  After  this 
deliverance  Una  leads  the  Knight  to  the 
house  of  Holiness,  where  he  is  purged  of 
his  sin,  learns  his  lineage,  and  his  name, 
George : 

"  Thou.  .   .  . 
Shalt  be  a  saint,  and  thine  own  nation's 

frend 
And    patrone:    thou    Saint    George    shalt 

called  be, 
Saint  George  of  mery  England,  the  signe 

of  victoree."    (I.  x.  66). 
Then  follows  the  struggle  between  George 
and  the  dragon  (the  devil),  occupying  the 
entire  eleventh  canto,   which  is  here  re- 
printed without  omission. 

58.  43.  Faire  ympe  of  Phcebus,  etc.  Clio, 
muse  of  History,  daughter  of  Phcebus 
and  Mnemosyne  (Memory). 

56.  Till  I  of  warres,  etc.  "  Spenser  was 
apparently  planning  for  his  later  books 
or  for  his  second  part,  some  celebration 
of  the  war  with  Philip  II.    '  Bryton  fieldes 


with  Sarazin  blood  bedyde  '  suggests 
imitation  of  the  war  of  the  Saracens  in 
France,  as  narrated  in  the  Orlando 
Furioso."     (Dodge.) 

62.  Thy  second  tenor.  "  Melody  of  lower 
pitch."     (Dodge.) 

63.  Man  of  God  his  .  .  .  annes.  Man- 
of-God's  arms. 

59.  74.  So  couched  neare.  Placed  so  close 
together. 

60.  167.  Hagard  hauke.    A  wild  hawk. 

168.  Above  his  hable  might.  Beyond  the 
limit  of  his  strength. 

172.  He  so  disseized,  etc.  He,  the  dragon, 
being  thus  relieved  of  his  great  burden. 

61.  186.  His  neighbour  element.  The  earth. 
187.  The  blustring  brethren.  Sometimes 
explained  as  the  winds;  possibly  refers  to 
both  winds  and  sea,  combining  against 
the  land. 

189.  Each  other  to  avenge.     Take  ven- 
geance on  each  other. 
230.  Him.    The  Knight. 

62.  235.  That  great  champion.  Hercules,  the 
occasion  of  whose  death  was  the  shirt 
poisoned  by  blood  of  the  centaur  Nessus. 
267.  Silo.    The  pool  of  Siloam. 

269.  Cephise  (Cephissus)  .  .  .  Hebrus. 
Greek  rivers. 

278.  Above  his  wonted  pitch.  Higher 
than  usual. 

63.  300.  As  eagle,  fresh  out  of  the  ocean 
wave.  "  Every  ten  years  the  eagle  mounts 
to  the  circle  of  fire  and  thence  plunges 
into  the  ocean,  from  which  it  emerges 
with  fresh  plumage."     (Dodge.) 

303.  Eyas  hauke.    Newly  fledged  hawk. 
337.  Ne   living   wight,    etc.      Nor   would 
any  living  person  have  promised  him  life. 

64.  356.  Engorged.  This  is  the  reading  in  edi- 
tions of  Spenser,  but  it  makes  no  good 
sense;  engorged  means  glutted  with.  May 
Spenser  have  intended  engored — wounded, 
hence,  aroused,  infuriated  (?)  as  in  Faerie 
Queene,  II.  viii.  42: 

"  As  salvage  bull,  whom  two  fierce  mas- 

tives  bayt, 
When  rancour  doth  with  rage  him   once 

engore." 
381.  The  warlike  pledge.    The  shield. 

65.  414.  The  crime  of  our  first  father's  f?ll. 
The  occasion  of  the  crime,  etc. 

459.  Her.    Object  of  salutes. 

465.  He.     The  dragon.     Himself.     The 

knight. 

PROTHALAMION 

66.  The  poem  was  written  in  honor  of  the 
approaching  double  marriage  of  the 
Ladies  Elizabeth  and  Katherine  Somer- 
set, daughters  of  the  Earl  of  Worcester, 
in  1596.  It  commemorates  a  visit  made 
by  the  ladies,  in  barges  on  the  river,  to 
Essex  House,  residence  of  the  Earl  of 
Essex. 

6-9.  Discontent  .  .  .  empty  shaddowes. 
A  reference  to   Spenser's   vain   effort  for 


NOTES 


&33 


political  preferment  after  the  publication 
of  the  second  three  books  of  the  Faerie 
Queene. 

67.  07.  Somers-heat.     Pun  on  Somerset. 

68.  132.  Bricky  towres.  The  group  of  build- 
ings by  the  Thames  called  The  Temple, 
formerly  headquarters  of  the  Knights 
Templar,  now  given  over  to  lawyers. 

137.  A  stately  place.  Essex  House,  for- 
merly residence  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  an 
early  patron  of  Spenser's,  who  had  died 
in  1588. 

147.  Dreadfull  .  .  .  thunder.  Alluding 
to  the  sack  of  Cadiz  in  1596  by  the  Earl 
of  Essex. 

148.  Hercules  two  pillors.  Rocky  emi- 
nences on  either  side  of  the  Strait  of  Gib- 
raltar. 

152-3.  Thine  owne  name  .  .  .  same. 
Pun  on  the  family  name  of  the  Earl  of 
Essex — Devereux  (Fr.  heureux). 

69.  173.  Twins  of  Jove.  Castor  and  Pollux, 
the  constellation  Gemini. 

174.  Bauldricke.     The  Zodiac. 

ELIZABETHAN   SONNETEERS 

wyatt:  the  lover  compareth  his  state 

69.  This  is  a  translation  of  one  of  Petrarch's 
sonnets. 

SHAKESPEARE:    XCVIII 

74.  4.  Heavy  Saturn.  In  astrology  the  planet 
Saturn  is  supposed  to  exert  a  melancholy 
influence,  since  the  god  Saturn  was 
morose. 

ELIZABETHAN  SONG  WRITERS 

lyly:  spring's  welcome 

77.  2.  Ravished  nightingale.  A  reference  to 
the  story  of  Philomela;  see  note  on 
Arnold's  Philomela,  p.  687. 

5.  Prick-song.  "  Harmony  written  or 
pricked  down  in  opposition  to  plain- 
song."  (Chappell's  Popular  Music  of 
the  Olden  Time.) 

7.  At  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings. 
Cf.  Shakespeare's  "  Hark,  hark!  the  lark 
at  heaven's  gate  sings,"  p.  82. 

GREENE:    SWEET   ARE    THE    THOUGHTS 

78.  9.  The  mean.  The  middle  part  in  three- 
part  music.  The  philosophic  ideal  of 
"  the  golden  mean,"  moderation,  is  also 
suggested. 

RALEIGH:   HIS   PILGRIMAGE 

79.  Supposed  to  have  been  written  while 
Raleigh  was  confined  in  the  Tower  on  a 
charge  of  treason.  "  It  would  be  difficult 
to  find  a  poem  more  truly  representative 
of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  with  its  poetical 
fervor,  its  beauty  and  vividness  of  expres- 
sion,   its    juggling    with    words,    and    its 


daring   mixture   of    things   celestial    with 
things  mundane."     (Schelling.) 

79.  9.  Palmer.  Originally  a  pilgrim  who  had 
been  to  Jerusalem  and  had  brought  back 
a  palm-branch  as  a  token;  later  applied 
to  professional  pilgrims,  who  spent  their 
whole  time  travelling  from  one  shrine  to 
another. 

80.  42.  Angels.  A  pun  on  the  use  of  the 
word  as  the  name  of  a  coin. 


THE   CONCLUSION 

Found  in  Raleigh's  Bible  after  his  death; 
said  to  have  been  written  the  night  before 
his  execution. 


SOUTHWELL:   THE   BURNING   BABE 

Drummond  of  Hawthornden  in  his  notes 
records  that  Ben  Jonson  said  that  "  so  he 
had  written  that  piece  of  his  (South- 
well's), The  Burning  Babe,  he  would  have 
been   content   to   destroy   many  of  his." 

SHAKESPEARE:  HARK,  HARK!  THE  LARK 

82.  Compare  the  second  of  Lyly's  songs,  p.  77. 

FEAR    NO   MORE 

Dirge  sung  over  the  body  of  the  supposedly 
dead  Imogen,  disguised  as  a  boy,  Fidele. 

campion:  when  thou  must  home 

83.  Bullen  (Lyrics  from  Elizabethan  Song 
Books)  remarks  that  for  romantic  beauty 
this  can  hardly  be  matched  outside  the 
sonnets  of  Shakespeare. 

CHERRY-RIPE 

84.  "  Cherry-ripe  "  was  the  cry  of  street 
venders  of  cherries. 


DRAYTON:   AGINCOURT 

85.  The  full  title  runs  To  the  Cambro-Britons 
and  their  Harp  His  Ballad  of  Agincourt. 

Cambro-Britons — Welsh,  who  fought  val- 
iantly in  the  battle.  Henry  V,  invading 
France  to  make  good  his  claim  to  the 
French  throne,  in  141 5  won  the  battle  of 
Agincourt  from  a  French  army  four 
times  as  numerous  as  his  own. 
41.  Poitiers,  Cressy.  Like  Agincourt, 
battles  of  the  Hundred  Years'  War, 
fought  in  1356  and  1346  respectively,  and 
like  Agincourt,  English  victories  against 
great  odds. 

45.  Grandsire.     John  of   Gaunt,   son  of 
Edward  III. 

86.  82.  Bilbows.  Swords;  the  name  comes 
from  Bilboa,  a  Spanish  town  famous  for 
the  swords  it  made. 

113.  St.  Crispin's  day.    October  25. 


§34 


NOTES 


ben  jonson:  to  the  memory  of  my  be- 
loved MASTER,  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

87.  Prefaced  to  the  First  Folio  edition  of 
Shakespeare's  works,  1623. 

20.  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Beaumont.  All 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Beau- 
mont,— Sir  Francis  Beaumont,  the  drama- 
tist, who  died  a  few  weeks  before  Shake- 
speare. 

29,  30.  Lyly,  Kyd,  Marlowe.  Immediate 
predecessors  of  Shakespeare  in  the  Eng- 
lish drama. 

32.  Seek  for  names.  Search  critically 
for  the  names  of  dramatists  with  whom 
to  compare  Shakespeare;  only  the  greatest 
names  will  do. 

^S,  34-  jEschylus,  Euripides,  Sophocles. 
Greek  writers  of  tragedy,  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury B.  C. 

35.  Pacuvius,  Accius.  Latin  writers  of 
tragedy  of  the  second  century,  B.  C. 

Him  of  Cordova.  Seneca,  the  Stoic 
philosopher  and,  supposedly,  tragic  writer. 

36.  Buskin.  The  cothurnus,  or  thick- 
soled  boot,  worn  by  actors  in  classical 
tragedy  to  secure  the  dignity  lent  by 
greater  stature;  hence,  the  word  stands  for 
tragedy  itself. 

37.  Socks.  Likewise  representative  of 
comedy,  since  the  thin-soled  soccus  was 
worn  in  comedy. 

88.  51.  Tart  Aristophanes.  Most  famous  of 
Greek  satirical  dramatists;  he  wrote  in  the 
fifth  century  B.  C. 

52.  Terence,  Plautus.  The  best  writers  of 
Latin  comedy,  of  the  second  century  B.  C. 
71.  Swan  of  Avon.  Shakespeare  was 
born  at  Stratford-on-Avon. 
77,  78.  Rage  or  influence.  A  reference  to 
the  astrological  belief  that  each  planet 
exerted  either  a  good  or  an  evil  power  over 
•  the  lives  of  men. 

EPITAPH  ON  SALATHIEL  PAVY 
It  was  the  custom  of  the  choir  boys  of  the 
Chapel  Royal,  of  whom  this  small  boy 
was  one,  frequently  to  entertain  the 
Queen  and  court  by  acting  before  them; 
such  children's  companies  were  serious 
competitors  of  the  adult  companies;  cf. 
Hamlet,  II.  ii. 

DONNE :  SWEETEST  LOVE,  I  DO  NOT  GO 

89.  This,  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  musical 
of  Donne's  poems,  was  probably  addressed 
to  his  wife  on  the  occasion  of  his  leaving 
her  for  a  trip  to  France. 

BEAUMONT:   ON  THE   TOMBS   IN  WESTMINSTER 
ABBEY 

90.  5.  The  relative  is  omitted. 

9.  Acre.    I.  e.,  God's  acre;  grave  yard. 
13.   Of  birth.     Noble  birth. 

FLETCHER:    SWEETEST   MELANCHOLY 

Milton  is  supposed  to  have  obtained  from 
this  lyric  suggestions  for  //  Pcnscroso. 


CARE-CHARMING   SLEEP 

91.  Cf.  Daniel's  sonnet,  p.  72. 

5.  Sweet.     So  read  the  early  editions;  it 
should  perhaps  be  light. 


1.  Lyaeus. 


SONG   TO   BACCHUS 

A  name  for  Bacchus. 

WEBSTER:    A    DIRGE 


"  I  never  saw  anything  like  this  funeral 
dirge  except  the  ditty  which  reminds 
Ferdinand  of  his  drowned  father  in  The 
Tempest  [cf.  p.  83].  As  that  is  of  the 
water,  watery;  so  this  is  of  the  earth, 
earthy.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of 
feeling,  which  seems  to  resolve  itself  into 
the  element  which  it  contemplates." 
(Charles  Lamb.) 

HARK,    NOW   EVERYTHING    IS    STILL 

From  The  Dudhess  of  Malfi,  where  it  is 
sung,  with  great  dramatic  effect,  just  be- 
fore the  heroine  of  the  play  is  strangled. 
17.  Full  tide.  There  may  be  a  reference 
here  to  the  popular  belief  that  sick  people 
usually  died  at  the  turning  of  the  tide. 
So  Falstaff  "  parted  .  .  .  even  at  the 
turning  of  the  tide,"  Henry  V,  II.  iii. 

BROWNE:  ON  THE  COUNTESS  DOWAGER  OF 
PEMBROKE 

3.  Sidney's  sister.  It  was  to  this  lady, 
Mary  Sidney,  later  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, that  Sir  Philip  Sidney  dedicated 
his  Arcadia.  Pembroke's  mother.  The 
third  Earl  of  Pembroke,  a  minor  poet, 
to  whom,  with  his  brother,  the  first  folio 
of  Shakespeare  was  dedicated,  was  the 
Countess's  son. 

This  epitaph,  delicate  and  chastely  beau- 
tiful, has  been  erroneously  ascribed  to 
Ben  Jonson.  There  is  a  second  and  infe- 
rior stanza,  which  may  not  be  by  the  same 
hand. 

NORTH 

THE   DEATH   OF  CAESAR 

92.  69.  The  first  Brutus.  Lucius  Junius 
Brutus,  who  led  the  revolt  expelling  the 
Tarquins  from  Rome. 

72.  Marcus  Cato.  Cato  Uticensis,  the 
staunch  republican  who  committed  sui- 
cide at  Utica  on  hearing  of  Pompey's  de- 
feat by  Cassar  at  Pharsalia. 

93.  132.  Element.     Sky. 

166.  Preventing.    Anticipating. 

95.  436.  Forms.     Benches. 

96.  499.  Journey.    Day. 


LYLY 

QUEEN   ELIZABETH 

97.  The  text  is  based  on  Bond's  edition,  vol. 
II.,  pp.  206  Jf.;  spelling  and  punctuation 


have  been  modernized. 


NOTES 


835 


97.  1.  This  queen.  Mary,  elder  sister  of 
Elizabeth. 

13.  Praxitiles.  A  fondness  for  citing 
classical  illustrations  is  one  of  Lyly's  dis- 
tinguishing characteristics. 
67.  As  she  hath  lived  forty  years.  "  Ac- 
tually, 47.  .  .  .  The  following  words 
allude  to  the  projected  Anjou  match, 
which  in  the  autumn  of  1579  she  was 
known  to  favor;  and  reflect  the  general 
anxiety  for  an  heir  to  the  crown."    (Bond, 

II-  534.) 

78.  Tickle.     Uncertain. 

79.  Twist.  Small  thread  or  piece  of  silk. 
88.  Like  the  bird  Ibis.  Reference  to  the 
so-called  "  unnatural  natural  history," 
most  of  which  goes  back  to  Pliny,  is 
characteristic  of  Lyly  and  his  Euphuistic 
imitators. 

98.  117.  Escapes.    Mistakes. 

133.  Twice  directed  her  progress  unto 
the  Universities.  "  She  spent  four  days  at 
Cambridge  in  Aug.  1564,  and  five  or  six 
at  Oxford  in  Aug.  1566.  .  .  .  At  both  she 
attended  the  disputations  in  the  schools 
and  made  speeches  in  Greek  and  Latin." 
(Bond,  II.  534.) 
157.  Admiration.     Wonder. 

99.  202.  The  curses  of  the  Pope.  "  Pius  V.'s 
bull  of  excommunication  and  deposition, 
issued  Feb.  25,  1570,  was  found  nailed  on 
the  Bishop  of  London's  door,  May  15." 
(Bond,  II.  535.) 

251.  Bound  the  crocodile  to  the  palm 
tree.  "  A  way  of  saying  '  made  Egypt  a 
field  for  his  victories.'  "     (Bond,  II.  535.) 

SIDNEY 

THE   DEFENCE   OF  POESY 

100.  9.  Mirror  of  Magistrates.  A  collection  of 
tales  published  first  in  1559,  and  with 
Sackville's  famous  Induction,  in  1563. 
34.  Gorboduc.  A  play  by  Sackville  and 
Norton,  acted  1561,  the  first  English 
blank  verse  tragedy.  It  was  modelled  on 
the  Latin  tragedies  of  Seneca. 

101.  109.  Pacolet's  horse.  An  enchanted 
steed  in  the  romance  of  Valentine  and  Orson. 
115.  Ab  ovo.  From  the  egg;  i.  e.,  from  the 
beginning. 

119.  Polydorus.  In  Euripides'  tragedy 
Hecuba. 

208.  Pounded.      Impounded,    put    in    a 
pound,  like  a  stray  animal. 
103.  337.  Libertino   patre   natus.      Son   of  an 
ex-slave. 

338.  Herculea  proles.  Descendant  of 
Hercules. 

339.  Si  quid,  etc.  If  my  verse  can  do 
aught. 

343.  Dull-making,  etc.  People  living 
near  the  cataracts  of  the  Nile  were  said 
by  Cicero  to  be  deafened  by  the  sound. 

344.  Planet-like  music.  The  "  music  of 
the  spheres." 

349.  Mome.     Blockhead. 


103. 


104. 


105. 


106. 


107. 


107. 


RALEIGH 

THE    LAST   FIGHT   OF   THE   REVENGE 

The  text  is  based  on  Arber's  Reprint; 
spelling  and  punctuation  are  modernized. 
3.  This  late  encounter.  The  battle  be- 
tween the  Revenge  and  the  Spanish  fleet 
began  10  September,  1591.  The  pam- 
phlet describing  it  appeared  the  same 
year. 

29.  The  year  1588.     The  year  when  the 
great  Armada  was  destroyed. 
41.  The  last  of  August.    Old  style;  10  Sep- 
tember, new  style. 

57.  Recover.     Obtain. 

58.  All  pestered  and  rummaging.  The 
ships  were  encumbered  with  badly  stowed 
gear. 

88.  Weigh  their  anchors.  Hoist  their 
anchors  on  board.  Slip  the  cables  means 
to  cut  loose  from  the  mooring. 
94.  Recovered  the  wind.  Got  to  wind- 
ward of  the  Spanish  fleet;  an  advantageous 
position  for  either  fighting  or  running 
away. 

97.  Cut    his    mainsail    and    cast    about. 
Spread  his  mainsail  and  "  come  about"  ; 
i.  e.,  turn  in  an  opposite  direction. 
100.  On  his  weather  bow.    Ahead  of  him, 
and  to  windward. 

no.  Sprang  their  luff,  etc.     Alio  wed.  the 
Revenge    to    get    to    windward    of    them. 
This  action  on  the  part  of  some  Spanish 
vessels  put  the  Revenge  in  the  middle  of 
the  hostile  fleet. 
113.  Answered.    Justified. 
122.  High  carged.    Towering. 
125.  Laid   the   Revenge   aboard.      Took 
position  alongside   the   Revenge,   the  two 
ships  touching  each  other. 
127.  Luffing    up.      Turning    towards    the 
wind. 

134.  Out  of  her  chase.  The  guns  in  the 
bows  of  a  ship  would  be  the  first  used  in 
a  pursuit;  the  noun  chase  here  means  the 
bows. 

177.  Admiral  of  the  Hulks.  Flagship 
of  the  transports. 

185.  Ship  of  Lime.     So  the  original  text; 
possibly    a    misprint    for    "  Ship    of    the 
line,"  a  warship  of  the  first  class. 
191.  A-dressing.       Having     his     wounds 
dressed. 

211.  Composition.     Terms  of  agreement. 
245.  But.     Nothing  but. 
356.  Approved.     Experienced. 
372.  Fly-boats.       Small,    swiftly    sailing 
ships. 
384.  Road.     Roadstead;  harbor. 

BACON 

OF  TRUTH 

I.  See  John,  xviii:  38. 
3.  There  be  that.     There  are  those  who. 
17.  One  of  the  later  school,  etc.    Probably 
a  reference  to  the  "  New  Academy." 


836 


NOTES 


107.  42.  Vinum  daemonum.    Devils'  wine. 

57.  Creature.    Creation. 

108.  65.  The  poet,  etc.  Lucretius  and  the 
Epicureans. 

OF   ADVERSITY 

29.  To  speak  in  a  mean.  To  speak  pro- 
saically, without  using  figurative  lan- 
guage; contrasted  with  the  transcendences 
of  poetry,  above. 

109.  53.  Incensed.  Diffused  as  incense,  by 
burning. 

OF   MARRIAGE  AND   SINGLE  LIFE 

44.  Hortatives.     Exhortations. 

58.  Vetulam  suam,  etc.  He  preferred  his 
aged  wife  to  immortality. 

68.  Have  a  quarrel.  Have  a  reason, 
ground. 

OF   GREAT  PLACE 

15.  A  melancholy  thing.  This  sentence 
is  an  apt  commentary  on  Bacon's  own 
fall  from  great  place.  Cum  non  sis,  etc. 
Since  you  are  not  what  you  were,  there 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  desire  to  live. 

110.  39.  Illi  mors  gravis,  etc.  Death  lies  heavy 
on  the  man  who  dies  known  to  almost 
all,  but  unknown  to  himself. 

53.  Conscience  of  the  same.  Conscious- 
ness of  the  same. 

56.  Et  conversus  Deus,  etc.     When  God 
had  looked,   to  see  the  works  which  his 
own   hands   had   made,   he   saw   that   all 
were  good  beyond  measure. 
86.  De  facto.    As  a  matter  of  fact. 

111.  131.  Omnium  consensu,  etc.  In  the 
opinion  of  all,  fit  to  rule, — if  only  he  had 
not  ruled. 

134.  Solus  imperantium,  etc.  Of  all  rulers 
Vespasian  alone  changed  for  the  better. 

OF    WISDOM   FOR   A  MAN'S    SELF 

2.  Shrewd.    Mischievous. 
9.  Right  earth.    Simply  earth. 
37.  Set  a  bias  upon  their  bowl.     It  is 
possible  to  roll  a  bowling  ball  so  that  it 
will  curve  while  travelling. 
64.  Sui  amantes,  etc.     Lovers  of  them- 
selves without  any  rival. 

OF   YOUTH   AND   AGE 

112.  16.  Juventutem  egit,  etc.  His  youth  was 
full  of  errors,  even  of  madness. 

85.  Idem   manebat,    etc.      He    remained 
the  same,  but  did  not  appear  the  same, 
i.  e.,  was  not  so  pleasing. 
90.  Ultima    primis    cedebant.      His    last 
years  were  inferior  to  his  first. 

OF    GARDENS 

113.  22.  If  they  be  stoved.  If  they  be  arti- 
ficially warmed. 

23.  Warm  set.  Set  out  where  it  will  keep 
warm. 


113.  68.  Ver  perpetuum.     Perpetual  spring. 
76.  Fast  flowers  of  their  smells.     Yield- 
ing little  perfume. 

OF    STUDIES 

114.  41.  Conference.     Conversation. 

51.  Abeunt  studia  in  mores.  Studies 
turn  into  habits. 

52.  No  stond  or  impediment.  No  defect. 
65.  Cymini  sectores.  Hair  splitters; 
(lit.,  splitters  of  a  cummin  seed.) 

CAROLINE  SONG-WRITERS 

WITHER:   SHALL  I,    WASTING   IN  DESPAIR 

115.  14.  Pelican.  Taken  as  a  type  of  devoted 
self-sacrifice,  because  of  the  fable  that 
the  pelican  fed  her  young  with  her  own 
blood. 

CAREW:    ASK   ME    NO    MORE 

11.  Dividing.  The  meaning  is  but  little 
stronger  than  musical.  "  Division  "  was 
a  musical  term  practically  equivalent  to 
a  variation  on  a  theme;  "  to  run  division  " 
was  to  perform  such  variations. 

LOVELACE:   TO   LUCASTA 

116.  The  poet  fought  on  the  Cavalier  side  in 
the  Civil  War. 

TO    ALTHEA 

As  a  consequence  of  his  devotion  to  the 
Royalist  cause  Lovelace  was  twice  im- 
prisoned. 

10.  With  no  allaying  Thames.  Undiluted 
with  water. 

HERRICK:    ARGUMENT   OF    HIS    BOOK 

117.  The  poem  serves  as  a  sort  of  foreword  to 
The  Hespcrides,  as  Herrick  called  his 
book,  telling  the  sorts  of  things  about 
which  Herrick  wrote. 

3.  Hock-carts.  The  hock-cart  was  the 
last  cart  in  from  the  field  at  harvest  time. 
Wassails.  Drinking-bouts.  Wakes.  Vil- 
lage festivities. 

corinna's  going  a-maying 
2.  God  unshorn.    The  sun  adorned  in  his 
rays. 

4.  Fresh-quilted.  "  Referable  to  the 
bright  and  variegated  colors  of  sunrise." 
(Schelling,  Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics.) 
14.  May.  The  term  was  loosely  applied 
to  all  sorts  of  May  blossoms,  particularly 
those  of  the  hawthorn. 

118.  30  jf.  For  a  good  account  of  the  May- 
day customs  see  Brand's  Popular  An- 
tiquities. 

51.  Green-gown.    Tumble  on  the  grass. 

AN    ODE    FOR    BEN   JONSON 

119.  5,  (>.  Sun,  Dog,  Triple  Tun.  Famous 
London  taverns  of  Jonson's  day. 


NOTES 


837 


HERBERT:   VIRTUE 

120.   15.  Coal.    I.  e.,  on  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

THE   COLLAR 

6.  In  suit.     Suing  for  the  favor  of  a  su- 
perior. 

8.  Me.     For  me;  an  example  of  the  so- 
called  ethical  dative. 

22.  The  attempt  to  weave  a  rope  of  sand 
was  a  typical  example  of  folly. 

CRASHAW:  IN  THE  HOLY  NATIVITY  OF  OUR 
LORD  GOD 

122.  91  Jf.  She  sings  Thy  tears  asleep,  etc. 
The  stanza  offers  a  typical  example  of  a 
"  conceit."  It  is  thus  explained  by 
Schelling  (Seventeenth  Century  Lyrics): 
"  The  Virgin  sings  to  her  babe  until, 
falling  asleep,  his  tears  cease  to  flow. 
'  And  dips  her  kisses  in  Thy  weeping  eye,' 
she  kisses  lightly  his  eyes,  suffused  with 
tears.  Here  the  lightness  of  the  kiss  and 
the  over-brimming  fullness  of  the  eyes 
suggest  the  hyperbole  and  the  implied 
metaphor,  which  likens  the  kiss  to  some- 
thing lightly  dipped  into  a  stream.  '  She 
spreads  the  red  leaves  of  thy  lips,'  i.  e., 
kisses  the  child's  lips,  which  lie  lightly 
apart  in  infantile  sleep,  and  which  are 
like  rosebuds  in  their  color  and  in  their 
childish  undevelopment.  '  Mother-dia- 
monds '  are  the  eyes  of  the  Virgin,  bright 
as  diamonds  and  resembling  those  of  the 
child.  '  Points  '  are  the  rays  or  beams  of 
the  eye,  which,  according  to  the  old 
physics,  passed,  in  vision,  from  one  eye 
to  another.  Lastly,  the  eyes  of  the  child 
are  likened  to  those  of  a  young  eagle,  and 
the  Virgin  tests  them  against  her  own  as 
the  mother  eagle  is  supposed  to  test  her 
nestling's  eyes  against  the  sun." 

vaughan:  the  retreat 

123.  The  idea  of  this  poem  suggests  Words- 
worth's Intimations  of  Immortality,  and 
it  is  probable  that  Wordsworth  was  in- 
fluenced by  Vaughan. 

marvell:  horatian  ode 

124.  Written  in  1650  after  Cromwell  had  re- 
turned from  putting  down  a  rising  in 
Ireland. 

125.  15.  His  own  side.  In  1647  the  Puritan 
party  was  split  between  Independents  and 
Presbyterians,  the  latter  advocating  the 
immediate  disbanding  of  the  army  which 
was  largely  made  up  of  Independents; 
Cromwell  led  the  army  to  London,  and 
forced  the  Presbyterians  to  yield. 

17-20.  An  ambitious  man  makes  no  dis- 
tinction between  enemies  (of  an  opposing 
party)  and  rivals  (in  his  own  party), 
and  in  the  case  of  such  a  man  ("  with 
such  ")  it  is  more  difficult  to  restrain 
him  than  to  oppose  him. 


125.  23.  Caesar's.     Charles  the  First's. 

24.  Through  his  laurels.  In  spite  of  his 
royal  crown. 

29.  His  private  gardens.  Until  the  out- 
break of  the  Civil  War  Cromwell  had 
lived  in  retirement. 

41.  Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness.  A 
variant  of  the  well  known  phrase  "  Nature 
abhors  a  vacuum." 

42.  Allows  of  penetration  less.  Two 
bodies  cannot  occupy  the  same  space. 

47.  Hampton.     It  was  long  believed  that 

Cromwell     connived     at     the     flight     of 

Charles  from  Hampton   Court  to   Caris- 

brooke  Castle  in  1647. 

57.  He.     The   King.     This   fine   passage 

has  done  much  to  keep  the  poem  alive. 

66.  Assured  the  forced  power.    Made  the 

Commonwealth  secure. 

69.  A  bleeding  head.     Pliny  tells,  in  his 

Natural  History   (xxviii.  4),   an   anecdote 

of  the  finding  of  a  head  while  workmen 

were  digging  on  the  Tarpeian  hill  for  the 

foundation  of  a   temple   to   Jupiter;   the 

omen    was    interpreted    as    indicating    a 

prosperous  future  for  Rome. 

82.  In  the  republic's  hand.     Submissive 

to  the  Commonwealth's  wishes. 

86.  A  Kingdom.     Ireland. 

92.  Heavy.    I.  e.,  with  her  prey. 

126.  101,  2.  Cromwell  shall  be  to  France  what 
Caesar  was,  to  Italy  what  Hannibal  was. 
104.  Climacteric.  The  force  that  brings 
about  the  result  at  a  critical  time. 

106.  Parti-colored.  Variegated,  i.  e., 
fickle.  There  is  a  play  on  the  word  Pict, 
derived  from  "  pictus,"  painted,  applied 
to  the  ancient  Celts  who  were  accus- 
tomed to  paint  their  bodies. 
in.  Lay  ...  in.  To  send  dogs  into 
cover. 

DORSET:  TO  ALL  YOU  LADIES  NOW  AT  LAND 

127.  "  Written  in  1665,  when  the  author,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-eight,  had  volunteered 
under  the  Duke  of  York  in  the  first  Dutch 
war.  It  was  composed  at  sea  the  night 
before  the  critical  engagement  in  which 
the  Dutch  admiral  Opdam  was  blown  up, 
and  thirty  ships  destroyed  or  taken.  It 
may  be  considered  as  inaugurating  the 
epoch  of  vers-de-societe."  (E.  Gosse,  in 
Ward's  English  Poets.) 

128.  27.  Whitehall  stairs.  The  royal  palace 
of  Whitehall  was  situated  on  the  bank  of 
the  Thames. 

44.  A  merry  main.  To  throw  a  main  was 
to  cast  dice  in  a  game  of  chance. 

BROWNE 

hydriotaphia 

The  Urn-Burial  sets  out  to  be  an  historical 
account  of  the  methods  of  dealing  with 
the  dead,  but  turns  into  a  meditation 
upon  the  brevity  and  vanity  of  the  life 


S38 


NOTES 


of  man.  It  was  suggested  by  the  digging 
up  of  some  Roman  burial  urns  in  Norfolk. 

128.  10.  Sic  ego,  etc.  Thus  I  should  wish  to 
be  laid  at  rest  when  I  am  become  bones. 
20.  Considerable.  Worthy  of  considera- 
tion. 

24.  To  retain  a  stronger  propension  unto 
them.  I.  e.,  such  souls  clung  more 
strongly  to  the  bodies. 

129.  36.  Archimedes.  The  famous  Syracusan 
mathematician  and  physicist  of  the  third 
century  B.  C. 

37.  The  life  of  Moses  his  man.  The  life 
of  man  as  described  by  Moses,  in  the  so- 
called  Prayer  of  Moses,  the  ninetieth 
Psalm. 

42.  One  little  finger.  "  According  to 
the  ancient  arithmetic  of  the  hand, 
wherein  the  little  finger  of  the  right  hand 
contracted,  signified  an  hundred." 
(Browne's  note). 

54.  Alcmena's   nights.     Jupiter,   in   love 
with  Alcmena,  mother  of  Hercules,  made 
one  night  as  long  as  three. 
65.  What  name  Achilles  assumed.    Thetis, 
mother  of  Achilles,  to  prevent  him  from 
going    on    the    expedition    against    Troy, 
had  him  disguised  as  a  girl;  Ulysses  pene- 
trated the  stratagem. 
69.  Ossuaries.     Receptacles  for  bones. 
77.  Provincial  guardians,  or  tutelary  ob- 
servators.      Guardian    spirits   of    the    lo- 
cality. 

83.  Pyramidally  extant.  Known  by  a 
tombstone. 

93.  Atropos.     The  one  of  the  three  Fates 
who  cuts  the  thread  of  life. 
99.  Meridian.    The  noon,  or  middle  point, 
of  the  world's  existence. 

106.  Prophecy  of  Elias.    "  That  the  world 
may     last     but     six     thousand     years." 
(Browne's  note.) 

107.  Charles  the  Fifth  .  .  .  Hector. 
"  Hector's  fame  lasting  above  two  lives  of 
Methusaleh,  before  that  famous  prince 
(i.  e..  Charles)  was  extant."  (Browne's 
note.) 

115.  One  face  of  Janus  .  .  .  the  other. 
The  past  and  the  future. 
126.  Setting.     Declining. 

130.  136.  The  mortal  right-lined  circle.  ©, 
the  character  of  death. 

147.  Gruter.      Jan    Gruter    (1560-1627), 
a  continental  scholar;  author  of  Inscrip- 
tions Antiquce  (1603). 
157.  Cardan.     Italian  philosopher  of  the 
sixteenth  century. 

160.  Hippocrates.  Greek  physician  (460- 
377  B.  C). 

164.  Entelechia.     A  word  coined  by  Aris- 
totle to  denote  the  actual  being  of  a  thing 
in  distinction  to  its  capacity  for  being. 
167.  Canaanitish    woman.      See    Genesis, 
xlvi:  10. 

178.  Adrian.  Hadrian,  Emperor  of  Rome. 
182.  Thersites.  A  foul-mouthed  coward 
in  the  Iliad,  where  Agamemnon  is  leader 
of  the  Greek  host. 


130.  205.  Lucina.     Goddess  of  childbirth;  here 
equivalent  to  midwife. 

211.  Our  light  in  ashes.  "  According  to 
the  custom  of  the  Jews,  who  place  a 
lighted  wax-candle  in  a  pot  of  ashes  by 
the  corpse."     (Browne's  note.) 

212.  Brother  of  death.    Sleep. 

224.  To  weep  into  stones.  A  reference  to 
the  fable  of  Niobe. 

131.  257.  Mummy  is  become  merchandise. 
A  medicinal  preparation  made,  or  sup- 
posed to  be  made,  from  mummies,  was 
highly  regarded  in  the  old  medicine. 
258.  Mizraim.  The  Biblical  name  for 
Egypt;  Browne  seems  to  use  it  as  symbolic 
of  Egypt's  great  men. 

268.  Nimrod.  The  Hebrew  equivalent 
of  the  Greek  Orion. 

269.  The  dog-star.     Sirius. 
274.  Perspectives.     Telescopes. 
298.  Scape.    Oversight. 

309.  Sardanapalus.  Last  king  of  As- 
syria, who,  when  his  besieged  city  of 
Nineveh  was  about  to  be  captured,  gath- 
ered together  his  household  and  treasure 
and  burned  all,  with  himself,  in  his  palace. 
316.  Gordianus.  An  emperor  of  Rome  in 
the  third  century.  Man  of  God.  Moses, 
buried  by  the  hand  of  God;  cf.  Deu- 
teronomy, xxxiv:  6. 

321.  Enoch.  "  And  Enoch  was  not,  for 
God  took  him."  Genesis,  v:  24.  Elias. 
Elijah  was  taken  up  to  heaven  in  a  chariot 
of  fire;  2  Kings,  ii:  1-12. 
327.  Decretory.  Established  by  decree. 
346.  Alaricus.  King  of  the  Visigoths, 
who  captured  and  sacked  Rome  in  410; 
he  was  buried,  with  vast  treasure,  in  the 
bed  of  a  river. 

348.  Sylla.  Roman  general  and  dictator 
(138-78  B.C.) 

132.  357.  That  poetical  taunt  of  Isaiah.     See 
Isaiah,  xiv:  16-17. 

367.  St.  Innocent's  churchyard.  In  Paris. 
371.  Moles  of  Adrianus.  Hadrian's 
Mole,  or  tomb,  now  known  as  the  Castle 
of  St.  Angelo. 


FULLER 

THE   GOOD   SCHOOLMASTER 

133.   in.  Cockering.    Coddling. 

113.  Peculiar.  A  parish  exempted  from 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  bishop  within 
whose  diocese  it  lies;  here  applied  to  a 
condition  of  exemption  from  the  usual 
regulations. 

132.  De  insolenti  carnificina.     Of  the  ex- 
cessive    torture.      Conscindebatur  .  .  . 
singulos.    He  was  lashed  with  whips  seven 
or  eight  times  a  day. 
136.  Tusser.  Thomas  Tusser,  an  English 
poetaster  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
143.  Udall.     Nicholas   Udall,  headmaster 
of  Eton  1 534-1 541;  best  known  as  author 
of    the    first    regular    English     comedy, 
Ralph  Roister  Doister. 


NOTES 


839 


145.  Orbilius.        The      schoolmaster      of 

Horace,    who    called    him    plagosus,    the 

flogger. 

155.  In  forma  pauperis.     On  the  ground 

of  poverty. 

134.  196.  Ascham.  An  English  scholar  and 
writer  of  the  sixteenth  century;  tutor 
to  Elizabeth,  and  author  of  Toxophilus, 
a  treatise  on  archery,  and  The  School- 
master, one  on  education. 

199.  Dr.  Whitaker.  William  Whi taker 
(1548-1595),  master  of  St.  John's  Col- 
lege, Cambridge;  famous  as  a  scholar. 

200.  Mulcaster.  Headmaster  of  the  Mer- 
chant Tailors'  School,  and  later  of  St. 
Paul's  School. 

THE    LIFE    OF   QUEEN   ELIZABETH 

32.  Compurgator.  A  person  who  swore  to 
his  belief  in  the  innocence  of  one  on  trial. 
69.  A  fit  of  the  mother.  A  pun  on  the  old 
meaning  of  mother — hysteria. 

135.  121.  Ascham.  See  note  on  The  Good 
Schoolmaster,  above. 

138.  Et  si  .  .  .  pudor.  And  if  that  wom- 
anly bashfulness  of  mine. 

136.  188.  Latter  Lammas.  This  rendering  of 
Grcecas  Calcndas  is  explained  by  the  fact 
that  neither  a  Greek  calends  nor  a  later 
Lammas  (a  church  festival  on  August 
first)  exists;  the  latter  term  was  used 
ironically  for  "  never." 

211.  Semper  eadem.    Always  the  same. 
231.  This  anagrammatist.    Edmund  Cam- 
pion,   an    English    Jesuit,    executed    for 
treason  in  1581. 
271.  Cordial.    Invigorating. 

WALTON 

THE  COMPLETE  ANGLER 

137.  i.  Piscator.  The  Complete  Angler  is 
written  in  the  form  of  dialogue;  the  chief 
characters  are  Piscator,  the  Fisherman, 
and  Venator,  the  Hunter,  who  is  the  pupil. 
9.  Gesner.  Conrad  Gesner  (1516-1565), 
a  Swiss  naturalist. 

36.  Mercator.  Gerard  Mercator  (15 12- 
1594),  famous  for  his  contributions  to 
geographical  science. 

138.  125.  Albertus.  Albertus  Magnus  (1206?- 
1280),  a  scholastic  philosopher. 

160.  History  of  Life  and  Death.  The 
Latin    Historia   Vita  et  Mortis,  1623. 

139.  221.  The  Royal  Society.  The  Royal  So- 
ciety of  London  for  Improving  Natural 
Knowledge  was  incorporated  15  July, 
1662.  See  Huxley's  essay  "  On  the 
Necessity  of  Improving  Natural  Knowl- 
edge," p.  720. 

275.  Make  a  catch.    Sing  a  "round." 

140.  337.  Kit  Marlow.  Christopher  Marlowe. 
Marlowe's  song  and  Raleigh's  answer 
were  both  printed  in  England's  Helicon 
(1600). 

359.  A  syllabub  of  new  verjuice.  A  sort  of 
custard  made  of  cream  and  fruit  juice. 


141.  433.  Sir  Thomas  Overbury.  Overbury 
(1581-1613)  is  famous  in  literary  history 
for  his  Characters,  one  of  which,  "  The 
Fair  and  Happy  Milkmaid,"  concludes 
with  the  sentence  here  quoted. 

TAYLOR 

HOLY    DYING 

142.  The  selection  is  section  2  of  Chapter  i, 
with  the  omission  of  one  paragraph. 

143.  89.  Escurial.  The  royal  palace  in  Madrid. 
94.  Where  .  .  .  interred.  Westminster 
Abbey. 

141.  Thyades.      Women    who    celebrated 
the  Bacchic  orgies.  ,* 

144.  165.  Chrisom-child.  Newly  baptized 
child. 

171.  Squinancy.    Quinsy. 

185.  Calends.    The  first  day  of  the  month. 

MILTON 

l'allegro 

146.  2.  Cerberus.    A  three-headed  dog,  guard- 
ian of  the  gateway  of  Hades. 
10.  Cimmerian.     Cimmeria  was  a  land  in 
which,  according  to  Homer,  the  sun  never 
shone. 

12.  Euphrosyne.    Mirth. 
29.  Hebe.    The  goddess  of  youth. 

146.  45.  Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow.  The 
passage  has  been  much  disputed  about. 
The  interpretation  which  seems  most 
satisfactory  is  that  L'Allegro  finds  pleas- 
ure in  hearing  the  song  of  the  lark  in  the 
early  morning,  and  then  in  coming  to  the 
window  to  look  out  through  sweet  briar 
and  eglantine,  to  bid  good  morrow  to  the 
new  day. 

67.  Tells  his  tale.    Counts  his  sheep. 

83.  Corydon,  Thyrsis,  etc.     Conventional 

names  in  pastoral  verse. 

103.  She  .  .  .  he.       Persons     who     are 

telling  the  stories. 

125.  Hymen.     The  god  of  marriage. 

132.  Jonson's  learned  sock.     Actors  in 

classical     comedy     wore     a     low-heeled 

soccus,  or   slipper.     Jonson's   plays   were 

famous   for   the   scholarly   learning   they 

embodied. 

147.  145.  Orpheus.  According  to  the  Greek 
myths,  Orpheus  was  the  most  wonderful 
of  all  human  musicians.  Pluto  consented 
to  let  Eurydice  return  with  her  husband 
to  the  earth,  but  Orpheus,  by  looking 
back  to  be  sure  she  was  following,  broke 
the  terms  of  his  agreement  with  Pluto, 
and  Eurydice  remained  in  Hades.  Hence 
the  phrase,  "  half- regained." 

IL  PENSEROSO 

10.  Morpheus.    The  god  of  sleep. 
18.  Prince    Memnon's   sister.      Memnon 
was  a  handsome  king  of  the  Ethiopians, 
according  to  Homer.    Milton  here  assumes 


840 


NOTES 


that  his  sister  must  have  been  equally 
beautiful. 

19.  Starred    Ethiop    queen.      Cassiopeia, 
transformed  into  the  constellation. 
23.  Vesta.     Goddess  of  the  hearth. 
53.  Fiery-wheeled  throne.    Cf.  Ezekiel,  x. 
55.  Hist.        Probably      an      imperative, 
"  bring  silently";  by  another  interpreta- 
tion  it   is  a  past   participle,   "  hushed  ", 
agreeing  with  Silence. 
59.  Cynthia.     Goddess  of  the  moon. 
148.  87.  The    Bear.      The    constellation    Ursa 
Major,  which,  in  northern  latitudes,  never 
sets. 

88.  Thrice-great  Hermes.     Hermes  Tris- 
megistus,  a  learned  Egyptian. 
99.  Thebes  .  .  .  Pelops'  line  .  .  .  Troy. 
All  subjects  of  Greek  tragic  poetry. 

101.  The  reference  here  may  be  to  Shake- 
speare's tragedies. 

102.  Buskined.  The  buskin  was  the 
high-heeled  boot  worn  by  actors  in  clas- 
sical tragedy;  opposed  to  the  sock  of 
L' Allegro,  1.  132. 

104.  Musaeus.     A  mythical   Greek  poet, 
sometimes  called  the  son  of  Orpheus. 
109.  Him  that  left  half-told.     The  refer- 
ence is  to  Chaucer,  who  left  his  Squire's 
Tale  unfinished. 

1 20.  Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the 
ear.  Where  there  is  an  allegorical  mean- 
ing. Milton  probably  had  Spenser's 
Faerie  Queene  in  mind. 
122.  Civil-suited.  Soberly  dressed,  like 
a  citizen. 

124.  Attic  boy.  Cephalus,  whom  Aurora 
loved. 

134.  Sylvan.    Sylvanus,  one  of  the  wood- 
land deities. 
148.  His  wings.     Sleep's  wings. 

158.  Massy  proof.  Able  to  support  the 
weight  resting  on  them. 

159.  Storied.  With  Biblical  stories  in 
stained  glass. 


Lycidas.  A  pastoral  name,  taken  from 
classical  poetry.  A  learned  friend.  Ed- 
ward King,  a  fellow  student  with  Milton 
at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge. 
1.  Yet  once  more.  Milton  is  taking  up 
the  writing  of  poetry  after  a  lapse  of  a 
few  years  since  the  time  Comas  was 
written. 
149.  15.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well.  The 
Muses;  the  Pierian  spring,  on  Mount 
Helicon. 

23.  Nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill.  At- 
tended the  same  university.  Milton 
adopts  the  poetical  convention  of  repre- 
senting his  characters  as  shepherds. 
36.  Damcetas.  The  reference  is  possibly 
to  Milton's  college  tutor. 

54.  Mona.    The  island  of  Anglesey. 

55.  Deva.    The  river  Dee. 
58.  The  Muse.     Calliope. 

62.  His  gory  visage.     Orpheus  was  slain 


by  Thracian  women,  and  his  head  cast 
into  the  river  Hebrus. 

149.  65.  Shepherd's  trade.  The  art  of  poetry. 
68.  Amaryllis  .  .  .  Nesera.  Conventional 
pastoral  names  for  women. 

75.  Blind  Fury.  Atropos,  not  one  of  the 
Furies,  but  the  Fate  who  cuts  the  thread 
of  life. 

150.  77.  Phoebus.    The  god  of  poetry. 

79.  Glistering  foil.  Glittering  tinsel;  gold 
leaf. 

85.  Arethuse.  Arethusa,  a  Sicilian 
spring,  symbolic  of  Greek  pastoral  poetry. 

86.  Mincius.  A  stream  in  Italy,  near 
which  Virgil  was  born.  Vocal.  Used  for 
shepherds'  pipes. 

88.  Oat.  Oaten  pipe;  symbolic  of  pas- 
toral verse. 

89.  The  herald  of  the  sea.  Triton,  son 
of  Neptune,  comes  "  in  Neptune's  plea  "; 
that  is,  to  defend  his  father. 

96.  Hippotades.  /Eolus,  god  of  the  winds. 
99.  Panope.  One  of  the  Nereids,  or  sea- 
nymphs. 

103.  Camus.  The  genius  of  the  river 
Cam,  beside  which  stands  Cambridge 
University. 

104.  Sedge.  Coarse  grass  and  reeds  along 
the  river  bank.    • 

106.  That  sanguine  flower.    The  hyacinth, 
whose   petals   the    Greeks   fancied   to   be 
marked  with  the  word  meaning  alas. 
109.  The  pilot.    St.  Peter. 
115.  The  fold.     The  church. 
119.  Blind  mouths.     For  an  excellent  ex- 
position of  the  phrase  cf.  Ruskin's  Sesame 
and  Lilies. 

126.  Wind  and  rank  mist.     False  teach- 
ings of  the  unprincipled  clergy. 
128.  The  grim  wolf.    The  Roman  Catho- 
lic Church,  which  was  actively  proselyting 
at  the  time. 

130.  Two-handed  engine.  Milton  has  in 
mind  some  instrument  of  retribution 
which  will  punish  the  corrupt  clergy. 
132.  Alpheus.  A  river  god,  here  sym- 
bolical of  pastoral  poetry.  Milton  here 
ends  his  digression  on  the  state  of  the 
church. 

151.  149.  Amaranthus.  The  amaranth,  sym- 
bolic of  immortality. 

151.  Laureate.     Crowned  with  laurel. 
158.  The  monstrous  world.     The  ocean, 
abode  of  monsters. 

160.  Bellerus.  The  Latin  name  for 
Land's  End  had  been  Bellerium,  and 
Milton  coins  Bellerus  as  the  name  of  an 
imaginary  hero  after  whom  the  promon- 
tory was  called. 

161.  The  guarded  mount.  St.  Michael's 
Mount  in  Cornwall,  where  the  Archangel 
Michael  was  said  to  have  appeared. 

162.  Namancos  and  Bayona.  On  the 
coast  of  Spain. 

184.  In  thy  large  recompense.     As  a  re- 
ward. 
189.  His  Doric  lay.    His  pastoral  song. 


NOTES 


841 


ON   SHAKESPEARE 

152.  This  (so-called)  sonnet  was  written  for 
the  second  (1632)  folio  edition  of  Shake- 
speare's works. 

TO   THE    LORD   GENERAL   CROMWELL 

7,  8.  Darwen  stream,  Dunbar  field. 
Scenes  of  two  of  Cromwell's  victories  over 
the  Scots. 

9.  Worcester's  laureate  wreath.  Crom- 
well won  the  decisive  victory  over 
Charles  II  and  his  Scottish  allies  at 
Worcester,  3  September,  1651. 

ON   THE    LATE   MASSACRE    IN    PIEDMONT 

The  Vaudois,  or  Waldenses,  a  Protestant 
people  living  in  the  northwestern  part  of 
Italy,  were  subjected  in  1655  to  a  bloody 
persecution  because  they  refused  to  ac- 
cept Catholicism. 

153.  12.  The  triple  tyrant.  The  Pope,  who 
wears  a  triple  crown. 

14.  The  Babylonian  woe.  The  Puritans 
frequently  applied  the  name  Babylon  to 
Rome,  alluding  to  the  scriptural  account 
in  Revelation,  xvii-xviii. 

ON   HIS   DECEASED    WIFE 

This  was  Milton's  second  wife,  Catherine 
Woodcock,  who  died  in  childbirth  in  1658. 
2.  Like  Alcestis.  Alcestis,  the  heroine  of 
Sophocles's  drama,  offered  her  life  for  her 
husband,  but  was  rescued  by  Hercules. 

PARADISE    LOST:    BOOK    I 

154.  6.  Heavenly  Muse.  Milton  is  inventing 
a  Muse  of  Hebrew  poetry,  and  appealing 
to  her  for  aid  in  accordance  with  the 
classical  epic  formula. 

15.  The  Aonian  mount.  Mount  Helicon, 
here  symbolizing  Greek  poetry. 

155.  74.  As  from  the  center  thrice  to  the  ut- 
most pole.  The  distance  between  Heaven 
and  Hell  was  three  times  the  radius  of  the 
world.  The  diagram  opposite  represents 
approximately  Milton's  conception  of  the 
universe. 

156.  129.  Seraphim.  Plural  form;  the  sera- 
phim were  supposed  to  be  the  highest  in 
rank  of  all  the  angels. 

167.  If  I  fail  not.  Unless  I  am  mistaken. 
197-201.  The  fables,  etc.  According  to 
Greek  mythology  the  Titans  warred  on 
Saturn,  and  the  giants  rebelled  against 
Jove.  Briareos,  according  to  one  legend, 
was  a  giant;  Typhon,  son  of  Tartarus  and 
Gaea,  was  a  Titan.  Leviathan,  the  sea 
monster  of  the  Bible,  was  identified  with 
the  whale. 

157.  232.  Pelorus.  A  Sicilian  promontory 
near  Mt.  ,Etna. 

266.  The  oblivious  pool.  A  transferred 
epithet;  the  pool  which  makes  one  obliv- 
ious. 


158.  288.  The  Tuscan  artist.  Galileo,  whom 
Milton  met  while  travelling  in  Italy. 

289.  Fesole.    Fiesole,  a  hill  near  Florence. 

290.  Valdarno.    The  valley  of  the  Arno. 
303.  Vallombrosa.       Near     Florence,     in 
Tuscany,  the  ancient  Etruria. 

305.  Orion.     The  constellation  Orion,  or 

the   Huntsman,    supposed   to    bring   foul 

weather. 

307.  Busiris.     Here  meaning  the  Pharaoh 

of   the    exodus.      Memphian.      Memphis 

was  the  ancient  capital  of  Egypt. 

309.  Goshen.     The  portion  of  Egypt  in 

which  the  Jews  resided  before  the  exodus. 

159.  341.  Warping.  Usually  explained  as 
flying  with  a  bending  motion,  twisting 
from  side  to  side.  Perhaps,  however,  it 
describes  a  progress  by  short  stages,  in- 
stead of  continuous  flight,  as  a  ship  is 
warped  into  harbor:  the  locusts  advance  a 
short  distance,  then  settle  down,  and 
after  devouring  everything  green,  fly  on 
to  the  next  vegetation,  and  so  on. 

351.  A  multitude  like  which  the  populous 
north.  Referring  to  the  various  invasions 
of  the  Roman  Empire  by  the  "  bar- 
barians "  from  the  north. 
392.  Moloch.  Human  sacrifice,  par- 
ticularly of  children,  played  an  important 
part  in  the  worship  of  Moloch. 
397-9.  Rabba.  The  capital  of  Ammon. 
Argob,  Basan,  Arnon.  The  first  two, 
districts  east  of  Palestine;  the  third,  a 
river  emptying  into  the  Dead  Sea  from 
the  east. 


After  the  creation  of  the  World 


842 


NOTES 


169.  403.  Opprobrious  hill.  The  Mount  of 
Olives,  where  Solomon  built  a  temple  to 
Moloch. 

404,  5.  Hinnom.     A  valley  south  of  the 
Mount    of    Olives.      Tophet,     Gehenna. 
Synonyms  for  hell.      Gehenna  means,  lit- 
erally, "  Valley  of  Hinnom." 
406.  Chemos.    A  god  of  the  Moabites. 

160.  411.  The  Asphaltic  pool.  The  Dead  Sea. 
420.  The  brook  that  parts.  The  river 
Besor. 

422.  Baalim  and  Ashtaroth.      Phoenician 
gods,   here   used  in   the  plural  form   for 
deities  of  the  sun  and  moon. 
438.  Ashtoreth.     Goddess  of  love,  corre- 
sponding to  the  Aphrodite  of  the  Greeks. 
444.  That  uxorious  king.     Solomon. 
446.  Thammuz.      Corresponding    to    the 
Greek  Adonis,  slain  by  a  wild  boar. 
450.  Adonis.    A  river  in  Phoenicia  whose 
water   is   reddened   by   the   soil   through 
which  it  flows. 

455.  Ezekiel.     See  Ezekiel,  viii:  14. 
462.  Dagon.       A     Philistine     deity;     see 
j  Samuel,  v. 

464-6.  Azotus  .  .  .  Gaza.  Philistine 
cities. 

471.  A  leper,  etc.    See  2  Kings,  v. 
478.  Osiris,  Isis,  Orus.     Egyptian  gods. 

161.  484.  The  calf  in  Oreb.  See  Exodus,  xii: 
35-6,  and  xxxii:  4.  The  rebel  King. 
Jeroboam;  see  1   Kings,  xii:  28-9. 

488.  Equalled  with  one  stroke.  See 
Exodus,  xii:  29. 

490.  Belial.  Milton's  personification  of 
wickedness. 

495.  As  did  Eli's  sons.  See  1  Samuel,  ii: 
12-17. 

502,  3.  Sodom,  Gibeah.  See  Genesis,  xix; 
Judges,  xix. 

508.  Ionian.  Greek.  Of  Javan's  issue. 
By  the  descendants  of  Javan  (Noah's 
grandson).  The  account  of  the  supplant- 
ing of  Titan  by  Saturn,  who  was  in  turn 
deposed  by  Jove,  is  the  accepted  classical 
myth. 

519.  Doric.     Greek. 

520.  Adria.  The  Adriatic  Sea.  Hes- 
perian.   Western;  i.  e.,  of  Italy. 

550.  Dorian  mood.  Martial  music  like 
that  of  the  Spartans. 

162.  573.  Since  created  man.  Since  man  was 
created. 

575,  6.  That  small  infantry  Warred  on  by 
cranes.  The  battle  between  the  pygmies 
and  the  cranes,  to  which  Homer  refers 
at  the  beginning  of  the  third  book  of  the 
Iliad. 

577.  Phlegra.  On  the  west  coast  of 
Italy,  where  gods  and  giants  fought  a 
great  battle. 

580.  Uther's  son.  King  Arthur,  hero  of 
many  romances. 

583-7.  Aspramont  .  .  .  Fontarabbia. 
The  names  are  those  of  places  mentioned 
in  mediaeval  romances  describing  con- 
flicts   between    Christians   and    Saracens. 


Charlemain  and  all  his  peerage.  Charle- 
magne and  his  twelve  knights  are  the 
heroes  of  the  Chanson  de  Roland,  which 
gives  an  account  of  their  defeat  in  the 
pass  of  Roncesvalles,  not  far  from  Fon- 
tarabbia. 

163.  674.  The  work  of  sulphur.  It  was  form- 
erly believed  that  ores  could  not  exist 
independent  of  sulphur. 

678.  Mammon.    God  of  riches. 

164.  720.  Belus,  Serapis.  The  first  an  As- 
syrian god,  the  second  an  Egyptian. 

728.  Cressets.  Hanging  iron  vessels, 
open  at  the  top,  containing  a  burning 
illuminant. 

737.  Orders.  The  nine  ranks  of  angels  in 
the  celestial  hierarchy. 

738.  His  name.  Hephaestus,  the  Greek 
god  of  fire;  analogous  to  the  Latin  Vulcan. 

739.  Ausonian  land.    Italy.  ■ 

165.  756.  Pandemonium.  "  The  hall  of  all 
the  devils."  Milton  coined  the  word  on 
the  analogy  of  Pantheon,  "  the  hall  of  all 
the  gods." 

769.  The  Sun  with  Taurus  rides.  The 
sun  is  in  the  sign  of  Taurus,  or  the  Bull, 
from  the  middle  of  April  till  the  middle 
of  May.    Cf.  Chaucer's  Prologue,  1.  7. 


2.  Ormus.    The  island  of  Hormuz  in  the 
Persian  Gulf. 

167.  74.  That  forgetful  lake.  The  lake  of 
liquid  fire  into  which  the  angels  had  fallen. 
100.  At  worst  on  this  side  nothing.  In 
as  bad  a  condition  as  we  can  be  and  still 
exist. 

168.  152.  Let  this  be  good.  Granting  that 
absolute  annihilation  be  good. 

169.  224.  For  happy.    As  regards  happiness. 

170.  336.  To  our  power.  To  the  extent  of  our 
power. 

173.  531.  The  goal.  The  turning-post  in  a 
chariot  race. 

539.  Typhoean  rage.     Rage  like  that  of 
Typhon,    who,    according   to    the    fables, 
was  imprisoned  beneath  a  volcano. 
542.  Alcides.    Hercules. 

174.  592.  Serbonian  bog.  An  Egyptian  lake, 
near  the  city  of  Damietta  and  Mt.  Casius. 

638.  Bengala.    Bengal. 

639.  Ternate  and  Tidore.     Two   of   the 
Molucca  Islands. 

641.  Ethiopian.       The      Indian      Ocean. 
Cape.    Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

175.  660.  Vexed  Scylla.  Scylla,  transformed 
into  a  monster  like  Sin,  cast  herself  into 
the  sea  between  Italy  and  Sicily,  and  be- 
came a  menace  to  navigation. 

709.  Ophiucus.    One  of  the  northern  con- 
stellations. 

178.  904.  Barca,  Cyrene.  Cities  of  northern 
Africa. 

922.  Bellona.      The    Roman    goddess    of 
war. 

179.  945.  Pursues  the  Arimaspian.  The  leg- 
endary  Arimaspians,   of   Scythia,   fought 


NOTES 


§43 


the  gryphons  for  the  gold  which  the 
monsters  guarded. 
180.  1029.  The  utmost  orb.  The  outermost  of 
the  ten  concentric  spheres  which,  accord- 
ing to  Ptolemaic  astronomy,  constituted 
the  universe;  at  the  center  was  the  earth. 


604.  He  ended.  The  archangel  Michael, 
who  had  been  sent  to  drive  Adam  and 
Eve  out  of  Paradise. 

AREOPAGITICA 

181.  "  I  wrote  my  Areopagitica,"  said  Milton 
in  his  Defensio  Secunda,  "  in  order  to 
deliver  the  press  from  the  restraints  with 
which  it  was  encumbered;  that  the  power 
of  determining  what  was  true  and  what 
was  false,  what  ought  to  be  published 
and  what  to  be  suppressed,  might  no 
longer  be  entrusted  to  a  few  illiterate  and 
illiberal  individuals,  who  refused  their 
sanction  to  any  work  which  contained 
views  or  sentiments  at  all  above  the  level 
of  the  vulgar  superstition."  The  treatise 
appeared  in  November,  1644,  four  months 
after  the  defeat  of  Rupert  at  Marston 
Moor,  and  when  Milton  felt  confident 
that  the  Parliamentary  cause  would 
prosper.  The  immediate  occasion  was 
the  enactment,  in  June,  1643,  0I  an  order 
forbidding  the  printing  or  sale  of  any  book 
that  had  not  been  properly  licensed. 

14.  Those  fabulous  dragon's  teeth.  The 
dragon's  teeth,  sown  by  Jason,  sprang 
up  armed  men. 

46.  The  thing.  The  custom  of  requiring 
a  license. 

182.  58.  Lullius.  Raymond  Lully,  a  scientist 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  Sublimate, 
extract. 

67.  That  unapocryphal  vision.  See  Acts, 
x:  9-16. 

85.  Mr.  Selden.  John  Selden  (1584- 
1654),  a  writer  on  law  and  constitutional 
history  and  member  of  Parliament  for 
Oxford  University. 

107.  Omer.  A  measure,  mentioned  in 
Exodus,  xvi:  18.  It  was  between  half  and 
four-fifths  of  a  gallon. 
128.  Seeds  which  were  imposed  on 
Psyche.  The  story,  told  in  Apuleius's 
Golden  Ass,  pictures  Venus  as  punishing 
Psyche  for  winning  the  love  of  Cupid  by 
forcing  her  to  arrange  in  proper  piles  all 
the  seeds  of  a  vast  heap  of  mixed  grain. 
The  ants,  taking  pity  on  Psyche,  per- 
formed the  labor  for  her. 
164.  Scotus;  Aquinas.  Duns  Scotus, 
(i265?-i3o8),  a  famous  mathematician; 
Thomas  Aquinas  (i224?-i274),  the  "an- 
gelic doctor  "  of  the  scholastic  philos- 
ophers. 

183.  166.  Guyon.     The  knight  of  temperance, 
hero  of  Book  II  of  the  Faerie  Queene. 
181.  It.     The  licensing  act. 


183.  187.  Pluralities.  The  churchman  who 
was  the  possessor  of  several  benefices 
was  said  to  hold  a  plurality. 

219.  Ferular.     Rod.     Fescu.     Pointer. 

220.  Imprimatur.  Let  it  be  printed;  the 
word  signifying  that  the  book  had  been 
licensed  for  publication. 

247.  Palladian.  Pertaining  to  Pallas 
Athene,  goddess  of  wisdom. 

184.  359.  Pyrrhus.  After  the  battle  of  Hera- 
clea  (280  B.  C.)  Pyrrhus  declared  that 
if  he  had  Roman  soldiers  the  control  of 
the  world  would  be  easy. 

185.  412.  Janus.  The  two-faced  god  of  the 
Romans,  whose  temple  doors  were  opened 
only  in  war-time. 

426.  Beyond  the  discipline  of  Geneva. 
Beyond  what  seems  proper  to  the  Pres- 
byterians. 

459.  The  old  Proteus.  Proteus,  the  sea 
god,  whose  power  of  assuming  many 
forms  has  given  its  significance  to  the 
adjective  Protean,  prophesied  when  bound 
in  chains. 

464.  Micaiah  before  Ahab.  See  /  Kings, 
xxii:  13-15. 

186.  502.  Many  subdichotomies.  Many  minor 
subdivisions. 

187.  613.  She  is  now  fallen  from  the  stars. 
The  Star-chamber  court  was  abolished  in 
1641. 

620.  These  sophisms  and  elenchs  of 
merchandise.  False  arguments  used 
by  the  bookselling  trade. 

PEPYS 

THE    DIARY 

23.  The  Covenant.  The  Scottish  Cove- 
nant, or  agreement  for  the  conduct  of  the 
church,  was  promulgated  in  1638;  in  1643 
the  "  Solemn  League  and  Covenant  " 
between  the  Parliamentary  forces  and 
Scotland  was  signed,  providing  for  the 
abolition  in  England  of  Popery  and 
Prelacy.  In  1662  Charles  abrogated  the 
covenants. 

34.  My  Lord.  Sir  Edward  Montagu,  to 
whom  Pepys  was  secretary,  and  who 
afterwards  secured  Pepys's  appointment 
as  Clerk  of  the  Acts  in  the  Navy  Office. 
39.  The  Long  Reach.  The  part  of  the 
river  between  Erith  and  Gravesend. 

188.  73.  Trimmed  in  the  morning.  Thus 
Pepys  records  his  visits  to  the  barber. 
108.  His  escape  from  Worcester.  In 
1 65 1  Cromwell  won  what  he  called  the 
"  crowning  mercy "  at  Worcester,  when 
he  defeated  Charles  II  and  his  army  of 
Scottish  supporters. 

143.  Wide  canons.  Ornaments  attached 
to  the.  legs  of  a  pair  of  breeches. 
167.  General  Monk.  Cromwell's  old 
companion-in-arms,  whose  decision  to 
welcome  Charles  II  was  largely  influen- 
tial in  bringing  about  the  Restoration. 
190.  301.  The  Three  Cranes.  A  tavern  on 
upper  Thames  Street. 


844 


NOTES 


190.  379.  The  Custom  of  the  Country.  A 
tragi-comedy  by  Fletcher;  printed  in  the 
1647  edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

191.  391.  By  link.  By  the  light  of  a  torch,  or 
link. 

407.  Sir  Martin  Mar-all.  A  comedy 
adapted  for  the  stage  by  Dryden,  from  a 
translation  by  the  Duke  of  Newcastle. 
445.  The  Indian  Emperor.  Dryden's 
heroic  drama  dealing  with  the  conquest 
of  Mexico  by  the  Spaniards.  The  play 
was  a  brilliant  success.  Nell.  Nell 
Gwynn,  the  most  popular  actress  of  the 
day;  a  favorite  of  Charles  II. 
459.  The  Black  Prince.  Roger  Boyle, 
Earl  of  Orrery  (1621-1679),  won  a  con- 
siderable success  with  Mustapha;  The 
Black  Prince  was  a  comparative  failure. 

LOYALIST  STALL-BALLADS 

The  long  struggle  to  dispossess  the  House 
of  Stuart,  beginning  in  the  first  quarter 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  not 
finally  ended  until  Prince  Charles  Stuart, 
"  the  Young  Pretender,"  grandson  of 
James  II,  had  been  defeated  at  Culloden, 
in  1746,  by  the  Duke  of  Cumberland. 
As  the  fortunes  of  the  Stuarts  waned, 
their  attacks  on  their  opponents — Parlia- 
mentarians, Whigs,  Hanoverians — be- 
came more  bitter.  During  the  Civil 
War,  and  again  at  the  time  of  the  Revolu- 
tion of  1688,  the  flood  of  satire  of  which 
these  street  songs  are  typical  examples, 
was  of  almost  unbelievable  magnitude. 
The  six  ballads  here  printed  are  from  the 
time  of  the  Civil  War  and  the  Common- 
wealth. 

THE   PROTECTING    BREWER 

193.  The  legend  that  Cromwell  was  a  brewer 
by  trade  appears  in  many  of  the  songs 
and  satires  of  the  period. 

THE    LAWYERS'   LAMENTATION 

Charing  Cross  had  been  torn  down  by 
Parliament  along  with  many  other  in- 
signia of  royalty  and  ecclesiasticism. 

DRYDEN 

ABSALOM  AND  ACHITOPHEL 

195.  The  poem  appeared  in  1681,  when  the 
question  of  the  successor  to  Charles  II, 
in  the  event  of  the  King's  death,  was 
agitating  all  England.  The  heir-apparent 
was  the  King's  brother  James,  the  Duke 
of  York,  who  was  generally  unpopular  on 
account  of  his  Catholicism.  James,  Duke 
of  Monmouth,  the  Absalom  Qf  the  poem, 
an  illegitimate  son  of  Charles,  was  a  Prot- 
estant, and  in  general  favor  with  the 
Whig  and  anti-Catholic  parties.  Despite 
the  stain  on  his  birth  his  friends,  led  by 
Anthony    Ashley    Cooper,    first    earl    of 


196. 


197. 


Shaftesbury  (Achitophel)  planned  to  set 
aside  tradition  and  present  Monmouth  as 
a  sort  of  people's  candidate  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  Duke  of  York.  For  many 
years  Shaftesbury  had  been  the  virtual 
leader  of  the  Whigs  and  Protestants. 
During  the  "  Popish  Plot  "  he  had  been 
Titus  Oates's  most  prominent  supporter; 
he  championed  the  Exclusion  Bill,  and 
was  accused  of  fomenting  a  rebellion  in 
Scotland.  In  July,  1681,  he  was  im- 
prisoned in  the  Tower  on  charge  of  high 
treason;  but  when  his  case  came  before 
the  grand  jury  at  the  end  of  November, 
he  was  released  through  an  ignoramus 
verdict.  In  November,  1682,  he  fled  to 
Holland,  where  in  1683  he  died.  The 
Duke  'of  Monmouth  made  his  ill-fated 
attempt  to  win  the  crown  in  1685,  but  his 
followers  were  dispersed  at  the  battle 
of  Sedgemoor,  and  he  himself  was  soon 
afterwards  beheaded.  Dryden  under- 
took in  Absalom  and  Achitophel  to  in- 
fluence public  opinion  against  Shaftes- 
bury, and  timed  its  publication  so  that 
it  appeared  only  two  weeks  before  the 
earl's  trial  was  to  begin.  For  the  Biblical 
account  of  the  revolt  of  Absalom  see 
2  Samuel,  xiii-xviii. 

7.  Israel's  monarch.  Charles  II,  the 
David  of  the  poem. 

23.  In  foreign  fields  he  won  renown. 
Monmouth  had  won  something  of  a 
reputation  as  a  soldier  during  three  cam- 
paigns on  the  continent. 
34.  The  charming  Annabel.  Anne  Scott, 
Countess  of  Buccleuch,  whom  Monmouth 
married  in  1665. 

39.  Amnon's  murder.  It  is  uncertain 
just  what  Dryden  had  in  mind;  perhaps 
an  assault  on  Sir  John  Coventry  in  which 
Monmouth  had  been  involved  in  1670; 
the  Duke  had  also  participated  in  a  park 
riot  in  which  a  beadle  was  killed. 
42.  Sion.  London. 
45.  The  Jews.    The  English. 

57.  Saul.    Oliver  Cromwell. 

58.  Ishbosheth.     Richard  Cromwell. 

59.  Hebron.  Scotland,  where  Charles  II 
was  first  crowned. 

82.  The  good  old  cause.  The  cause  of 
the  Commonwealth;  the  phrase  was 
generally  used  with  this  meaning,  and 
usually  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm. 

85.  Old  Jerusalem.    London. 

86.  Jebusites.  Roman  Catholics.  The 
chosen  people  (1.  88)  were  the  Protestants. 
108.  That  Plot,  the  nation's  curse.  The 
Popish  Plot  of  1678-79. 

118.  The  Egyptian  rites.     French   rites. 

"  Where  gods  were  recommended,"  etc., 

is  an  attack  on  the  doctrine  of  transub- 

stantiation. 

150.  Achitophel.    Shaftesbury. 

175.  The  triple  bond.    An  alliance  formed 

in   1668   between   England,   Sweden,  and 

the  Dutch  Republic. 


NOTES 


845 


197.  177.  A  foreign  yoke.  An  alliance  with 
France. 

188.  Abbethdin.  The  highest  officer  of 
the  Jewish  court  of  justice. 

198.  264.  Gath.    Brussels. 

270.  Jordan's  sand.  Dover  beach,  where 
Charles  II  landed  at  the  Restoration. 

199.  352.  The  collateral  line.  James,  Duke  of 
York,  brother  of  the  king,  stood  at  the 
head  of  this  line  of  descent. 

200.  529.  A  numerous  host  of  dreaming  saints. 
The  non-conforming  Protestants,  sar- 
castically called  "  saints." 

539.  Born  to  be  saved.  A  sarcastic  refer- 
ence to  the  doctrine  of  election. 
544.  Zimri.  George  Villiers,  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  who  in  The  Rehearsal  had 
satirized  Dryden  as  "  John  Bayes."  In 
his  Discourse  Concerning  Satire  Dryden 
afterwards  wrote:  "  The  character  of 
Zimri  in  my  Absalom  is,  in  my  opinion, 
worth  the  whole  poem:  'tis  not  bloody, 
but  'tis  ridiculous  enough;  and  he  for  whom 
it  was  intended  was  too  witty  to  resent 
it  as  an  injury." 

585.  Shimei.  Slingsby  Bethel,  whom 
the  Whigs  had  elected  one  of  the  two 
Sheriffs  in  1680. 

201.  617.  No  Rechabite,  etc.  "The  words 
of  Jonadab  the  son  of  Rechab,  that  he 
commanded  his  sons  not  to  drink  wine, 
are  performed;  for  unto  this  day  they 
drink  none."    Jeremiah,  xxxv:  14. 

202.  817.  Barzillai.  James  Butler,  Duke  of 
Ormond,  always  a  staunch  loyalist. 

902.  The  Sanhedrin.  The  House  of 
Commons. 

910.  Unequal  ruler  of  the  day.  Apollo's 
son  Phaethon,  who  could  not  guide  suc- 
cessfully his  father's  car  of  the  sun. 

203.  921.  The  true  successor.  James,  Duke 
of  York. 

MAC   FLECKNOE 

204.  After  the  release  of  Shaftesbury  in  1681, 
his  Whig  friends  caused  a  medal  to  be 
struck  commemorating  the  event.  Dry- 
den at  once  published  The  Medal:  A 
Satire  Against  Sedition.  Among  the  re- 
plies was  a  violent  one  by  Thomas 
Shadwell,  The  Medal  of  John  Bayes.  In 
October,  1682,  Dryden  answered  with 
Mac  Flecknoe,  than  which  nothing  illus- 
trates more  effectively  the  caustic  nature 
of  his  satire. 

3.  Flecknoe.    An  inoffensive  poet  who  had 

died  in  1678,  over  whose  shoulder  Dryden 

strikes  Shadwell. 

29.  Heywood  and  Shirley.     Elizabethan 

dramatists,  not  deserving  of  such  harsh 

criticism. 

36.  To  King   John  of  Portugal   I   sung. 

King  John  had  entertained   Flecknoe  at 

Lisbon. 

42.  In  Epsom  blankets  tossed.    "  Tossing 

in   a   blanket   is   the   punishment   visited 

upon  Sir  Samuel  Hearty  in  The  Virtuoso. 


There  is  also  a  reference  to  the  title  of 
Shadwell's  play  Epsom  Wells." — (Noyes; 
Camb.  ed.,  p.  959). 

204.  43.  The  new  Arion.  Arion  was  a  Greek 
musician  of  the  eighth  century  B.  C. 

53.  St.  Andre.    A  French  dancing-master. 

54.  Thy  own  Psyche.  One  of  Shadwell's 
plays. 

205.  57.  Singleton.  A  contemporary  singer 
who  had  taken  the  role  of  Villerius  in 
Davenant's  The  Siege  of  Rhodes. 

64.  Fair  Augusta.     London,  which  at  the 
time  was  fearful  of  Popish  plotters. 
74.  A  Nursery.     A  theatre  given  over  to 
training  young  actors. 

78.  Maximin.  A  defiant  character  in 
Dryden's  Tyrannic  Love. 

79,  80.  Buskins,  socks.  See  notes  on 
L' Allegro,  1.  132,  and  II  Penseroso,  1.  102. 
81.  Gentle  Simkin.    A  clown/ 

84.  Panton.       "  A     celebrated     punster, 
according  to  Derrick."     (Scott.) 
105.  Herringman.    A  contemporary  pub- 
lisher. 

122.  Love's  Kingdom.  A  play  by  Fleck- 
noe. 

206.  149.  Let  Virtuosos,  etc.  The  Virtuoso 
was  a  play  by  Shadwell. 

151.  Gentle  George.  Sir  George  Ether- 
edge,  the  contemporary  dramatist. 

152.  Dorimant,  Loveit,  Cully,  etc.  All 
characters  in  plays  by  Shadwell. 

163.  Let  no  alien  Sedley  interpose.  Sir 
Charles  Sedley,  who  had  assisted  Shad- 
well in  his  play-writing. 
168.  Sir  Formal.  Sir  Formal  Trifle  ap- 
pears in  Shadwell's  The  Virtuoso. 
172.  By  arrogating  Jonson's  hostile  name. 
Shadwell  was  fervid  in  his  praise  of  Ben 
Jonson. 

179.  Prince  Nicander.  A  character  in 
Shadwell's  Psyche. 

185.  Oil  on  water's  flow.  Flow  is  a 
noun. 

207.  212.  Bruce  and  Longville  had  a  trap 
prepared.  Thus  the  two  gentlemen  dis- 
pose of  Sir  Formal  in  The  Virtuoso. 

THE  HIND   AND   THE  PANTHER 

James  II,  who  came  to  the  throne  in 
1685,  was  a  Roman  Catholic.  In  1687 
Dryden  published  this  poem,  an  allegory 
in  which  the  Hind,  "  immortal  and  un- 
changed," represents  the  Roman,  and 
the  Panther,  the  English  Church.  The 
various  dissenting  sects  are  satirized 
much  more  harshly  than  the  English 
Church. 

9.  Her  young.  Roman  Catholic  priests. 
27.  The  common  hunt.  The  other  beasts; 
i.  e.,  the  other  sects. 

35.  The  bloody  Bear.    The  Independents, 
later  the  Congregationalists. 
37.  The   quaking   Hare.      The    Quakers, 
who  would  not  take  oaths  in  court. 
39.  The  buffoon  Ape.     The  Freethinkers. 
41.  The  Lion.    The  King  of  England. 


846 


NOTES 


207.  43.  The  Boar.     The  Anabaptists. 

49.  In  German  forests.  "  The  sect  orig- 
inated in  Germany,  where  their  early 
history  is  connected  with  a  revolt  of  the 
peasantry."     (Noyes.) 

208.  53.  False  Reynard.  The  Unitarians. 
Athanasius  (293-373)  was  instrumental 
in  having  the  early  church  embody  the 
Trinitarian  conception  of  God  in  the 
Nicene  creed.  Socinus  was  opposed  to 
this  orthodox  Trinitarian  belief. 

327.  The  Panther.     The  Church  of  Eng- 
land. 
338.  The  Wolf.     The  Presbyterians. 

SONG   FOR   ST.    CECILIA'S   DAY 

On  this  day,  November  22,  a  London 
musical  society  annually  held  a  festival 
in  honor  of  St.  Cecilia,  patron  saint  of 
music.  Pope  and  others  wrote  similar 
songs. 

Alexander's  feast 

209.  29.  Spires.    Coils. 


LINES    UNDER   THE   PORTRAIT  OF   MILTON 

211.  The  three  poets  referred  to  are  Homer, 
Virgil,  and  Milton.  .     -i  .«o 

ESSAY  OF   DRAMATIC  POESY 

i.  Neandgr.  The  essay  is  in  dialogue 
form,  Neander  representing  Dryden$ 
Eugenius  may  be  Charles  Sackville,  Lord 
Buckhurst,  afterwards  Earl  of  Dorset. 
2.  The  Silent  Woman.  A  play  by  Ben 
Jonson. 

212.  36.  Clenches.     Puns. 

43.  Quantum  lenta,  etc.  As  the  cypresses 
rise  above  the  low  shrubs. 

45.  Mr.  Hales  of  Eton.  John  Hales 
(1584-1656),  fellow  of  Eton,  an  English 
scholar  and  critic. 

54.  The  last  king.     Charles  I. 

84.  Humor.     A  man's  particular  bent,  orl 

ruling  passion,  was  called  his  "  humor." 

213.  156.  The  greater  wit.    The  greater  genius. 

PREFACE   TO   THE   FABLES 

The  Fables,  translations  of  Homer,  Chau- 
cer, and  others,  were  published  in  1700. 
14.  One  of  our  late  great  poets.  Abraham 
Cowley. 

16.  Forgive.     Forego,  leave  alone. 
41.  Nimis  poeta.    Too  much  a  poet. 

46.  Auribus  istius,  etc.  Adapted  to  the 
ears  of  that  time. 

56.  The  last  edition.     In   1687  there  ap- 
peared a  reprint,  with  some  additions,  of 
Thomas  Speght's  1602  blackletter  edition 
of  Chaucer. 
65.  Numbers.     Metre. 

214.  72.   Dryden  did  not  understand  the  pro- 
nunciation of  Chaucer's  final  e. 

88.  Baptista  Porta.  An  Italian  quack 
and  physiognomist. 


DEFOE 

THE  TRUE-BORN  ENGLISHMAN 

In  1 701  a  satirist  named  Tutchin  lam- 
pooned King  William  as  a  "  Dutchman." 
Defoe,  "  filled  with  a  kind  of  rage,"  re- 
plied in  The  Triie-Bom  Englishman. 

215.  39.  Shibboleth.     See  Judges,  xii:  6. 

45.  The  Norman  bastard.  William  the 
Conqueror. 

91.  Blue-coat  Hospitals.  Charity  schools. 
Christ's  Hospital,  the  famous  "  Blue- 
Coat  School  "  of  which  Lamb  wrote  so 
delightfully,  was  founded  by  Henry  VI, 
and  was  originally  intended  to  be  a  school 
for  orphans.  The  scholars  wore  a  blue 
gown  and  blue  cap.  The  Bridewell, 
later  a  reformatory,  was  originally  a  school 
of  the  same  nature. 
95.  The  Counter.    A  London  prison. 

THE  SHORTEST  WAY  WITH  THE  DISSENTERS 

216.  The  Dissenters,  or  Nonconformists,  were 
members  of  the  various  anti-episcopal 
sects  which  had  flourished  during  the 
Civil  War,  had  been  suppressed,  some 
times  by  the  sword,  under  Charles  II 
and  his  brother  James,  and  had  again 
revived  under  the  sympathetic  govern- 
ment of  William  III.  In  the  spring  of 
1702  Anne,  a  Stuart,  succeeded  to  the 
throne;  in  November  of  the  same  year  a 
Tory  ministry  introduced  a  bill  against 
"  occasional  conformity."  The  practice 
thus  attacked  was  a  means  whereby  Dis- 
senters, through  occasional  attendance 
at  the  Church  of  England,  made  them- 
selves eligible  to  office.  Had  the  bill 
passed, — and  the  Queen  was  ardently  in 
favor  of  it, — this  avenue  of  escape  would 
have  been  closed,  and  the  pains  and 
penalties  of  the  old  Stuart  regime,  with 
some  modifications,  would  have  been 
again  in  force.  Defoe,  a  Nonconformist, 
at  once  attacked  the  government  in  this 
pamphlet.  Writing  with  an  ironic  gravity 
hardly  surpassed  by  Swift  in  his  Modest 
Proposal,  he  argued  that  at  last  the  time 
had  arrived  for  wiping  the  Dissenters  out 
of  existence,  and  proposed  measures  far 
more  rigorous  than  Tory  or  High-church- 
man had  dreamed  of.  At  first  neither 
party  saw  through  the  veil  of  irony,  and 
the  pamphlet  was  accepted  at  its  face 
value.  But  when  the  government  dis- 
covered that  it  had  been  hoaxed,  Defoe 
was  arrested,  fined,  exhibited  three  times 
in  the  pillory,  and  imprisoned  in  New- 
gate, and  his  pamphlet  was  burned  in 
public  by  the  hangman. 

1.  Sir  Roger  L'Estrange.  A  seventeenth 
century  pamphleteer,  founder  of  The 
Gazette. 

13.  Some  people.  The  Nonconformists. 
23.  Near  fourteen  years.  William  III 
took  the  throne,  by  invitation  of  Parlia- 
ment, in  1688. 


NOTES 


847 


216.  56.  Act  of  Toleration.  Passed  in  1689, 
abolishing  the  old  penalties  for  non- 
conformity. 

217.  72.  A  Dutch  government.  William  III 
was  Prince  of  Orange. 

in.  The  Huguenots  in  France.  The 
French  Protestants  had  been  persecuted 
more  viciously  than  English  Noncon- 
formists; in  1685  they  were  expelled  from 
the  country. 
143.  A  sordid  impostor.    Cromwell. 

218.  213.  Rye  House  Plot.  A  conspiracy, 
discovered  in  1683,  to  murder  Charles  II 
and  his  brother  James.  Although  certain 
men  were  executed  for  their  complicity 
in  the  plot,  many  persons  felt  that  there 
was  little  besides  party  jealousy  at  the 
bottom  of  the  expose. 

232.  The  late  king.    James  II. 

219.  291.  The  common  enemy.    France. 

351.  The  act  "  De  heretico  comburendo." 
For  burning  heretics. 
374.  Delenda    est    Carthago.      Carthage 
must  be  destroyed. 

220.  432.  The  Counter.    A  prison  in  London. 
433.  A  Conventicle.     Meeting  of  Noncon- 
formists for  worship. 

221.  502.  Religious  houses.  Monasteries  and 
convents. 

THE   APPARITION    OF    MRS.   VEAL 

This  narrative  had  always  been  con- 
sidered an  admirable  example  of  Defoe's 
ability  to  write  pure  fiction  so  that  it 
would  seem  simple  truth,  until  Mr.  George 
Aitken  published  in  The  Nineteenth 
Century,  Jan.,  1895,  an  article  showing 
that  Defoe  in  all  probability  was  telling  a 
story  in  which,  as  Aitken  puts  it,  "  nearly 
all  the  details  are  true,  .  .  .  the  charac- 
ters are  real  persons,"  and  in  which 
"  Defoe  invented  nothing,  or  next  to 
nothing,  but  .  .  .  told,  very  skilfully,  a 
ghost  story  which  was  attracting  notice 
at  the  time." 
224.  324.  Escutcheons.  Hatchments;  funeral 
tablets  bearing  the  arms  of  the  deceased 
person. 

SWIFT 

THE   TALE   OF  A  TUB 

226.  The  Tale  of  a  Tub  was  published  anony- 
mously in  1704;  Swift  had  written  it  some 
time  before,  during  the  closing  years  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  It  consisted  of 
eleven  sections,  and  was  introduced  by 
four  satirical  prefaces.  Of  the  eleven 
sections  constituting  the  body  of  the 
work,  five  (II,  IV,  VI,  VIII,  XI)  con- 
tain the  story  of  the  three  brothers,  in 
the  course  of  which  Swift  pictures  the  de- 
velopment of  Christian  faith  to  the  end 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  other 
sections  are  more  general  in  their  import, 
and,  like  Gulliver's  Travels,  expose  the 
vanity  and  absurdity  of  human  nature  in 
the  large. 


226.  35.  Hobbes's  Leviathan.  The  Leviathan 
of  Thomas  Hobbes  (1588-1679),  which 
appeared  in  1651,  was  an  inquiry  into 
the  nature  of  the  State,  and  the  theory  of 
government. 

227.  25.  My  will.    The  New  Testament. 

52.  Duchess  D'Argent,  etc.     Duchess  of 

Money,  My  Lady  of  Great  Titles,  and  the 

Countess  of  Pride. 

63.  Locket's,   Will's.     The    first    was    a 

London  inn;  the  second,  the  coffee  house 

which   Dryden   and   the  wits  of  the  age 

frequented. 

70.  Sub  dio.    In  the  open  air. 

228.  96.  A  sort  of  idol.  The  tailor,  god  of  the 
fashionable  world. 

112.  Primum  mobile.  In  the  Ptolemaic 
astronomy,  the  outermost  sphere,  con- 
taining and  imparting  motion  to  the  other 
smaller  spheres. 

117.  Water-tabby.  Tabby  was  a  material, 
such  as  silk,  that  had  been  watered. 
152.  The  coats  their  father  had  left  them. 
The  coats  represent  church  organization, 
as  appears  in  the  remainder  of  the  satire. 
186.  Totidem  verbis.  In  so  many  words. 
189.  Totidem  syllabis.  In  so  many  syl- 
lables. 

229.  200.  Tertio  modo.  By  a  third  method. 
Totidem  Uteris.  In  so  many  letters. 
215.  Q.  V.  C.  Quibusdam  veleribus 
codicibus.  In  some  ancient  manuscripts. 
224.  Jure  paterno.  In  accord  with  the 
paternal  law. 

226.  In  the  passage  omitted  Swift  tells 
how  as  the  fashions  changed,  and  shoulder 
knots  gave  place  to  gold  lace,  and  gold 
lace  to  satin  linings,  the  brothers  juggled 
with  their  father's  will,  and  in  each  case 
gratified  their  desires. 
232.  A  certain  lord.  This  was  Constan- 
tine  the  Great,  from  whom  the  popes  pre- 
tended a  donation  of  St.  Peter's  patri- 
mony, which  they  have  never  been  able 
to  produce.  (Swift's  note.) 
Section  IV  tells  how  Peter,  representing 
the  church  of  Rome,  got  the  upper  hand 
of  his  brothers  after  driving  the  legal 
heirs  out  and  getting  the  "  certain  lord's  " 
house  for  himself.  His  pride  increased 
with  his  success;  he  claimed  to  be  his 
father's  sole  heir,  and  assumed  the  titles 
of  Father  Peter,  My  Lord  Peter,  and 
finally  Emperor  Peter.  When  the  two 
other  brothers  finally  protested,  Peter 
drove  them  from  the  house.  The  story 
is  resumed  in  section  VI. 

230.  66,  68.  Martin.  Martin  Luther;  Jack. 
John  Calvin.  Martin  stands  for  the  mod- 
erate reform  in  the  Church  of  England; 
Jack,  for  the  more  violent  reform  of  the 
Dissenters. 

A   MODEST  PROPOSAL 

231.  2.  This  great  town.    Dublin. 

232.  15.  The  Pretender.  James  Stuart,  son 
of  James  II,  who  in  17 15  and  1745  made 


S48 


NOTES 


armed  attempts  to  recover  the  crown  of 
England,  and  intrigued  with  the  Spaniards 
for  assistance. 

JOURNAL  TO   STELLA 

236.  "  The  brightest  part  of  Swift's  story,  the 
pure  star  in  that  dark  and  tempestuous 
life  of  Swift's,  is  his  love  for  Hester 
Johnson.  It  has  been  my  business,  pro- 
fessionally of  course,  to  go  through  a 
deal  of  sentimental  reading  in  my  time, 
and  to  acquaint  myself  with  love  making 
as  it  has  been  described  in  various  lan- 
guages and  at  various  ages  of  the  world; 
and  I  know  of  nothing  more  manly,  more 
tender,  more  exquisitely  touching,  than 
some  of  thes.e  brief  notes,  written  in  what 
Swift  calls  '  his  little  language  '  in  his 
journal  to  Stella."  (Thackeray:  Swift, 
in  English   Humorists.) 

In  the  "  little  language  "  AID  stands  for 
my    dears,    Stella    and    her    companion, 
Mrs.    Dingley;    or   sometimes    for    Stella 
alone;  Presto  is  Swift;  so  is  Pdfr. 
2.  Premunire.     A   legal   term  frequently 
used  for  a  penalty  incurred. 
20.  Harley.     Robert  Harley,   Chancellor 
of  the  Exchequer,  afterwards  Lord  Treas- 
urer and  Earl  of  Oxford. 
30.  Lord  Halifax.    Statesman  and  writer, 
one  of  the  leaders  of  the  Whigs. 
71.  Will  Perm  the  Quaker.    The  founder 
of  Pennsylvania. 

81.  St.  John.  One  of  the  ablest  of  the 
Tory  ministry,  created  Viscount  Boling- 
broke  in  1714. 

86.  Bring  me  over.     I.  e.,   to  the  Tory 
party. 
98.  Fatal.    Fated. 

237.  102.  Tooke.  A  London  bookseller,  who 
had  published  Swift's  Tale  of  a  Tub. 

109.  Tatler,  .  .  .  late.  The  Taller  sus- 
pended publication  in  January,  1711. 
115.  The  you  know  what.  Sometimes 
interpreted  as  referring  to  The  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  never  publicly  acknowledged  by 
Swift. 

134.  Steele.  Steele  had  lost  his  office  of 
Gazetteer,  and  Swift  had  been  trying 
to  save  him  his  position  as  Commissioner 
of  Stamps. 

139.  Harrison.  A  young  fellow  whom 
Swift  befriended  and  established  as  editor 
of  a  new  series  of  Tatlers,  after  the  failure 
of  Steele's  Tatler. 

155.  Mr.  Harley  .  .  .  yesterday.  Har- 
ley had  sent  Swift  a  bank  note  for  fifty 
pounds;  this  action  Swift  regarded  as  an 
insult. 

186.  Patrick.  Swift's  servant,  whom  he 
at  length  was  obliged  to  discharge  for 
drunkenness. 

238.  251.  Most  of  the  "little  language"  be- 
comes intelligible  on  the  substitution  of 
certain  consonants  in  place  of  the  ones 
used;  Swift  commonly,  as  in  this  letter, 
writes  /  for  r,  and  r  for  /.  Kirhar  =  little. 
I'W    is     "  farewell "  ;    ME     is     Madame 


Elderly,  Mrs.  Dingley;  and  Lele  appar- 
ently means  "  there." 

238.  256.  The  Duke  of  Hamilton  had  fought 
with  Lord  Mohun.  The  reader  of  Henry 
Esmond  will  recall  the  use  Thackeray 
makes  of  this  incident. 

305.  Ben-box  sent  to  Lord-Treasurer. 
A  band-box  containing  a  pair  of  loaded 
pistols  had  been  sent  to  Lord  Oxford; 
the  Tories  saw  in  the  affair  a  Whig  plot 
to  assassinate  him. 

ADDISON 

THE   CAMPAIGN 

239.  Addison's  poem  was  published  in  1704, 
celebrating  the  victory  of  Marlborough 
at  Blenheim. 


ADDISON  AND   STEELE 
the  tatler:  prospectus 

240.  55.  White's  Chocolate-house.  During 
Queen  Anne's  reign  the  chocolate  and 
coffee-houses  served  as  resorts  for  men  of 
letters  and  of  fashion  much  as  the  taverns 
had  done  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth.  The 
distinguishing  characteristics  of  the  group 
that  frequented  the  various  houses  are 
indicated  in  Steele's  paragraph. 

241.  67.  Plain  Spanish.  Perhaps  wine;  per- 
haps a  syrup  made  of  licorice  and  wine, 
which  was  a  favorite  throat  remedy. 

70.  Kidney.    One  of,  the  waiters. 

81.  A  figure.    A  horoscope. 

The  remaining  portion  of  the  essay,  which 

is  not  here  reprinted,   consists  of  letters 

from    the    three    coffee-houses   and    from 

Steele's  "  own  apartment." 

DUELLING 

The   section    here   reprinted   is    the    first 
third  of  the  essay. 

10.  From  hence.     From  White's  Coffee- 
house. 

Ingenuity.    Ingenuousness. 


242. 


NED   SOFTLY 


8.  Mr.  Bickerstaff.  Steele  chose  this  as 
his  pseudonym  in  writing  The  Tatler. 

243.  36.  Little  Gothic  ornaments.  Addison 
uses  the  term  contemptuously,  as  equiva- 
lent to  rude,  barbaric. 

FROZEN    WORDS 

244.  8.  Sir  John  Mandeville.  The  name  as- 
sumed by  the  author  of  The  Travels  of  Sir 
John  Mandeville,  written  c.  1360.  The 
Travels  are  famous  for  their  exaggera- 
tions and  wonders. 

12.  Ferdinand  Mendez  Pinto.  Portu- 
guese adventurer  (1509-1583),  navigator, 
and  missionary  to  Japan.  His  account 
of  his  travels,  the  Peregrination,  was  pub- 
lished in  1614. 


NOTES 


849 


244.  43.  Nova  Zembla.  A  Russian  arctic  pos- 
session, consisting  of  two  large  islands. 
45.  The  author  of  Hudibras.  Samuel 
Butler  (1612-1680),  whose  Hudibras,  pub- 
lished 1663,  is  a  brilliant  satire  on  the 
Puritans. 

245.  132.  The  strappado.  A  brutal  form  of 
corporal  punishment,  formerly  practiced 
in  the  English  army  and  navy. 

137.  Wapping.  A  portion  of  the  London 
water-front. 

246.  200.  A  kit.     A  small  violin. 

210.  Tuer  le  temps.    To  kill  time. 

THE  SPECTATOR:  MR.  SPECTATOR 

247.  96.  Will's,  Child's,  etc.  All  well  known 
coffee  or  cocoa-houses. 

1 01.  The  Postman.  A  London  weekly 
newspaper. 

114.  Jonathan's.  A  coffee-house  fre- 
quented especially  by  stock  brokers. 

248.  202.  Little  Britain.    A  street  in  London. 

THE   CLUB 

20.  Soho  Square.  In  Addison's  day  the 
most  fashionable  quarter  of  London. 

249.  26.  Rochester.  A  notorious  rake  of 
Charles  IPs  court.  Etherege.  The  first 
of  the  Restoration  dramatists. 

28.  Bully  Dawson.  A  notorious  sharper. 
59.  A  justice  of  the  quorum.  The  phrase 
means  "  a  member  of  the  Bench." 
67.  The  Inner  Temple.  One  of  the  so- 
called  Inns  of  Court,  where  lawyers  and 
law-students  had  their  offices  and  fre- 
quently their  places  of  residence. 
75.  Aristotle,  etc.  He  knows  the  laws 
of  rhetoric,  etc.,  as  laid  down  by  literary 
critics,  better  than  the  principles  of  juris- 
prudence. 

86.  Demosthenes    and    Tully.      Demos- 
thenes and  Cicero,  the  leading  orators  of 
Greece  and  Rome,  respectively. 
109.  The   Rose.     A   tavern   near    Drury 
Lane  Theatre. 

250.  206.  Humorists.  Men  with  a  particular 
bent  or  disposition. 

WESTMINSTER   ABBEY 

252.  51.  Prebendaries.    Officers  of  a  cathedral 
or  collegiate  church  who  held  an  ecclesias- 
tical living  or  prebend. 
77.  The  present  war.     The  war  of  the 
Spanish  Succession. 

94.  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel.  An  English 
admiral  (1650-1707),  commander-in- 
chief  of  British  fleets  from  1704  to  his 
death. 

122.  The  repository  of  our  English  kings. 
The  eastern  end  of  the  Abbey  contains 
a  large  number  of  royal  tombs. 

SIR   ROGER   AT   THE    ASSIZES 

254.  35.  He  is  just  within  the  game-act.  Until 
1831   the  right  to  kill  game  in   England 


depended    upon    social     standing    or    in- 
come. 
254.  43.  Shoots  flying.    "  On  the  wing." 

a  coquette's  heart 

260.  114.  Rosamond's  bower.  The  bower 
which  Henry  II  is  said  to  have  built  for 
his  favorite. 


POPE 

WINDSOR  FOREST 

261.  42.  A  Stuart  reigns.    Queen  Anne,  last  of 
the  Stuarts  to  wear  the  English  crown. 
147.  Now  Cancer  glows,   etc.     The  sun 
is  in  the  sign  of  Cancer,  or  the  Crab;  i.  e., 
it  is  the  period  of  the  summer  solstice. 

AN   ESSAY   ON  CRITICISM 

262.  129.  The  Mantuan  Muse.  Virgil;  the 
Maro  of  1.  130. 

138.  The  Stagirite.     Aristotle. 

263.  16.  The  Pierian  spring.  The  sacred  well 
of  the  Muses  in  Thessaly. 

89.  Conceit.    Fantastic  expression. 
128.  Fungoso.     A  character  in  Ben  Jon- 
son's  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humor. 

264.  137.  Numbers.  Metrical  correctness. 
145,  147.  It  will  be  noticed  that  in  these 
two  lines,  as  in  lines  357,  367-9,  Pope  is 
illustrating  in  his  own  verses  the  exact 
characteristics  which  he  blames  or  praises. 
161.  Denham,  Waller.  Two  of  the  first 
17th  century  poets  to  popularize  the 
heroic  couplet  which  Dryden  and  Pope 
afterwards  perfected. 

174.  Timotheus'  varied  lays.  The  refer- 
ence is  to  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast. 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK:  CANTO  I 

The  poem  is  founded  on  an  actual  occur- 
rence. Lord  Petre,  the  baron  of  the 
poem,  clipped  a  lock  of  Miss  Arabella 
Fermor's  hair.  John  Caryll,  a  friend  of 
both  persons,  suggested  to  Pope  that  a 
humorous  poem  on  the  subject  might 
relieve  the  unpleasantness  which  the 
theft  of  the  lock  occasioned.  Miss  Fermor 
appears  in  the  poem  as  Belinda.  In  form, 
the  poem  is  a  mock  epic,  or  "  heroi- 
comical  poem,"  retaining  many  of  the 
external  characteristics  of  the  epic,  but 
enlivened  throughout  by  Pope's  mildly 
satirical  view  of  the  society  he  was  repre- 
senting. 

265.  18.  The  pressed  watch.  A  "  repeater," 
or  watch  that  would  strike  the  nearest 
hour. 

32.  The  silver  token.  Fairies  were  sup- 
posed to  put  silver  coins  in  the  slippers 
of  good  house-maids. 

44.  The  Ring.  A  circular  drive  in  Hyde 
Park. 


85o 


NOTES 


265.  56.  Ombre.    A  fashionable  game  of  cards. 

266.  127.  The  inferior  priestess.    The  waiting 
maid,  Betty  (1.  148). 

CANTO   11 

267.  3.  The  rival  of  his  beams.    Belinda. 


269.  3.  A  structure  of  majestic  frame.  The 
royal  palace  of  Hampton  Court. 

27.  At  ombre.  The  description  of  this 
game,  which  occupies  11.  30-100,  may  well 
be  passed  over  in  reading.  Much  of  the 
terminology,  perfectly  familiar  to  Pope's 
audience,  is  to-day  unintelligible  unless 
accompanied  by  elaborate  illustration  and 
explanation. 

270.  106.  The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill 
turns  round.  Coffee  berries  were  ground 
on  the  table. 

271.  165.  Atalantis.  The  New  Atalantis,  a 
romance  of  the  day,  by  Mrs.  Manley. 


20.  The  dreaded  east.     The   east    wind 
was  supposed  to  cause  spleen,  or  ill  tem- 
per, "  a  fit  of  the  blues." 
23.  She.     Spleen. 

272.  46.  Angels  in  machines.  An  echo  of  the 
classical  "  deus  ex  machina,"  the  god 
who  appeared  at  the  close  of  a  play  and 
brought  affairs  to  an  end. 

273.  117.  Hyde  Park  Circus.  See  note  on 
Canto  I,  1.  44. 

118.  The  sound  of  Bow.  The  least  fash- 
ionable quarter  of  London  lay  within  the 
sound  of  the  bells  of  Bow  church. 
121.  Sir  Plume.  Sir  George  Brown,  one 
of  the  members  of  the  party. 
156.  Bohea.  A  China  tea  much  prized 
at  the  time. 


274.  5,  6.  The    Trojan  .  .  .  Anna  .  .  .  Dido. 

^neas  was  commanded  by  Jupiter  to 
leave  Carthage,  where  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  Queen  Dido.  Anna  was  Dido's 
sister.     (Mneid,  iv.  416). 

276.  53.  Umbriel  on  a  sconce's  height. 
"  Minerva,  in  like  manner,  during  the 
battle  of  Ulysses  with  the  suitors,  perches 
on  a  beam  of  the  roof  to  behold  it." 
(Pope.) 

276.  125.  Rome's  great  founder.  Romulus. 
129.  Not  Berenice's  locks.  Berenice  was 
an  Egyptian  queen  whose  hair  was 
transformed  into  a  constellation. 

136.  Rosamonda's  lake.  In  St.  James's 
Park,  as  was  the  Mall  (1.  133). 

137.  Partridge.  "  John  Partridge  was  a 
ridiculous  star-gazer,  who  in  his  almanacks 
every  year  never  failed  to  predict  the 
downfall  of  the  Pope  and  the  King  of 
France,  then  at  war  with  the  English." 
(Pope.) 


276.  138.  Galileo's  eyes.    The  telescope. 

AN   ESSAY   ON   MAN 

i.  St.  John.  Henry  St.  John,  afterwards 
Lord  Bolingbroke,  was  one  of  Pope's 
intimate  friends. 

16.  Vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 
An  echo  of  Milton's  line  "  Justify  the 
ways  of  God  to  men."  {Paradise  Lost, 
i.  26.) 

277.  42.  Satellites.  Pronounced  with  four 
syllables,  as  in  Latin. 

EPISTLE   TO   DR.    ARBUTHNOT 

278.  This  portrait  of  Addison  (Atticus)  repre- 
sents, as  well  as  anything  that  could  be 
chosen,  Pope's  power  of  satire. 

279.  209.  Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate 
laws.  Addison's  drama  Cato,  though 
to-day  neglected,  was  remarkably  suc- 
cessful when  first  produced. 


GOLDSMITH 

THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE 

1  Sweet  Auburn.  Goldsmith  is  pictur- 
ing English  country  life  and  scenery,  not 
any  one  definite  village. 

283.   210.  Gauge.      Estimate   the   capacity   of 
barrels  and  hogsheads. 
248.  Mantling  bliss.    Foamy  cups  of  ale. 

286.  344.  Altama.    A  river  in  Georgia. 

286.  418.  Torno's  cliffs.  The  cliffs  of  the 
Swedish  Lake  Tornea.  Pambamarca.  A 
mountain  in  Ecuador. 

427-30.  The  last  four  lines  of  the  poem 
were  written  by  Dr.  Johnson. 

THE   RETALIATION 

The   title  is  explained   by   the  fact   that 

Goldsmith  wrote  the  poem  as  a  reply  to 

Garrick's  famous  epigram  at  Goldsmith's 

expense: 

"  Here  lies  Nolly  Goldsmith,  for  shortness 

called  Noll, 
Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like 

poor  Poll." 
23.  The  good  Dean.     Thomas  Barnard, 
Dean  of  Derry. 
29.  Edmund.     Edmund  Burke. 
34.  Tommy  Townshend.     A  Whig  mem- 
ber of  Parliament. 

287.  93.  David  Garrick.  The  famous  actor 
and  wit. 

115.  Kenrick,  Kelly,  Woodfall.    The  first 
two    were    playwrights;    the    third,    the 
editor  of  the  Morning  Chronicle. 
118.  Be-Rosciused.     Charles    Churchill's 
poem  The  Rosciad  was  a  satirical  criticism 
of  English  actors. 
124.  Ben.     Ben  Jonson. 
137.  Reynolds.       Sir    Joshua     Reynolds, 
the  portrait  painter  (1723-1792). 
145.  Raphael,  Correggio.     Italian  paint- 
ers of  the  early  sixteenth  century. 


NOTES 


851 


THE   CITIZEN    OF   THE    WORLD 


287.  The  essays  in  this  collection  appeared 
first  in  John  Newberry's  Public  Ledger, 
between  January  24,  1760,  and  August 
14,  1 761.  They  were  published  as 
"  Letters  from  a  Chinese  Philosopher, 
Residing  in  London,  to  his  Friends  in 
the  East ";  whence  the  generally  used 
name,  "  The  Chinese  Letters."  Beau 
Tibbs  a!  Home  is  supposed  to  be  "  From 
Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  first 
President  of  the  Ceremonial  Academy  at 
Pekin,  in  China";  the  second  of  the  two 
here  reprinted  bears  the  same  superscrip- 
tion. The  first  collected  edition  appeared 
May  1,  1762. 


JOHNSON 

THE  RAMBLER 

292.  118.  The  great  Mantuan  poet.     Virgil. 
130.  When  Ulysses  visited  the  infernal 
regions.    Odyssey,  XI.  543/. 

159.  When  iEneas  is   sent  by  Virgil  to 
the  shades.    Mneid,  VI.  450/. 

293.  249.  The  character  of  Hector.  See 
Shakespeare's  Troilus  and  Cressida, 
II.  ii.  163/. 

LETTER  TO  THE  EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD 

Johnson,  in  1747,  addressed  the  Plan  of 
his   dictionary    to    Chesterfield,    a    noted 
patron  of  arts  and  letters.     Chesterfield 
paid   no   attention   to  Johnson   until   the 
work  was  nearing   completion,   when    he 
wrote  the  two  papers  referred  to  in  John- 
son's first  sentence,  hoping  to  have  the 
dedication  of  the  Dictionary. 
15.  Le   vainqueur,    etc.      The    conqueror 
of  the  conqueror  of  the  world. 
39.  The    shepherd    in    Virgil.      See    the 
Bucolics,  viii.  42  jf.     Love  is  to  be  found 
not  in  dalliance,  but  in  hard  work. 
50.  Till  I  am  solitary.    An  allusion  to  the 
death  of  his  wife. 

LETTER  TO   JAMES   MACPHERSON 

294.  Johnson  had  attacked  Macpherson's 
Ossian  as  an  imposture;  Macpherson 
wrote  a  bitter  and  insulting  letter  in 
reply;  Johnson's  answer  is  here  printed. 
14.  Your  Homer.  Macpherson  published 
a  translation  of  the  Iliad  in  1773. 


32.  Lion,     etc.       "  Sporting     the     lion 
ramped,  and  in  his  paw  Dandled  the  kid." 
Par.  Lost,  iv.  343. 

45.  Rough  satyrs,  etc.     Lycidas,  1.  34. 
62.  We  drove  afield.    Lycidas,  1.  27/. 
296.   189.  The    Measure.      See    Milton's    re- 
marks,   prefixed    to   Book   i    of    Paradise 
Lost. 


297.  48.  Tuned  the  numbers.  Made  the  metre 
regular. 

67.  Every  language.  With  the  ideas  in 
this  and  the  two  following  paragraphs, 
should  be  compared  Wordsworth's  views, 
expressed  in  the  Preface  to  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  p.  389. 

ADDISON 

298.  30.  Arbiter  elegantiarum.  Petronius,  ac- 
cording to  Tacitus,  was  "  arbiter  elegan- 
tia?  "  at  the  court  of  Nero. 


300.  24.  O  Diva,  etc.  O  goddess,  thou  who 
rulest  Antium  pleasing  in  thy  sight.  The 
first  line  of  Ode  xxxv  in  Bk.  I  of  Horace's 
Odes. 

32.  Wonderful  Wonder  of  Wonders.  A 
stock  phrase,  taken  from  the  showmen's 
bills,  etc.,  of  the  time. 
S3-  The  Two  Sister  Odes.  The  Progress 
of  Poesy  and  The  Bard. 
76.  We  are  affected  only  as  we  believe. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  single  sen- 
tence more  characteristic  of  the  exalta- 
tion of  reason  above  the  imagination,  for 
which  Johnson  and  his  contemporaries 
are  notable,  than  this. 


BOSWELL 

THE   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON 

301.  22.  Dictionary  Johnson.  "  As  great  men 
of  antiquity  such  as  Scipio  Africanus  had 
an  epithet  added  to  their  names,  in  conse- 
quence of  some  celebrated  action,  so  my 
illustrious  friend  was  often  called  dic- 
tionary johnson,  from  that  wonderful 
achievement  of  genius  and  labor,  his 
Dictionary  of  the  English  Language;  the 
merit  of  which  I  contemplate  with  more 
and  more  admiration."  (Boswell.) 
37.  Mr.  Thomas  Sheridan.  (1719-1788) 
Father  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan; 
himself  an  actor,  manager,  and  play- 
wright. 

303.  224.  Garrick.  David  Garrick  (1717- 
1779),  pupil  and  friend  of  Johnson;  the 
most  popular  actor  of  the  time. 

306.  556.  Colley  Cibber  (1671-1757).  Actor, 
dramatist,  and  poet-laureate  1730-175 7; 
attacked  by  Pope  in  the  Dunciad  as  the 
prince  of  dunces. 

577.  Whitehead.  Cibber's  successor  in  the 
laureateship. 

589.  Gray.  Compare  these  remarks  with 
the  opinions  expressed  in  the  selections 
from  Johnson's  Life  of  Gray. 

308.  776.  He  studied  physic.  Studied  medi- 
cine. 

789.  An  usher  to  an  academy.  A  sub- 
ordinate teacher  in  a  private  school. 


852 


NOTES 


309.  810.  Nihil  quod  tetegit,  etc.  Slightly 
misquoted  from  Johnson's  epitaph  on 
Goldsmith,  in  Westminster  Abbey.  "  He 
touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn." 
817.  The  fragrant  parterre.  The  fra- 
grant garden. 

828.  Un  etourdi.  A  fellow  who  talks 
explosively. 

883.  Mrs.  Piozzi.  Hester  Lynch  Piozzi 
(1741-1821).  Mrs.  Thrale,  later  Mrs. 
Piozzi,  was  one  of  the  few  women  whom 
Johnson  knew  intimately.  Sir  John  Haw- 
kins (1719-1789).  A  close  friend  of  John- 
son's, and  one  of  his  executors.  Boswell 
was  jealous  of  him. 

310.  975.  Churchill.  Charles  Churchill  (1731- 
1764);  a  satirist,  and  an  ardent  supporter 
of  John  Wilkes  and  his  faction. 

312.  1208.  Bayle's  Dictionary.  The  Dic- 
tionaire  Historique  et  Critique  of  Pierre 
Bayle  (1647-1706),  a  French  philosopher 
and  man  of  letters. 

313.  1233.  Prospects.     "  Views,"  scenery. 

13 1 9.  Canada  is  taken.  Wolfe's  victory 
over  Montcalm,  on  the  Plains  of  Abra- 
ham, had  taken  place  in  1759. 

314.  1369.  His  present  Majesty.  Johnson's 
pension  came  from  George  III,  against 
whom  the  Pretender,  James  Stuart,  son 
of  the  exiled  James  II,  had  in  1745  or- 
ganized an  armed  rebellion  of  High- 
landers and  English  Jacobites.  Johnson 
had  been  for  a  time  a  favorer  of  the 
Stuarts,  a  sort  of  sentimental  Jacobite, 
though  he  had  always  been  loyal  to  the 
existing  government. 

1399.  Victory  at  Culloden,  etc.  Charles 
Stuart,  son  of  the  pretender  James,  was 
his  father's  personal  representative  in 
England  and  Scotland  during  the  second 
Jacobite  rebellion,  "  The  Forty-five," 
which  ended  in  1746  at  Culloden,  where 
the  Duke  of  Cumberland  overwhelmed 
the  Stuart  forces. 

316.  1455.  A  negation  of  all  principle.  "  He 
used  to  tell,  with  great  humor,  from  my 
relation  to  him,  the  following  little  story 
of  my  early  years,  which  was  literally 
true:  '  Boswell,  in  the  year  1745,  was  a 
fine  boy,  wore  a  white  cockade,  and 
prayed  for  King  James,  till  one  of  his 
uncles  (General  Cochran)  gave  him  a 
shilling  on  condition  that  he  should  pray 
for  King  George,  which  he  accordingly 
did.  So  you  see  (says  Boswell)  that 
Whigs  of  all  ages  are  made  the  same 
way.'  "     (Boswell.) 

1483.  Hume.  David  Hume  (1711-1776), 
philosopher,  historian,  and,  according  to 
the  judgment  of  his  contemporaries,  a 
sceptic. 

317.  1720.  Those  called  Methodists.  The 
name  was  first  applied  contemptuously 
to  Wesley  and  his  friends,  when,  as  stu- 
dents at  Oxford,  they  met  together  for 
prayer  and  worship.  By  1763  the  sect 
had  become  numerous. 


317.  1755.  Buchanan.  George  Buchanan 
(1506-1582),  a  Scotch  scholar,  historian, 
and  poet,  practically  all  of  whose  work  was 
written  in  Latin. 

318.  1759.  Johnston.  Arthur  Johnston  (1587- 
1641),  a  Scotch  physician  and  author  of  a 
large  amount  of  Latin  verse,  including  a 
metrical  version  of  the  Psalms  and  the 
complimentary  epigrams  to  which  Bos- 
well alludes. 

1769.  Formosam  resonare,  etc.  Thou 
teachest  the  forest  to  resound  (with  the 
name  of)  lovely  Amaryllis. 

322.  2233.  One  of  the  most  luminous  minds. 
Burke.  The  quotation  is  from  Gold- 
smith's Retaliation;  see  p.  286. 

BURKE 

TO    THE   ELECTORS    OF    BRISTOL 

23.  I  was  put  in  nomination  after  the 
poll  was  opened.  The  election  lasted 
for  nearly  a  month. 

323.  40.  The  candidate.  Four  persons  were 
candidates,  the  two  Whigs,  Burke  and 
Cruger,  being  elected.  The  defeated 
Tory,  Brickdale,  is  the  person  here  re- 
ferred to.  Brickdale  tried  unsuccessfully 
to  have  Burke's  election  annulled  by  the 
courts. 

98.  I  stood  on  the  hustings.  "  Hustings  " 
meant  both  the  actual  platform  from 
which  nominations  were  made,  and  the 
entire  election  proceedings.  "  On  the 
hustings  "  is  not  very  different  from  the 
American  idiom  "  on  the  stump." 

324.  184.  The  former  part.  Brickdale  had 
formerly  urged  the  qualifications  of  the 
electors  whom,  after  his  defeat,  he  sought 
to  have  disfranchised. 

237.  My  colleague.  Cruger  had  told  the 
electors  that  he  would  at  all  times  vote 
in  accordance  with  their  desires  and  in- 
structions. Burke's  statement  of  his 
position  on  this  question  makes  this  ad- 
dress to  the  electors  one  of  the  significant 
documents  in  his  history. 

THE    IMPEACHMENT   OF   HASTINGS 

326.  Warren  Hastings  (1732-1818)  was  the 
first  governor-general  of  India,  being  ap- 
pointed in  1773  under  the  newly  passed 
Regulating  Act,  and  holding  office  till 
1785.  He  was  impeached  by  the  House  of 
Commons  in  1786;  his  trial  before  the 
Lords  began  in  1788,  and  dragged  on  till 
I795>  when  he  was  acquitted.  Burke 
was  charged  with  the  prosecution,  and 
although  the  verdict  went  against  him, 
the  ultimate  result  was  a  victory  for 
Burke;  for  as  a  result  of  the  disclosures 
made  at  the  trial  came  a  new  and  more 
equitable  governmental  policy  for  India. 
15.  Their  Dewan.     Financial  agent. 

328.  4.  Our  long,  long  labors.  Burke  con- 
cluded his  charge  on  19  February,  1788; 


NOTES 


353 


the  peroration  did  not  follow  until  16 
June,  1794.  Burke  had  been  interested 
in  Indian  affairs  for  fifteen  years  before 
the  trial  began. 

328.  53.  Moral  earthquake.  The  French 
Revolution.  At  the  time  he  was  speaking, 
the  Reign  of  Terror  was  at  its  height. 

329.  106.  The  Parliament  of  Paris.  The  chief 
court  of  the  old  French  monarchy,  abol- 
ished by  the  Revolution. 

REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  REVOLUTION  IN  FRANCE 

The  French  Revolution,  during  the  period 
1 789-1 792,  found  many  supporters  in 
England.  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge, 
Charles  James  Fox,  and  liberal  clergy- 
men among  whom  Priestly  and  Price 
were  the  most  prominent,  openly  gloried 
in  the  deeds  that  were  being  done  in  the 
name  of  Liberty.  From  these  enthusiasts 
Burke  was  separated  by  a  wide  gulf.  He 
did  not  comprehend  the  need  for  change 
in  the  French  social  and  economic  sys- 
tems; he  saw  only  the  overthrow  of  an 
established  civilization  by  hungry  peas- 
ants and  doctrinaire  philosophers,  and 
with  impassioned  earnestness  he  pro- 
tested. The  Reflections  appeared  in 
November,  1790. 

330.  43.  The  civil  social  man.  As  distin- 
guished from  man  in  his  aboriginal  "  state 
of  nature,"  before  the  existence  of  society. 

332.  2 S3-  Liceat  perire  poetis.  Poets  have 
the  right  to  die. 

236.  Ardentem  frigidus,  etc.  In  cold 
blood  he  leaped  into  glowing  ^tna. 
Empedocles,  a  Sicilian  philosopher,  is 
said  to  have  died  thus.  A  slipper,  cast  out 
in  an  eruption,  was  proof  of  his  act. 


THOMSON 

THE  SEASONS 

334.  311.  In  vain  for  him,  etc.  Gray  seems  to 
have  had  the  following  three  lines  in 
mind  when  he  composed  the  stanza  of 
the  Elegy  beginning 

"  For  them   no  more  the   blazing   hearth 
shall  burn." 

THE   CASTLE   OF   INDOLENCE 

335.  35.  A  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep. 
"  To  keep  a  coil  "  is  an  Elizabethan  ex- 
pression meaning  to  make  a  noise. 


BLAIR 

THE    GRAVE 

337.  It  was  in  part,  at  least,  from  this  poem  j 
that  Bryant  drew  the  inspiration  for  his 
Thanatopsis. 

338.  34.  Night's  foul  bird.    The  owl. 


COLLINS 

SONG   FROM    CYMBELINE 

339.  See    Cymbeline,    IV.    ii.       Shakespeare's 
spelling  of  the  proper  name  is  Guiderhis. 


ODE    WRITTEN 


IN  THE    YEAR    1 746 


340. 


341. 


342. 


344. 


345. 


The  year  1745  saw  the  death  of  many 
English  soldiers  in  battle,  both  in  the 
war  of  the  Austrian  Succession,  and  in 
Scotland,  during  the  second  Jacobite 
rising. 

ODE   TO   EVENING 

1.  If  aught  of  oaten  stop.     If  anything 
played  upon  the  shepherd's  oat,  or  pipe. 
21.  Folding-star.    The  star  which  marked 
the  time  for  putting  sheep  into  the  fold. 

THE   PASSIONS 

75.  Oak-crowned  sisters.    Wood  nymphs. 

Chaste-eyed  queen.     Diana. 

86.  Tempe's  vale.     A  beautiful  valley  in 

Greece. 

114.  Cecilia's   mingled   world   of   sound. 

St.   Cecilia  is  always  represented  as  the 

inventress   of   the   organ.      See   Dryden's 

two  odes. 


GRAY 

ON  A  DISTANT  PROSPECT  OF  ETON  COLLEGE 

The    poem    is    characteristic    of    Gray's 

early    work;    conventional,    and    full    of 

"  poetic  diction." 

3,  4.  Grateful   Science  still  adores,  etc. 

King  Henry  VI  was  the  founder  of  Eton 

College. 

5.  And  ye,  etc.     The  towers  of  Windsor 

Castle. 

ELEGY,  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD 

57.  Some  village  Hampden,  etc.     Profes- 
sor Phelps  points  out,  in  his  Athenaeum 
Press  edition  of  Gray,  p.  xxv.,  that  this 
stanza  originally  ran  as  follows: 
"  Some   Village   Cato  with  dauntless 

Breast 
The  little  Tyrant  of  his  Fields  withstood; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Tully  here  may  rest; 
Some  Cassar,  guiltless  of  his  Country's 

Blood." 
The  changes  are  significant,  in  that  they 
witness  Gray's  transition  from  the  pseudo- 
classicism  of  his  early  poems,  to  the  ro- 
manticism of  the  later. 
93.  For  thee.  For  the  poet,  Gray  himself. 
119.  Fair  Science  frowned  not.  "  The 
line  means  that  Knowledge  looked  favor- 
ably upon  him  at  his  birth  (a  quasi- 
astrological  figure).  "     (Phelps.) 


S54 


NOTES 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   POESY 

345.  A  Pindaric  Ode.  Gray  is  adopting  the 
ode  form  of  the  Greek  poet  Pindar.  Pro- 
fessor Phelps's  note  explains  the  structure 
of  the  poem  succinctly:  "  As  Hales  pointed 
out,  this  Ode  is  really  divided  into  3 
stanzas,  with  41  lines  in  each  stanza. 
Again,  each  stanza  is  divided  into  3  parts 
— strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode — the 
turn,  counter-turn,  and  after-song,  Greek 
theatrical  names.  The  three  strophes, 
antistrophes,  and  epodes  are  similar  in 
construction;  hence  the  architecture  of 
the  poem  is  curiously  symmetrical, 
though  one  could  easily  read  it  without 
any  perception  of  this  fact."  (Athenaeum 
Press  Edition,  p.  149.) 

1.  Awake,  ^olian  lyre.  Gray  is  invok- 
ing the  /Eolian  harp  of  Pindar. 
3,  4.  From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs, 
etc.  The  different  streams  of  the  world's 
poetry  all  have  their  source  in  the  sacred 
fountain  of  the  Muses  on  Mount  Helicon. 
9.  Ceres'  golden  reign.  Fields  of  grain, 
in  the  care  of  Ceres,  goddess  of  the  harvest. 
15.  Enchanting  shell.  The  lyre,  to  which 
the  first  three  sections  of  the  poem  are 
addressed.  Hermes,  according  to  the 
legend,  made  the  first  lyre  from  a  tortoise 
shell. 

17.  On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War. 
Mars  was  supposed  to  spend  much  of  his 
time  in  Thrace. 

21.  The  feathered  king.    Jove's  eagle. 
25.  Thee.    The  lyre. 

27.  Idalia.  A  town  in  Cyprus,  sacred  to 
Venus,  or  Cytherea  (1.  28). 

346.  36.  Their  Queen.    Venus. 

47.  Justify  the  ways  of  Jove.  An  obvious 
echo  of  Milton's  "  Justify  the  ways  of 
God  to  men." 

48.  Has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly 
Muse?  Has  poetry  been  of  no  value  to 
mankind? 

53.  Hyperion.    The  sun. 

66.  Delphi's   steep.      Delphi's   mountain, 

location  of  the  famous  oracle. 

68.  Ilissus.     A  river  of  Attica. 

69.  Maeander.    A  river  of  Asia  Minor. 
77.  The  sad  Nine.    The  Muses. 

77-82.     Poetry  left  Greece  for  Rome,  and 

from  Rome  sought  England. 

84.  Nature's  Darling.     Shakespeare. 

95.  Nor  second  he,   that  rode   sublime. 

Milton. 

105.  Two     coursers     of     ethereal     race. 

Dryden's    favorite    verse    form    was    the 

iambic  pentameter  couplet. 

347.  107.  His  hands.     Dryden's. 

112.  What  daring  spirit?  Gray  himself. 
115.  The  Theban  Eagle.  Gray's  own 
note  reads:  "  Pindar  compares  himself 
to  that  bird,  and  his  enemies  to  ravens 
that  croak  and  clamour  in  vain  below, 
while  it  pursues  its  flight,  regardless  of 
their  noise." 


347.  1 21-123.   Gray  is  here  giving  us  an  idea 
of  his  own  poetical  aspirations. 

THE    BARD 

The  poem  as  first  printed  was  prefaced 
by  this  "  Advertisement.  The  following 
Ode  is  founded  on  a  Tradition  current  in 
Wales,  that  Edward  the  First,  when  he 
completed  the  conquest  of  that  country, 
ordered  all  the  Bards,  that  fell  into  his 
hands,  to  be  put  to  death."  When  the 
poem  opens,  the  last  survivor  of  the 
Bards  is  speaking. 
8.  Cambria.     Wales. 

10.  The  first  Edward.  Edward  I  invaded 
Wales  in  1282. 

13,  14.  Glo'ster,  Mortimer.  Chieftains 
in  Edward's  army. 

27.  Fatal  day.  The  day  on  which  the 
bards  were  executed. 

28.  Hoel,  Llewellyn;  29,  31.  Cadwallo, 
Urien.     Welsh  poets. 

^^.  Modred.  Gray  uses  the  name  of  the 
Arthurian  knight;  no  such  Welsh  poet 
is  known. 

34.  Plinlimmon.    A  Welsh  mountain. 

35.  Arvon's  shore.  "  The  shores  of 
Caernarvonshire,  opposite  to  the  isle  of 
Anglesey."     (Gray.) 

49.  The  whole  band  of  murdered  bards 
joins  with  the  survivor  in  prophesying  the 
future  of  Edward's  race. 

348.  54.  Severn.    A  Welsh  river. 

56.  An  agonizing  king.  "  Edward  the 
Second,  cruelly  butchered  in  Berkley 
Castle."     (Gray.) 

59.  Who  o'er  thy  country  hangs.  "  Tri- 
umphs of  Edward  the  Third  in  France." 
(Gray.) 

63.  Mighty  Victor.  Edward  III. 
65.  No  pitying  heart.  "  Death  of  that 
king,  abandoned  by  his  children,  and 
even  robbed  in  his  last  moments  by  his 
courtiers  and  his  mistress."  (Gray.) 
67.  The  sable  warrior.  Edward  Ill's 
son,  the  Black  Prince,  who  died  before 
his  father. 

70.  The  rising  morn.     "  Magnificence  of 
Richard  the  Second's  reign."     (Gray.) 
77-82.  "  Richard     the     Second  .  .  .  was 
starved  to  death."     (Gray.) 
83-86.  The  wars  of  the  Roses,   between 
the  houses  of  York  and  Lancaster,  1455- 

1485- 

87.  Towers  of  Julius.  According  to  an 
old  legend,  Julius  Caesar  is  supposed  to 
have  begun  the  Tower  of  London. 

89.  His  Consort's  faith.  "  Margaret  of 
Anjou  (wife  of  Henry  VI),  a  woman  of 
heroic  spirit,  who  struggled  hard  to  save 
her  husband  and  her  crown."  (Gray.) 
His  father.    Henry  V. 

90.  The  meek  usurper.  "  Henry  the 
Sixth  very  near  being  canonized.  The 
line  of  Lancaster  had  no  right  of  inheri- 
tance to  the  crown."     (Gray.) 

91.  2.    The   rose   of   snow,    etc.      "  The 


NOTES 


855 


white  and  red  roses,  devices  of  York  and 
Lancaster."     (Gray.) 

348.  93.  The  bristled  Boar.  "  The  silver  boar 
was  the  badge  of  Richard  the  Third." 
(Gray.)  In  infant  gore.  A  reference  to 
Richard's  murder  of  the  two  young  princes. 
op.  Half  of  thy  heart.  "  Eleanor  of  Cas- 
tile (wife  of  Edward  I),  died  a  few  years 
after  the  conquest  of  Wales."  (Gray.) 
109.  Long-lost  Arthur.  "  It  was  the  com- 
mon belief  of  the  Welsh  nation,  that 
King  Arthur  was  still  alive  in  Fairy-Land, 
and  should  return  again  to  reign  over 
Britain."     (Gray.) 

no.  Ye  genuine  Kings.  "Both  Merlin 
and  Taliessin  had  prophesied,  that  the 
Welsh  should  regain  their  sovereignty 
over  this  island;  which  seemed  to  be 
accomplished  in  the  House  of  Tudor." 
(Gray.) 
115.  A  form  divine.    Queen  Elizabeth. 

349.  127.  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction 
drest.  The  allusion  is  to  the  allegorical 
nature  of  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene. 

128.  In     buskined     measures.       Shake- 
speare's tragedies. 
131.  A  voice.    Milton. 
133.  Distant   warblings.      "  The    succes- 
sion    of     Poets    after     Milton's     time." 
(Gray.) 
135.  Impious  man.     Edward  I. 

THE   FATAL   SISTERS 

One  of  Gray's  notes,  the  Preface  to  the 
poem  as  it  originally  appeared,  makes 
the  situation  clear:  "  In  the  Eleventh 
Century  Sigurd,  Earl  of  the  Orkney 
Islands,  went  with  a  fleet  of  ships  and  a 
considerable  body  of  troops  into  Ireland, 
to  the  assistance  of  Sictryg  with  the  Silken 
Beard,  who  was  then  making  war  on  his 
father-in-law,  Brian,  King  of  Dublin: 
the  Earl  and  all  his  forces  were  cut  to 
pieces,  and  Sictryg  was  in  danger  of  a 
total  defeat;  but  the  enemy  had  a  greater 
loss  by  the  death  of  Brian,  their  King, 
who  fell  in  action.  On  Christmas  day, 
(the  day  of  the  battle),  a  Native  of  Caith- 
ness in  Scotland  saw  at  a  distance  a 
number  of  persons  on  horseback  riding 
full  speed  towards  a  hill,  and  seeming  to 
enter  into  it.  Curiosity  led  him  to  follow 
them,  till  looking  through  an  opening  in 
the  rocks  he  saw  twelve  gigantic  figures 
resembling  women:  they  were  all  em- 
ployed about  a  loom;  and  as  they  wove, 
they  sung  the  following  dreadful  Song; 
which  when  they  had  finished,  they  tore 
the  web  into  twelve  pieces,  and  (each 
taking  her  portion)  galloped  six  to  the 
North  and  as  many  to  the  South." 
The  "  Fatal  Sisters  "  are  here  represented 
as  the  goddesses  of  fate,  and  as  the 
Valkyrie,  or  "  choosers  of  the  slain,"  who 
select  heroes  destined  to  die  in  battle, 
and  conduct  them  to  Valhalla. 
32.  The  youthful  king.    Sictryg. 


349.  37.  They,  whom  once.  The  Norsemen. 
41.  The  Earl.     Probably  Sigurd. 

44.  A  King.     Brian. 

350.  56.  Younger  King.    See  note  on  1.  32. 

SKETCH  OF  HIS  OWN  CHARACTER 

The  poem  was  found  in  one  of  Gray's 
pocket-books,  and  was  not  printed  till 
after  his  death. 

6.  Charles  Townshend.  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  1767.  Squire.  Dr. 
Samuel  Squire,  Bishop  of  St.  David's. 

LETTERS 

350.  1.  We  set  out.  Gray  was  making  "  the 
grand  tour  "  with  his  college  friend, 
Horace  Walpole.  His  impressions  of 
Alpine  scenery  may  interestingly  be  com- 
pared with  those  of  Addison,  who  wrote 
from  Geneva,  December  6,  1701,  to 
Wortley  Montagu:  "  I  am  just  now  ar- 
rived at  Geneva  by  a  very  troublesome 
journey  over  the  Alps,  where  I  have  been 
for  some  days  together  shivering  among 
the  eternal  snows.  My  head  is  still  giddy 
with  mountains  and  precipices,  and  you 
cannot  imagine  how  much  I  am  pleased 
with  the  sight  of  a  plain,  that  is  as  agree- 
able to  me  at  present  as  a  shore  was  about 
a  year  ago  after  one  tempest  at  Genoa." 

351.  19.  St.  Bruno.  The  founder  of  the  Car- 
thusian order  of  monks.  He  located  the 
home  of  the  order  in  the  mountains  near 
Grenoble,  1084  A.  D. 

21.  Dodsley.  Robert  Dodsley  (1703- 
1764),  English  bookseller  and  publisher, 
best  known  for  his  Select  Collection  of  Old 
Plays,  which  he  edited  and  published  in 
1744. 

352.  3.  Sack  and  silver.  The  poet  laureate 
was  usually  given  a  money  stipend  and 
an  annual  allowance  of  wine.  Gray  had 
been  informally  offered  the  post  at  the 
time  he  wrote  this  letter  to  Mason. 

24.  Rowe.     Nicholas  Rowe  (1674-1718), 

a  dramatist. 

26.  Settle.     Elkanah  Settle  (1648-1723). 

28.  Eusden.      Lawrence    Eusden    (1688- 

1730)- 

MACPHERSON 

CATH-LODA 

362.  Macpherson's  "  Ossianic  "  poems  are  im- 
portant because  of  the  influence  they 
exerted  in  the  development  of  romanticism 
during  the  eighteenth  century.  Some 
ancient  Celtic  fragments  are  probably 
embedded  in  them,  but  for  the  form  and 
tone  Macpherson  alone  is  responsible. 
The  poems  were  published  between  1760 
and  1765.  See  Dr.  Johnson's  letter, 
page  294. 

FERGUSSON 

353.  Burns  was  so  conscious  of  his  literary 
debt  to  Fergusson  that  he  erected  a  tomb- 
stone over  Fergusson's  grave. 


856 


NOTES 


THE   DAFT  DAYS 


353.  Certain  of  the   Christmas  holidays  were 
so  called. 

354.  48.  Tullochgorum.       A     famous     Scotch 
tune  and  song. 


CHATTERTON 

In  reading  Chatterton's  poetry,  one 
should  pay  as  little  attention  as  possible 
to  the  antiquated  spelling.  Pronounce 
the  words  as  in  modern  English;  Chatter- 
ton  seems  to  have  composed  his  verse 
in  modern  English,  before  translating  it 
into  the  pseudo-Middle  English  dialect 
in  which  it  appeared. 

BRISTOWE    TRAGEDIE 

356.  141.  Goddelyke  Henrie.  Henry  VI, 
whom  the  Lancastrians  held  to  have  been 
illegally  succeeded  by  Edward  IV. 

358.  276.  Bataunt.  The  word  is  a  participle 
meaning  hastening;  Chatterton  misuses 
it  here,  and  thinks  of  it  as  some  sort  of  a 
musical  instrument. 


COWPER 

ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

360.  The  English  man-of-war  Royal  George 
capsized  and  sank  off  Spithead,  August  29, 
1782,  after  having  been  heeled  over  in- 
tentionally in  order  to  expose  a  leaky 
section  of  her  bottom.  Admiral  Kempen- 
felt  was  at  the  time  under  orders  to  go  to 
the  relief  of  Gibraltar. 

THE   TASK 

362.  390.  To  hear  that  ye  were  fallen  at  last. 

The  Task  was  published  in  1785,  four 
years  before  the  capture  of  the  Bastille  by 
the  revolutionists. 

MY   MOTHER'S    PICTURE 

364.  97.  An  incorrect  quotation  from  Garth's 
Dispensary,  iii.  226. 

108.  My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my 
birth.  Cowper  traced  his  descent  from 
Henry  III  of  England;  the  line  means 
that  although  his  descent  is  royal,  he 
does  not  boast  of  it. 

SONNET  TO   MRS.   UNWIN 

Cowper's  most  intimate  friends  were  the 
Reverend  Morley  Unwin,  and  his  wife 
Mary.  Cowper  began  to  live  with  them 
as  a  boarder  in  1765;  following  Mr.  Un- 
win's  death  in  1767  Cowper  and  Mrs. 
Unwin  continued  together  till  her  death 
in  December,  1796. 

TO   MARY 

Written  to  Mrs.  Mary  Unwin. 


THE   CASTAWAY 


365.  52.  Anson's  tear.  Cowper  based  his  poem 
on  an  account  which  he  found  in  Anson's 
Voyage  Around  the  World. 


BURNS 

LINES   TO  JOHN   LAPRAIK 

366.  The  selection  is  from  the  first  of  Burns's 
three  poetical  epistles  to  Lapraik,  a 
Scottish  poet  whose  work,  in  part  at 
least,  Burns  admired. 

THE   HOLY   FAIR 

367.  66.  Black  Bonnet.  "  The  elder  who 
'  officiated  '  at  the  collecting-plate,  which 
stood  at  the  entrance,  was  accustomed 
to  wear  a  black  bonnet."  (Centenary 
Burns,  i.  331.) 

102^.  Moodie,  Smith,  Peebles,  Miller, 
and  Russell,  were  all  parish  ministers  of 
considerable  local  importance  or  no- 
toriety. 

368.  226.  Clinkumbell.  The  beadle,  or  bell- 
man. 

THE   COTTER'S   SATURDAY   NIGHT 

370.  The  editors  of  the  Centenary  Burns  note 
(i.  362) :  "  The  piece  as  a  whole  is  formed 
on  English  models.  It  is  the  most  arti- 
ficial and  the  most  imitative  of  Burns's 
works.  ...  '  These  English  songs,'  he 
wrote  long  afterwards  (1794)  to  Thom- 
son, '  gravel  me  to  death.  I  have  not  that 
command  of  the  language  that  I  have  of 
my  native  tongue.  In  fact,  I  think  my 
ideas  are  more  barren  in  English  than  in 
Scottish.'  ...  As  it  is,  The  Cotter's 
Saturday  Night  is  supposed  to  paint  an 
essentially  Scottish  phase  of  life;  but  the 
Scottish  element  in  the  diction, — to  say 
nothing  of  the  Scottish  cast  of  the  effect 
— is  comparatively  slight  throughout,  and 
in  many  stanzas  is  altogether  wanting." 
Robert  Aiken,  to  whom  the  poem  is  ad- 
dressed, was  an  old  friend  of  the  Burns 
family  who  brought  the  poet  some  fame 
by  reading  his  verses  in  public. 

372.  in-113.  Dundee's,  Martyr's,  Elgin. 
The  names  of  tunes  in  the  Scottish  Pres- 
byterian hymnal. 

373.  138.  Hope  "  springs  exulting,"  etc. 
Slightly  misquoted  from  Pope's  Windsor 
Forest. 

166.  "  An  honest  man,"  etc.  Slightly 
misquoted  from  Pope's  Essay  on  Man, 
iv.  297. 

182.  Wallace.  William  Wallace  (c.  1270- 
I3°5)i  the  Scottish  patriot. 

TAM   O'   SHANTER 

375.  102.  Kirk  Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze. 

The  editors  of  the  Centenary  Burns  note 
(i.   433):    "  Alloway   Kirk   was  originally 


NOTES 


§57 


the  church  of  the  quoad  civilia  parish  of 
Alloway;  but  this  parish  having  been 
annexed  to  that  of  Ayr  in  1690,  the  church 
fell  more  or  less  to  ruin,  and  when  Burns 
wrote  had  been  roofless  for  half  a  century. 
It  stands  some  two  hundred  yards  to  the 
north  of  the  picturesque  Auld  Brig  of 
Doon  ....  Burns's  birthplace  is  about 
three-fourths  of  a  mile  to  the  north;  so 
that  the  ground  and  its  legends  were  fa- 
miliar to  him  from  the  first." 
A  good  many  local  traditions  centered 
around  the  old  church;  some  of  them 
Burns  has  worked  into  the  poem. 

SCOTS   WHA   HAE 

377.  The  poem  is  often  called  "  Bruce's  Ad- 
dress to  his  Army." 

AULD   LANG   SYNE 

378.  A  song  of  this  name,  of  which  various 
Scottish  poets  had  written  versions,  was 
well  known  in  Scotland  before  Burns  com- 
posed his  verses. 

or  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

"  The  song  I  composed  out  of  compliment 
to  Mrs.  Burns."  (Burns's  note,  quoted 
in  Centenary  Burns,  iii.  345.) 

FLOW   GENTLY,   SWEET  AFTON 

380.  3.  My  Mary.  If  any  definite  person  is 
referred  to  here, — and  this  is  uncertain, — 
it  is  not  Mary  Campbell.  See  the  Cen- 
tenary Burns,  iii.  395. 

HIGHLAND   MARY 

381.  The  poem  is  reminiscent  of  Burns's  devo- 
tion to  Mary  Campbell.  The  editors  of 
the  Centenary  tell  what  is  known  of  her 
(iii.  308). 


BLAKE 

CRADLE  SONG 

384.  20.  While  o'er  thee  thy  mother  weep. 
The  line  (like  n-12  and  15-16)  is  un- 
grammatical,  but  the  reading  thy  seems 
to  have  the  weight  of  authority  on  its 
side;  certain  editions  emend  thy  to  doth. 


CRABBE 

THE  VILLAGE 

386.  9.  Smooth  alternate  verse.  See  Spenser's 
Shepherd's  Calendar,  Eclogue  second, 
for  an  example  of  "  alternate  verse,"  in 
which  first  Cuddie  and  then  Thenot 
speaks. 

18.  Mantuan  song.    Virgil's  poetry  (here 
his  pastorals). 

27.  Honest  Duck.     A  -minor  poet  of  the 
first  half  of  the  18th  century. 


387.  89.  The  lawless  merchant  of  the  main. 
The  smuggler. 


THE    BOROUGH 


389. 


392. 


393. 


The  story  of  Peter  Grimes  forms  Letter 
xxii  of  the  poem. 


WORDSWORTH 

PREFACE  TO  THE  LYRICAL  BALLADS 

The  first  edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads 
appeared  in  1798;  the  second  edition,  in 
December,  1800,  carried  a  lengthy  Pref- 
ace, from  which  two  passages  are  here 
reprinted. 

LINES    WRITTEN   IN   EARLY   SPRING 

The  poem  is  notable  as  an  expression  of 
Wordsworth's  idea  that  Nature  is  a  con- 
scious, sentient  spirit. 

TINTERN    ABBEY 

22-49.  ln  this  passage  Wordsworth  states 
the  effect  that  the  recollection  of  the 
landscape  he  has  just  been  describing 
has  had  on  him.  First,  it  has  brought 
him  mental  restoration  in  hours  of  weari- 
ness; second,  "  feelings  of  unremem- 
bered  pleasure  "  which  have  prompted 
him  to  "  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love"; 
and  lastly,  it  has  brought  him  the  mystic's 
power  of  seeing  beyond  the  superficial, 
the  apparent,  into  "  the  life  of  things." 
72-1 1 1.  This  passage,  with  which  one 
should  compare  lines  175-203  of  the 
Intimations  of  Immortality,  is  the  best 
statement  of  Wordsworth's  changing 
attitude  towards  Nature.  The  pan- 
psychism,  almost  the  pantheism,  of 
lines  93-102,  is  noteworthy. 
116.  My  dear,  dear  friend.  Words- 
worth's sister  Dorothy  was  the  poet's 
most  intimate  companion  during  the 
years  from  1795  to  1802.  On  their  life 
together  one  can  consult  no  better  work 
than  Dorothy  Wordsworth's  Journals. 

SHE   DWELT   AMONG   THE    UNTRODDEN    WAYS 

396.  This  and  the  two  following  poems  are 
from  a  group  of  five  which  picture  the 
poet's  love  for  "  Lucy."  No  one  knows 
who  Lucy  was.  It  has  been  suggested 
that  she  is  simply  a  creation  of  the  poet's 
imagination,  but  this  does  not  seem  prob- 
able. It  is  significant  that  when  Words- 
worth commented  on  his  own  verses  he 
remained  silent  concerning  these  five 
poems. 

THE   PRELUDE 

This  poem,  one  of  Wordsworth's  two  long 
autobiographical  pieces,  was  written  be- 
tween 1799  and  1805,  but  was  not  pub- 
lished till  after  the  poet's  death  in  1850. 


394. 


858 


NOTES 


It  was  intended  to  be  the  first  of  three 
poems  to  constitute  his  magnum  opus, 
The  Recluse.  Of  the  three  only  this  first 
and  the  second,  The  Excursion,  were 
completed. 


397.  35.  Journeying  toward  the  snow-clad 
Alps.  Wordsworth  had  spent  the  summer 
of  1790  in  a  walking  tour  through  France 
and  Switzerland.  This  second  journey  to 
the  continent  began  in  the  autumn  of 
1791. 

40.  A  pleasant  town.    Orleans. 
68.  Bastille.       The     Bastille     had     been 
stormed    and    captured    by    the    Revolu- 
tionists on  the  fourteenth  of  July,  1789. 

398.  132.  Save  only  one.  Beaupuis,  a  revolu- 
tionary officer,  whom  Wordsworth  came 
to  know  intimately  during  the  winter  of 
1791-92,  which  he  spent  at  Orleans. 


48.  To  Paris  I  returned.  He  reached 
Paris  in  October,  1792. 
53.  The  palace,  lately  stormed.  The  mob 
sacked  the  Tuileries  on  the  tenth  of 
August.  Louis  XVI  was  a  prisoner  from 
this  time  until  his  execution. 
399.  73.  September  massacres.  The  mas- 
sacres of  the  aristocrats  in  September, 
1792,  marked  the  beginning  of  the  "  Reign 
of  Terror." 


Wordsworth  notes  of  this  poem:  "  Writ- 
ten at  Town-end,  Grasmere.  .  .  .  The 
Sheepfold,  on  which  so  much  of  the  poem 
turns,  remains,  or  rather  the  ruins  of  it. 
The  character  and  circumstances  of  Luke 
were  taken  from  a  family  to  whom  had 
belonged,  many  years  before,  the  house 
we  live  in  at  Town-end,  along  with  some 
fields  and  woodlands  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  Grasmere.  The  name  of  the  Evening 
Star  was  not  in  fact  given  to  this  house, 
but  to  another  on  the  same  side  of  the 
valley,  more  to  the  north." 
Wordsworth  lived  at  Grasmere  from  1799 
to  1813. 

MY   HEART   LEAPS   UP 

406.  9.  Natural  piety.  Reverence,  affection 
for  Nature.  Wordsworth  chose  the  last 
three  lines  for  the  motto  of  his  Ode: 
Intimations  of  Immortality. 

RESOLUTION   AND    INDEPENDENCE 

407.  43.  I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvelous 
Boy.  Thomas  Chatterton  (1752-1770), 
who  poisoned  himself,  in  a  fit  of  despond- 
ency, before  he  was  eighteen  years  old. 
45.  Him  who  walked  in  glory.  Burns. 
97.  Grave  Livers.  Persons  of  solemn 
deportment. 


AT   THE    GRAVE    OF    BURNS 


409.  39,  40.  Criffel,  Skiddaw.  Scottish  moun- 
tains. 

50.  "  Poor  inhabitant  below."  A  quota- 
tion from  Burns's  A  Bard's  Epitaph. 

SHE   WAS   A   PHANTOM   OF   DELIGHT 

410.  The  poem  characterizes  Mrs.  Words- 
worth, whom,  as  Mary  Hutchinson, 
Wordsworth  had  married  in  1802. 

I  WANDERED  LONELY  AS  A  CLOUD 

411.  21-22.  These  lines,  perhaps  the  most 
"  Wordsworthian  "  in  the  entire  poem, 
were  written  by  the  poet's  wife. 

CHARACTER    OF    THE    HAPPY    WARRIOR 

The  portrait  or  character  here  sketched  is 
not  that  of  any  single  person,  but  is,  as 
Wordsworth  pointed  out  in  his  note,  a 
sort  of  composite,  based  on  Lord  Nelson, 
and  Wordsworth's  brother  John,  master 
of  the  Abergavenny,  East  Indiaman. 
Nelson  and  John  Wordsworth  both  died 
in  1805;  the  former  at  Trafalgar,  the 
latter  in  the  wreck  of  his  vessel  in  the 
English  Channel. 

ODE:   INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY 

413.  A  part  of  Wordsworth's  note  on  the  poem 
runs  as  follows:  "  Nothing  was  more 
difficult  for  me  in  childhood  than  to  admit 
the  notion  of  death  as  a  state  applicable 
to  my  own  being.  ...  It  was  not  so 
much  from  feelings  of  animal  vivacity 
that  my  difficulty  came  as  from  a  sense 
of  the  indomitableness  of  the  Spirit 
within  me.  .  .  .  To  that  dream-like 
vividness  and  splendor  which  invest 
objects  of  sight  in  childhood,  everyone, 
I  believe,  if  he  would  look  back,  could 
bear  testimony,  and  I  need  not  dwell 
upon  it  here:  but  having  in  the  poem  re- 
garded it  as  presumptive  evidence  of  a 
prior  state  of  existence,  I  think  it  right 
to  protest  against  a  conclusion,  which 
has  given  pain  to  some  good  and  pious 
persons,  that  I  meant  to  inculcate  such  a 
belief.  It  is  far  too  shadowy  a  notion 
to  be  recommended  to  faith,  as  more  than 
an  element  in  our  instincts  of  immor- 
tality." 

The  argument  of  the  poems  proceeds  from 
stanza  to  stanza  as  follows: 

1.  I  can  no  longer  see  the  celestial  beauty 
which  once  enfolded  every  object  in  nature. 

2.  Nature  is  the  same,  but  the  glory  has 
passed  away. 

3.  The  utterance  of  this  thought  brought 
relief  from  the  sadness  it  occasioned: 
"  No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season 

wrong." 

4.  Despite  the  happiness  of  Nature  on 
"  this  sweet  May-morning,"   the   "  glory 


NOTES 


859 


and  the  dream  "  have  gone;  "  whither  is 
fled  the  visionary  gleam?  " 
413.  5.  The  child  brings  with  him  into  this 
world  recollections  of  Heaven;  the  older 
we  become  the  farther  we  journey  from 
the  celestial  vision  of  childhood,  till  at 
length 

"  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day." 

6.  The  Earth,  man's  foster-mother,  does 
all  she  can  to  make  the  child 

"  Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came." 

7.  The  child  in  his  play  imitates  all  the 
businesses  of  life. 

8.  Why  should  he  do  this,  and  hurry  him- 
self into  the  yoke  of  manhood? 

9.  Let  us  give  thanks  for  the  "  shadowy 
recollections  "  which  persist  from  child- 
hood into  maturity  to  uphold  and  cher- 
ish us. 

10.  Even  though  the  celestial  radiance 
has  now  departed  from  the  world,  I  can 
still  be  joyful,  finding  strength  in  human 
sympathy,  and 

"  In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death. 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind." 

11.  And  Nature  still  is  beautiful,  for  the 
love  I  feel  for  her  is  strengthened  and  en- 
riched by  years  of  experience  with  the 
world,  and  by  sympathetic  association 
with  men. 

ON    THE    EXTINCTION    OF    THE    VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

415.  Xapoleon  entered  Venice  on  the  16th  of 
May,  1797,  and  proclaimed  the  end  of  the 
republic. 

ON   THE    SEA-SHORE    NEAR   CALAIS 

416.  9.  Dear  Child!  dear  Girl!  The  poet's 
sister  Dorothy. 

TO   TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE 

417.  Wordsworth  celebrates  in  this  sonnet  the 
achievement  and  character  of  the  African 
liberator  of  San  Domingo,  who,  after 
leading  a  successful  rebellion  against  the 
French,  and  ridding  the  island  of  slavery, 
was  captured  in  1801  and  taken  a  prisoner 
to  Paris. 

COLERIDGE 

FRANCE:   AN   ODE 

The  ode  is  perhaps  the  most  notable  ex- 
pression, within  the  compass  of  a  single 
poem,  of  the  effect  which  the  French 
Revolution  had  on  the  English  republi- 
cans, and  of  the  reasons  for  their  subse- 
quent defection  from  the  cause. 
30.  The  Monarchs  marched,  etc.  War 
was  declared  by  France  against  Austria, 
April  20,  1792;  against  England,  Holland, 
and  Spain,  February  1,  1793. 

418.  43.  Blasphemy's  loud  scream.     On   the 


tenth  of  November,  1793,  the  Goddess  of 
Reason  was  enthroned  in  Notre  Dame 
Cathedral. 

418.  66.  From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  caverns. 
The  ode  was  occasioned  by  the  French 
invasion  of  Switzerland  in  1798. 

KUBLA   KHAN 

419.  Coleridge  writes,  in  his  preface  to  the 
poem:  "  In  consequence  of  a  slight  indis- 
position, an  anodyne  had  been  prescribed, 
from  the  effects  of  which  he  [Coleridge] 
fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at  the  moment  that 
he  was  reading  the  following  sentence, 
or  words  of  the  same  substance,  in  Pur- 
chas's  Pilgrimage:  '  Here  the  Khan  Kubla 
commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a 
stately  garden  thereunto.  And  thus 
ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  inclosed 
with  a  wall.'  The  author  continued  for 
about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep, 
at  least  of  the  external  senses,  during 
which  time  he  has  the  most  vivid  confi- 
dence that  he  could  not  have  composed 
less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines; 
if  that  indeed  can  be  called  composition 
in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before 
him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  production 
of  the  correspondent  expressions,  without 
any  sensation  or  consciousness  of  effort. 
On  awaking  he  appeared  to  himself  to 
have  a  distinct  recollection  of  the  whole, 
and  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the 
lines  that  are  here  preserved.  At  this 
moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out 
by  a  person  on  business  .  .  .  and  de- 
tained by  him  above  an  hour,  and  on  his 
return  to  his  room  found  .  .  .  that  .  .  . 
all  the  rest  had  passed  away." 
Professor  William  A.  Neilson,  in  his 
recent  Essentials  of  Poetry,  writes:  "  In 
.  .  .  Coleridge's  Kubla  Khan  we  have 
no  wrestling  with  spiritual  questions,  no 
lofty  solution  of  the  problem  of  conduct 
found  through  brooding  on  the  beauties  of 
nature.  Instead,  a  thousand  impressions 
received  from  the  senses,  from  records  of 
Oriental  travel,  from  numberless  roman- 
tic tales,  have  been  taken  in  by  the  author, 
dissolved  as  in  a  crucible  by  the  fierce 
heat  of  his  imagination,  and  are  poured 
forth  a  molten  stream  of  sensuous  im- 
agery, incalculable  in  its  variety  of  sug- 
gestion, yet  homogeneous,  unified,  and, 
despite  its  fragmentary  character,  the 
ultimate  expression  of  a  whole  romantic 
world"  (p.  43). 

THE   RIME   OF   THE   ANCIENT   MARINER 

In  Wordsworth's  note  on  his  own  poem. 
We  Are  Seven,  the  following  passage  ex- 
plains the  origin  of  the  Ancient  Mariner: 
"In  the  spring  of  the  year  1798  [Cole- 
ridge], my  sister,  and  myself,  started  .  .  . 
to  visit  Linton.  ...  In  the  course  of 
this  walk  was  planned  the  poem  of  the 


S6o 


NOTES 


Ancient  Mariner,  founded  on  a  dream, 
as  Mr.  Coleridge  said,  of  his  friend,  Mr. 
Cruikshank.  Much  the  greatest  part  of 
the  story  was  Mr.  Coleridge's  invention; 
but  certain  parts  I  myself  suggested: — 
for  example,  some  crime  was  to  be  com- 
mitted which  should  bring  upon  the  old 
Navigator,  as  Coleridge  afterwards  de- 
lighted to  call  him,  the  spectral  persecu- 
tion, as  a  consequence  of  that  crime, 
and  his  own  wanderings.  I  had  been 
reading  in  Shelvocke's  Voyages  a  day  or 
two  before  that  while  doubling  Cape 
Horn  they  frequently  saw  albatrosses. 
'  Suppose,'  said  I,  '  you  represent  him 
as  having  killed  one  of  these  birds  on 
entering  the  South  Sea,  and  that  the 
tutelary  Spirits  of  those  regions  take 
upon  them  to  avenge  the  crime!  '  The  in- 
cident was  thought  fit  for  the  purpose, 
and  adopted  accordingly.  I  also  sug- 
gested the  navigation  of  the  ship  by  the 
dead  men,  but  do  not  recollect  that  I  had 
anything  more  to  do  with  the  scheme  of 
the  poem.  .  .  .  We  began  the  composi- 
tion together  on  that,  to  me,  memorable 
evening.  I  furnished  two  or  three  lines 
at  the  beginning  of  the  poem,  in  par- 
ticular:— 

'  And  listened  like  a  three  years'  child; 
The  Mariner  had  his  will.'  " 

The  poem  was  first  printed  in  the  1798 
edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  Many 
archaisms,  intended  to  make  it  resemble 
the  popular  ballads,  and  a  few  stanzas, 
were  afterwards  removed.  The  marginal 
gloss  was  added  when  the  poem  ap- 
peared in  the  Sybilline  Leaves,  181 7. 

FROST   AT  MIDNIGHT 

430.  The  poem  was  written  in  February,  1798, 
while  Coleridge  was  living  in  his  cottage 
at  Nether-Stowey. 

7.  My  cradled  infant.    His  son  Hartley. 

431.  25.  At  school.  Coleridge  entered  Christ's 
Hospital  when  he  was  ten  years  old,  and 
remained  there  till  he  went  up  to  Cam- 
bridge University  in  1791.  Cf.  Lamb's 
Christ's  Hospital  Five  and  Thirty  Years  Ago, 
p.  512. 

27.  That  fluttering  stranger.  "  A  flake 
or  film  of  soot  hanging  on  the  bar  of  a 
grate,  supposed  to  foretell  the  advent  of  a 
stranger."  (English  Dialect  Dictionary.) 
38.  The  stern  preceptor.  Boyer,  the 
famous  "  flogging  master  "  of  Christ's 
Hospital. 

43.  Sister  more  beloved.  Between  Cole- 
ridge and  his  sister  Ann,  who  died  in  1791, 
there  was  a  strong  attachment. 
55.  Thou,  my  babe!  shalt  wander,  etc. 
The  prophecy  in  these  lines  was  fulfilled 
when  in  1800  Coleridge  moved  to  Greta 
Hall,  Keswick,  in  the  lake  district. 

dejection:  an  ode 
433.  The  poem  was  first  printed  on  the  fourth 
of    October,    1802,— the    day    of    Words- 


worth's marriage — in  the  Morning  Post. 
Although  Wordsworth's  name  did  not 
appear  in  this  version,  it  was  in  fact  ad- 
dressed to  him.  Later,  after  an  estrange- 
ment between  the  two  poets,  Coleridge 
revised  and  enlarged  the  ode.  The  first 
form  is  printed  in  the  Globe  edition  of 
Coleridge's  works,  p.  522. 
433.  25.  O  Lady!  In  the  earlier  version,  here 
and  throughout  the  poem,  O  Edmund! 
under  which  pseudonym  Coleridge  ad- 
dressed Wordsworth. 

40.  What  can  these  avail.  What  can 
these  beauties  of  nature  avail? 

435.  120.  As  Otway's  self.  Originally  "  as 
Edmund's  self." 

138.  Friend  devoutest  of  my  choice.    The 
poem  originally  closed  with   these  lines: 
"  O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
O  lofty  Poet,  full  of  life  and  love, 
Brother  and  friend  of  my  devoutest  choice, 
Thus  may'st  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice!" 

WORK   WITHOUT  HOPE 

436.  The  poem  was  composed  in  February, 
1827,  long  after  Coleridge's  best  work 
had  been  done. 

7.  Amaranths.  Legendary  flowers  sym- 
bolic of  immortality. 

BIOGRAPHIA   LITERARIA 

37.  The  Lyrical  Ballads.  The  title  given 
to  the  1798  volume  to  which  both  Words- 
worth and  Coleridge  contributed.  It 
contained,  among  other  poems,  Tintern 
Abbey,  and  The  Ancient  Mariner. 

437.  85.  A  preface.  See  the  selections  from 
this  Preface,  pp.  389/f. 

439.   297.  Praecipitandus,  etc.     The  free  spirit 
must  be  urged  forward. 
354.  Laxis  effertur  habenis.     He  is  car- 
ried with  loose  reins. 

371.  Sir  John  Davies.  Lawyer  and  poet 
(1569-1626),  best  known  for  his  poems 
Orchestra,  Or  a  Poeme  of  Dancing,  and 
Nosce  Teipsum,  on  the  immortality  of 
the  soul;  the  quotation  is  from  the  latter. 


SCOTT 

BOAT    SONG 

442.  10.  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu.  "  Black 
Roderick,  the  descendant  of  Alpine." 
(Scott.) 

12.  Beltane.     May-day. 

CORONACH 

443.  "  The  Coronach  of  the  Highlanders  was 
a  wild  expression  of  lamentation,  poured 
forth  by  the  mourners  over  the  body  of  a 
departed  friend.  When  the  words  of  it 
were  articulate,  they  expressed  the  praises 
of  the  deceased,  and  the  loss  the  clan 
would  sustain  by  his  death."     (Scott.) 

17.  Correi.    The  side  of  a  hill. 

18.  Cumber.     Difficulty. 


NOTES 


S6i 


HARP   OF   THE   NORTH 

443.  This  is  a  sort  of  epilogue  to  The  Lady  of 
the  Lake. 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 

444.  The  first  stanza  is  traditional;  see  F.  J. 
Child's  English  and  Scottish  Popular 
Ballads,  v.  159,  for  the  older  John  of 
Hazelgreen  on  which  Scott  modelled  his 
song. 

BRIGNALL   BANKS 

From  Rokeby. 

COUNTY  GUY 

445.  From  Quentin  Durward. 

BONNY  DUNDEE 

From  The  Doom  of  Devorgoil. 
1.  Claver'se.  John  Graham  of  Claver- 
house  (i64a?-i68o),  an  ardent  and  suc- 
cessful partisan  of  Charles  II,  won  the 
title  "  bloody  Claver'se  "  by  his  persecu- 
tion of  the  Scottish  Dissenters  during  the 
last  years  of  Charles's  reign.  In  1688  he 
was  created  first  Viscount  Dundee  by 
James  II.  After  James's  flight,  Claver- 
house  maintained  a  royal  army  in  Scot- 
land, and  won  the  battle  of  Killiecrankie 
in  July,  1689,  but  died  of  a  wound  the 
night  of  the  victory.  The  incident  re- 
ferred to  in  the  poem  took  place  March  18, 
1688,  when  Claverhouse  rode  out  of 
Edinburgh  at  the  head  of  some  fifty 
dragoons,  having  bolted  the  Convention 
that  was  to  determine  Scotland's  attitude 
towards  James  II. 

13.  The  Bow.    Bow  Street,  Edinburgh. 

14.  Bk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking 
her  pow.  Every  old  woman  was  scolding 
and  wagging  her  head. 

15.  The  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked 
couthie  and  slee.  The  young  men  looked 
kindly  and  sly. 

17.  The  Grassmarket.  An  open  square 
in  the  center  of  the  city,  formerly  used  for 
public  executions.  See  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian, Chapter  ii. 

2i.  Cowls  of  Kilmarnock.  The  Presby- 
terian Whigs,  who  were  all  anti-Stuart. 

22.  Lang  hafted  gullies.  Long  handled 
knives. 

23.  Close-head.  The  entrance  to  a  blind 
alley.     (Engl.  Dialect  Dictionary.) 

25.  Castle     rock.        Edinburgh      Castle 

stands  on  a  high  rock  above  the  city. 

27.  Mons  Meg  and  her  marrows.    "  Mons 

Meg  "  was  a  famous  cannon  of  unusual 

size. 

30.  Montrose.      James    Graham    (161 2- 

1650),    fifth    Earl    and    first    Marquis   of 

Montrose,  was  Charles  I's  most  successful 

lieutenant    during    the    Civil    War.      He 

was  captured  and  executed  by  the   Earl 

of  Argyle  in  1650. 


446.  35.  Duniewassals.  Highland  gentlemen 
of  somewhat  inferior  rank. 

BYRON 

KNOW  YE   THE  LAND 

3.  The  turtle.    The  turtle  dove. 
8.  Gul.    The  rose. 

THE   DESTRUCTION   OF  SENNACHERIB 

447.  See  2  Kings,  xix:  35. 

MY   BOAT   IS    ON  THE    SHORE 

448.  Tom  Moore  and  Byron  were  for  many 
years  intimate  friends. 

SONNET  ON  CHILLON;  THE  PRISONER  OF 
CHILLON 

Francois  de  Bonnivard  (1493-1570),  a 
patriotic  citizen  of  Geneva,  undertook  to 
defend  the  city  against  the  Duke  of  Savoy. 
In  this  he  was  unsuccessful,  and  after 
various  adventures,  was  imprisoned  in 
the  castle  of  Chillon  from  1530  to  1536. 
The  castle  stands  on  the  shore  of  the  Lake 
of  Geneva. 

449.  107.  Lake  Leman.    The  Lake  of  Geneva. 

childe  harold's  pilgrimage:  canto  hi 

452.  182.  Belgium's  capital.  Brussels.  See 
Thackeray's  description  of  Brussels  dur- 
ing Waterloo,  in  Vanity  Fair. 

200.  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain.  The 
Duke  of  Brunswick.  His  father  had  been 
killed  at  Jena,  in  1806. 

453.  226.  "  Cameron's  Gathering."  The  pi- 
broch, or  martial  rallying  song,  played  on 
the  bagpipe.  The  clan  Cameron  had  been 
"  out "  under  Prince  Charles  Stuart  in 
1745,  but  was  enthusiastically  loyal  in 
1815. 

227.  Albyn's.  Scotland's. 
235.  Ardennes.  Byron  notes:  "  The 
wood  of  Soignies  is  supposed  to  be  a 
remnant  of  the  '  forest  of  Ardennes,' 
famous  in  Boiardo's  Orlando,  and  im- 
mortal in  Shakespeare's  ^ls  You  Like 
It." 

455.  848.  Cytherea's  zone.  Venus's  girdle, 
which  inspired  the  beholder  with  love  for 
the  wearer. 

CANTO    IV 

456.  1.  The  Bridge  of  Sighs.  The  famous 
bridge  leading  from  the  Doge's  Palace  to 
the  prison. 

8.  The  winged  Lion.    The  winged  lion  of 

St.    Mark,   the  emblem  of  the   Venetian 

republic. 

10.  Cybele.      Daughter   of   Uranus,    and 

mother    of    Zeus;    sometimes    known    as 

Rhea,  and  represented  as  wearing  a  tiara 

of  towers. 

19.  Tasso.    Torquato  Tasso  (1544-1^051, 

Italian  poet,  author  of  Jerusalem  Delivered^ 


862 


NOTES 


456.  703.  The  Niobe  of  nations.  Niobe,  all  of 
whose  children  were  slain  by  Apollo  and 
Diana  because  of  her  pride,  stands  as  a 
symbol  of  grief  and  suffering. 

457.  732.  When  Brutus,  etc.  The  reference 
is  to  the  murder  of  Julius  Caesar  by 
Brutus  and  the  other  conspirators.  See 
North's  translation  of  Plutarch,  p.  91, 
this  volume. 

734.  Tully.  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero. 
1252.  I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie. 
Byron  seems  to  have  had  in  mind  the 
statue  of  the  "  Dying  Gaul,"  now  known 
to  have  no  connection  with  gladiatorial 
combats. 

459.  1648.  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean.  Byron 
was  a  swimmer  of  extraordinary  ability. 

DON   JUAN:   DEDICATION 

460.  1.  Bob   Southey!     You're  a  Poet.     The 

satiric  dedication  to  Robert  Southey  was 
only  one  shot  in  the  war  between  the  two 
men.  See  the  Introduction  to  Byron's 
Vision  of  Judgment. 

3.  You  turned  out  a  Tory.  Southey,  like 
Coleridge,  was  an  enthusiastic  republican 
in  his  young  manhood;  later  he  became 
strongly  conservative. 
5.  My  Epic  Renegade.  Byron  probably 
has  in  mind  Southey's  early  work,  Wat 
Tyler,  which  was  strongly  republican, 
and  was  published  contrary  to  Southey's 
wishes  after  he  had  given  up  his  re- 
publicanism. 

13.  Coleridge  .  .  .  explaining  meta- 
physics to  the  nation.  During  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  Coleridge  all  but  aban- 
doned poetry  in  favor  of  philosophy. 
The  Biographia  Literaria  was  published 
in  1817. 

25.  Wordsworth,  in  a  rather  long  "  Ex- 
cursion." Wordsworth's  philosophical 
poem,  The  Excursion,  was  published  in 
1814. 

132.  Buff  and  blue.  Here  used,  as  often, 
as  symbolic  of  republicanism. 


690.  Sappho.  The  only  woman  among  the 
world's  great  poets.  She  lived  approxi- 
mately 600  B.  C. 

692.  Delos.  A  Greek  island,  the  birth- 
place of  Phoebus  Apollo. 
695.  The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
Homer  and  Anacreon,  so  called  from  their 
birthplaces,  real  or  supposed,  Scio  and 
Teos,  respectively. 

701.  Marathon.  The  battle  of  Marathon, 
fought  in  490  B.  C.  between  the  Persians 
and  the  Greeks,  resulted  in  an  overwhelm- 
ing victory  for  the  latter.  It  took  place 
on  the  plains  of  Marathon,  overlooking 
the  sea. 

708.  Salamis.  In  480  B.  C.  the  Greek 
fleet  under  Themistocles  defeated  the 
Persian  fleet.  The  battle  was  fought  in 
the  strait  between  the  island  of  Salamis 
and  the  mainland  of  Attica. 


461.  730.  Thermopylae.  The  most  famous 
battle  at  the  pass  of  Thermopylae  was 
the  contest  in  480  B.  C.  between  Leonidas 
and  three  hundred  Spartans,  and  the 
Persian  army  of  Xerxes. 

743.  Pyrrhic  dance.     A  martial  dance. 

744.  Pyrrhic  phalanx.  Pyrrhus  (318?- 
272  B.  C),  King  of  Epirus,  achieved 
several  military  successes  through  his  use 
of  the  closely  massed  phalanx. 

747.  You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave. 
Cadmus,  one  of  the  world's  "  culture 
heroes,"  was  supposed  to  have  given  the 
alphabet  to  men. 

751.  Anacreon's  song  .  .  .  Polycrates. 
Anacreon,  Greek  eulogist  of  love  and 
wine,  lived  at  the  court  of  Polycrates, 
Tyrant  of  Samos. 

755.  Tyrant  of  the  Chersonese.  Mil- 
tiades,  who,  as  leader  of  the  Greeks  at 
Marathon,  was  "  freedom's  best  and 
bravest  friend." 

762.  Suli's  rock  and  Parga's  shore.     The 
first    a    mountain    district,   the   second   a 
seaport,  in  Albania.     Both  were  famous 
for  their  warlike  inhabitants. 
764.  Doric.    Spartan. 
766.  Heracleidan.     Of  Hercules. 
779.  Sunium's  marbled  steep.     A  ruined 
temple    at    Sunium,    or    Cape    Colonna, 
served  as  a  landmark  for  vessels  approach- 
ing the  southern  extremity  of  Attica. 

462.  813.  Troy  owes  to  Homer  what  whist 
owes  to  Hoyle.  Edmund  Hoyle  (1672- 
1769),  whose  Short  Treatise  on  Whist 
was  published  in  1742,  was  long  the  un- 
questioned authority  on  the  game. 

815.  The  great  Marlborough.  .  .  .  Life 
by  Archdeacon  Coxe.  William  Coxe 
(1747-1828),  archdeacon  of  Wiltshire, 
published  his  Memoirs  of  John,  Duke  of 
Marlborough  in  the  years  181 8  and  18 19. 
Marlborough  is,  of  course,  Queen  Anne's 
great  general. 

819.  An  independent  being.     Probably  a 
pun;    during   the   latter   part   of   his   life 
Milton   was   a   member   of   the   religious 
sect  known  as  "  Independents." 
821.  His  life  falling  into  Johnson's  way. 
Dr.  Johnson's  life  of  Milton,  in  his  Lives 
of  the  Poets,  is  unsympathetic. 
826.  Lord    Bacon's    bribes.      These    are 
facts;      the     stories     concerning     Caesar, 
Shakespeare,  etc.,  may  be  apocryphal. 
828.  Burns    (whom   Doctor    Currie    well 
describes).      Dr.    James    Currie    (1756- 
1805)    published    an    edition    of    Burns's 
works,  with  a  memoir,  in  1800. 
833.  Southey  .  .  .  Pantisocracy.    Southey 
and   Coleridge    were   the   two   leaders   in 
an   attempt,   which   came   to   naught,   to 
found    an    ideal    commonwealth    on    the 
banks  of  the  Susquehanna  River. 
835.  Wordsworth  unexcised,  unhired.    In 
the  year  181 2  Wordsworth  was  appointed 
Distributor  of  Stamps  for  the  county  of 
Westmoreland.      The    office    was    worth 
£400  per  year. 


NOTES 


86- 


462.  838.  The  Morning  Post.  Coleridge  first 
became  a  regular  contributor  to  the  Post 
in  December,  1799. 

839.  He  and  Southey  .  .  .  espoused  two 
partners.    Coleridge  and  Southey  married 
Sarah  and  Edith  Fricker,  of  Bristol. 
842.  Botany    Bay.       An     English    penal 
settlement    was    established    in    1787    at 
Botany  Bay,  New  South  Wales. 
847.  The    Excursion.      See    note   on    the 
dedication  to  Don  Juan,  line  25,  above. 
864.  Ariosto.      An    Italian    poet    (1474- 
1533),  author  of  the  Orlando  Furioso. 
871.  The  epopee.    The  epic  poem. 

463.  876.  His  dear  "  Waggoners."  Words- 
worth's poem  The  Waggoner,  written  in 
1805,  was  published  in  1819.  The  poem 
is  minutely  descriptive  of  the  lake  country 
that  Wordsworth  knew  so  well. 

877.    He  wishes  for  "a  boat."     See  the 
Prelude  to  Wordsworth's  Peter  Bell. 
883.  Charles's  Wain.     Charles's  Wagon; 
the   constellation   usually   known   as   the 
Great  Bear. 

945.  O  Hesperus!  thou  bringest  all  good 
things.     The  stanza  is  an  adaptation  of 
one  of  the  Sapphic  fragments. 
961.  When  Nero   perished.     Nero   com- 
mitted suicide  in  68  A.  D.,  to  save  himself 
from    execution    following    the    Senate's 
proclamation  of  Galba  as  emperor. 
975.  We  Cantabs.    Students  or  graduates 
of  Cambridge  University. 
984.  Aristotle.     Aristotle's  Poetics  is  one 
of   the   world's   most   famous   discussions 
of  the  principles  of  poetry. 


This  canto,  of  which  the  greater  part  is 
here  reprinted,  recounts  the  culmination 
of  the  romance  between  Juan,  hero  of  the 
epic,  and  Haidee,  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
pirate  and  slavedealer  on  the  shores  of 
whose  island  the  sea  had  cast  Juan,  sole 
survivor  of  a  shipwreck.  Haidee  finds 
him,  loves  him,  and  nurses  him  back  to 
health.  The  episode  of  Haidee  and  Juan 
occupies  cantos  ii,  in,  and  iv. 

464.  43.  Pulci  was  sire.  Luigi  Pulci  (1432- 
1487),  Italian  poet,  author  of  a  burlesque 
epic  entitled  77  Morgante  Maggiore. 

469.  456.  The  Simoom.  A  hot  wind  from  the 
desert. 

484-6.  Venus  .  .  .  Laocobn  .  .  .  Glad- 
iator. It  is  impossible  to  decide  what 
statue  of  Venus  Byron  had  in  mind.  The 
Laocoon  group  is  a  well-known  piece  of 
Roman  statuary;  the  so-called  "  Dying 
Gladiator,"  equally  famous,  is  not  a  rep- 
resentation of  a  gladiator,  but  of  a  dying 
Gaul. 

SHELLEY 

OZYMANDIAS 

472.  8.  The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the 
heart  that  fed.     The  passions  survive  the 


hand  of  the  sculptor  and  the  heart  of  the 
king. 

ODE   TO   THE  WEST  WIND 

473.  21.  Maenad.    A  priestess  of  Bacchus. 

32.  Baiae's  bay.  Baiae,  near  Naples, 
was  a  famous  watering  place  during  the 
Roman  empire. 

43.  If  I  were,  etc.  The  first  stanza  of  the 
poem  has  to  do  chiefly  with  the  effect  of 
the  West  Wind  on  the  leaves;  the  second, 
with  its  effect  on  the  clouds;  and  the  third, 
with  its  effect  on  the  waves.  In  the  first 
three  lines  of  this  stanza  these  three  ideas 
are  woven  together. 

THE    INDIAN  SERENADE 

474.  11.  Champak.  An  Indian  tree,  somewhat 
like  a  magnolia. 

THE    CLOUD 

475.  81.  Cenotaph.  A  monument  built  in 
honor  of  a  person  who  is  buried  in  some 
other  place. 

PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND:    ACT   IV 

479.  1.  This  is  the  day,  etc.  Demogorgon's 
speech  gives  Shelley's  idea  of  the  recon- 
structed universe  for  which  he  was  always 
longing. 


Shelley's  elegy,  reminiscent  of  Milton's 
Lycidas,  was  written  in  memory  of  John 
Keats,  who  died  at  Rome,  Febru- 
ary 22,  1821. 

12.  Urania.  The  heavenly  Muse,  prop- 
erly the  patroness  of  Astronomy. 

480.  30.  The  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain.  John 
Milton. 

55.  That  high  Capital.  Keats  was  buried 
in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Rome. 

481.  133.  She  pined  away.  Narcissus  dis- 
dained the  love  of  the  nymph  Echo; 
Echo  died  of  grief. 

482.  140.  To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so 
dear.  The  youth  Hyacinth,  greatly  be- 
loved by  Apollo,  was  turned  into  the 
flower  that  bears  his  name. 

141.  Nor  to  himself  Narcissus.  Narcissus 
fell  in  love  with  his  own  reflection  in  a 
pool,  and  was  turned  into  a  flower. 
151,  2.  The  curse  of  Cain  Light  on  his 
head.  On  the  head  of  the  critic  who, 
according  to  the  belief  of  the  times, 
killed  Keats  with  his  brutal  reviews. 

483.  238.  The  unpastured  dragon.  The  world. 
244  ff.  The  herded  wolves,  .  .  .  ravens, 
.  .  .  vultures.  Critics  "  to  the  conquer- 
or's banner  true,"  i.  e.,  subservient  to 
the  political  party  in  power.  Keats's 
friendship  with  Leigh  Hunt,  a  very  ad- 
vanced Liberal,  brought  many  attacks 
upon  him. 

250.  The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow 


S64 


XOTES 


sped.  Byron,  and  his  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers. 

484.  264.  The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity.  Byron. 
Shelley  is  thinking  of  Childe  Harold's 
Pilgrimage. 

268,  9.  Ierne  sent  the  sweetest  lyrist, 
etc.  Ireland  sent  Tom  Moore.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  neither  Byron  nor  Moore 
was  particularly  affected  by  the  death  of 
Keats. 

271.  One  frail  Form.     Shelley  himself. 
276.  Actaeon-like.      Actaeon,    in    punish- 
ment for  having  seen  Diana  in  the  bath, 
was  turned  into  a  stag  and  torn  by  his 
own  dogs. 
307.  What  softer  voice.    Leigh  Hunt. 

485.  325.  Live  thou!  The  author  of  an  excep- 
tionally brutal  attack  on  Keats  in  the 
Quarterly  Review.  Compare  Byron's 
two  stanzas  beginning  "  Who  killed  John 
Keats?  " 

343.  Peace,  peace!  he  is  not  dead.  With 
the  conception  of  immortality  set  forth 
in  the  remaining  stanzas  one  should 
compare  Lycidas,  11.  165-185. 

486.  399.  Chatterton.  Cf.  note  to  Words- 
worth's Resolution  and  Independence, 
1.  43,  p.  407. 

401.  Sidney.  Died  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
two. 

404.  Lucan.  A  Latin  poet,  forced  by 
Nero  to  commit  suicide  at  the  age  of 
twenty-six. 

487.  43Q.  Slope  of  green  access.  The  Protest- 
ant cemetery. 

KEATS 

SLEEP  AND   POETRY 

490.  This  poem  appeared  in  Keats's  181 7 
volume.  It  is  a  somewhat  formless  collec- 
tion of  Keats's  own  ideas  concerning 
poetry  and  its  joys;  the  selection  here 
reprinted  shows  Keats  protesting  against 
the  formalism  of  the  18th  century,  and 
particularly  against  those  critics  who 
traced  their  ancestry  back  to  Boileau. 

ODE   TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

492.  4.  Lethe.  One  of  the  four  rivers  of  Hades; 
whoever  drank  of  its  waters  became  ob- 
livious of  all  the  past. 

7.  Dryad.    A  tree  nymph. 

13.  Flora.     Goddess  of  the  flowers. 

14.  Provencal  song.  The  lyrics  of  Pro- 
vence. 

16.  Hippocrene.      The    fountain    of    the 
Muses  on  Mt.  Helicon. 
32.  Bacchus    and    his    pards.      Leopards 
are  often  represented  as  drawing  the  car 
of  Bacchus. 

ODE   ON   A   GRECIAN   URN 

493.  7.  Tempe,  Arcady.  Here  used  simply  to 
indicate  places  of  beauty  and  carefree 
life.    Tempe  was  a  valley  in  Thessaly. 


LINES   ON   THE   MERMAID   TAVERN 

495.  A  mermaid  was  a  favorite  device  for  the 
sign-board  of  an  old  English  tavern. 
The  "  Mermaid  Tavern  "  to  which  Keats 
refers  was  the  gathering  place  of  the  most 
famous  Elizabethan  wits  and  dramatists. 

ROBIN   HOOD 

33.  Gone    the    merry    morris    din.       A 

"  morris  dance  " — probably  from  "  Moor- 
ish dance  " — was  an  outdoor  revel  in 
which  the  performers  wore  grotesque  cos- 
tumes and  bells. 

34.  The  song  of  Gamelyn.  A  pseudo- 
Chaucerian  tale  of  outlawry  is  called 
"  The  Tale  of  Gamelyn."  Keats  uses 
the  phrase  as  synonymous  with  the  out- 
door life  of  Robin  Hood. 

36.  "  Grene  shawe."     Green  wood. 

THE   EVE   OF   ST.   AGNES 

496.  The  twenty-first  of  January  is  St.  Agnes's 
Day;  the  evening  of  the  twentieth  is  "  the 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes."  The  superstition 
around  which  the  poem  centers  is  made 
sufficiently  clear  in  the  course  of  the  story. 

498.  115.  The  holy  loom,  etc.  On  St.  Agnes's 
day,  during  the  celebration  of  the  mass, 
two  lambs  might  be  offered  to  the  church 
(cf.  1.  71).  The  nuns  afterwards  spun  and 
wove  the  wool. 

499.  171.  Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon,  etc. 
Merlin,  the  famous  wizard  and  prophet 
of  Arthurian  romance,  was  the  son  of  a 
demon,  and  became  himself  the  victim 
of  magic.  See  Tennyson's  Merlin  and 
Vivien. 

174.  Tambour  frame.  An  embroidery 
frame  shaped  like  a  tambour,  or  drum. 
503.  241.  Clasped  like  a  missal,  etc.  Clasped 
probably  modifies  soul;  in  the  two  follow- 
ing lines  her  soul  is  likened  to  a  rose  that 
is  shut.  The  line  means,  then,  that  her 
soul  was  clasped  as  tightly  in  sleep  as  a 
prayer-book  would  be  by  a  Christian  in 
a  land  of  Pagans. 


502.  Keats  planned  to  write  an  epic  dealing 
with  the  overthrow  of  Saturn  by  Jupiter. 
When  the  poem  was  published  in  1820, 
however,  only  two  books  and  a  fragment 
of  a  third  had  been  written. 

503.  23.  There  came  one.  Thea,  sister  of 
Hyperion. 

30.  Ixion's  wheel.     Ixion  was  chained  for 
all  eternity  to  a  revolving  wheel. 

504.  147.  The  rebel  three.  Jupiter,  Neptune, 
and  Pluto. 

166.  Hyperion.     When  the  action  of  the 
poem  commences,  the  victory  of  Jupiter 
is  incomplete.    Hyperion  is  still  god  of  the 
sun. 
506.   246.  Tellus.     Goddess  of  the  earth. 
307.  Cselus.     God  of  the  heavens. 


NOTES 


865 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN  S   HOMER 

607.  George  Chapman  (i55o?-i634)  published 
his  translation  of  Homer  in  1598  and 
1609.     Keats  first  read  it  in  1816. 

11.  Stout  Cortez.  Historical  accuracy 
would  compel  the  substitution  of  Balboa 
for  Cortez. 

BRIGHT   STAR 

608.  Usually  known  as  Keats's  "  last  sonnet," 
written  while  he  was  en  route  to  Italy. 

CAMPBELL 

YE   MARINERS  OF   ENGLAND 

15.  Blake.  Oliver  Cromwell's  most  suc- 
cessful admiral.  He  died  at  sea  in  1657. 
Nelson.    The  victor  of  Trafalgar. 


MOORE 

THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA's  HALLS 

509.  Tara  was  formerly  an  Irish  capital  city. 

OH,    BREATHE    NOT    HIS    NAME 

The  famous  Irish  rebel  was  executed  in 
1803  because  of  treasonable  correspond- 
ence with  Napoleon,  and  armed  rebellion 
against  the  crown. 

WOLFE 

THE    BURIAL   OF   SIR   JOHN   MOORE 

Sir  John  Moore,  an  English  general  in 
charge  of  an  army  in  the  Peninsular  War, 
was  shot  at  Corunna,  Spain,  in  January, 
1809.  At  his  own  request  he  was  buried 
within  the  ramparts  of  the  town. 

LAMB 

Christ's  hospital 

512.  The  essay  purports  to  be  written  by  a 
student  of  Christ's  Hospital  who  feels 
that  Lamb's  earlier  essay,  Recollections, 
etc.,  is  too  flattering  an  account  of  life 
at  the  institution. 

37.  Banyan  .  .  .  days.     Days  on  which 
no  meat  was  served. 
39.  Double-refined.    Sugar. 
44.  Caro  equina.    Horseflesh. 

613.   S4-  Griskin.    Lean  loin  of  pork. 
The  Tishbite.    Elijah. 
I  was  a  poor  friendless  boy.    True  of 
Coleridge,  for  whom  Lamb  is  speaking  in 
the  two  paragraphs  beginning  here. 
94.  Sweet    Calne    in    Wiltshire.      Cole- 
ridge's  house   was   really   at    Ottery    St. 
Mary,  Devonshire. 

514.  187.  Upon  the  leads.  On  the  lead-covered 
roof. 

191.  Caligula's  minion.  A  horse  which 
Caligula  named  first  consul. 


54- 
62. 

73- 


514.  240.  He  ate  strange  flesh.  See  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  I.  iv.  67. 

515.  316.  A  hypochondriac  lad.  True  of  Lamb 
himself. 

353.  Auto    da   fe.      The    name   given    to 

executions,  usually  by  burning,  under  the 

Spanish    Inquisition;    literally,    "  act    of 

faith." 

355.  "  Watchet  weeds."     Blue  uniform. 

616.  378.  Ultima  Supplicia.  Last  punish- 
ments. 

395.  San  Benito.    A  special  robe  worn  by 

the  condemned  at  the  auto  da  fe. 

419.  An  accidence.     A  primer  containing 

the  rudiments  of  grammar. 

446.  Insolent    Greece,    etc.      From    Ben 

Jonson's  lines  to  Shakespeare. 

461.  Rousseau.       Both     Rousseau     and 

Locke  believed  in  letting  a  child  follow 

his  own  natural  impulses. 

617.  487.  Helot  .  .  .  Spartans.  Spartan  par- 
ents were  accustomed  to  teach  their 
children  sobriety  by  calling  their  atten- 
tion to  drunken  Helots,  who  were  slaves. 

496.  The  Samite.  The  Greek  philosopher 
Pythagoras,  whose  pupils  were  obliged 
to  listen  in  silence  to  his  lectures  for  five 
years  before  they  could  ask  questions. 

497.  Goshen.  That  rich  and  fertile  part 
of  Egypt  inhabited  by  the  Israelites  be- 
fore the  captivity. 

503.  Gideon's  miracle.     The  method  by 

which    Gideon   tested    God's    promise    to 

deliver  the   Midianites  into   his  hand:   a 

fleece  left  on  the  ground  over  night  was 

drenched   by   the  dew,   while  the  ground 

about  it  was  dry.     See  Judges,  vi. 

518.  Ululantes.     The    howlers;    e.    g.,  in 

Tartarus,  hell. 

523.  Scrannel  pipes.     Quoted  from  Lyc- 

idas,  1.  124. 

525.  Flaccus's  quibble.  A  pun  in  one  of 
Horace's  satires  (I.  vii)  on  rex  as  king,  and 
as  a  surname. 

526.  Tristis  severitas  in  vultu.  Gloomy 
sternness  in  his  face;  applied  to  a  rascal 
in  Terence's  Andria. 

527.  Inspicere  in  patinas.  Look  into 
your  saucepans;  the  advice  of  a  slave  to 
scullions,  parodying  some  serious  counsel 
given  by  a  father  to  his  son,  in  Terence's 
Adelphi. 

535.  Caxon.     Slang  term  for  wig. 
559.  Rabidus  furor.     Rabid  rage. 
518.  585.  Literary  life.    Coleridge's  Biographia 
Lileraria. 

588.  The  Country  Spectator.  A  magazine 
edited  by  T.  F.  Middleton  in  1792-3; 
see  below,  1.  629. 

600.  Grecian.  The  two  best  scholars 
among  the  senior  boys  of  Christ's  Hospi- 
tal were  called  Grecians,  and  received 
scholarships  at  Cambridge  University. 
617.  Fasces.  Bundles  of  rods,  with  axes 
in  their  centers,  symbolic  of  the  authority 
of  Roman  magistrates;  here,  the  birch 
rod. 


866 


XOTES 


618.  636.  Regni  novitas.     The  newness  of  the 
kingdom. 

639.  Jewel  or  Hooker.  English  bishops 
and  writers  of  the  sixteenth  century; 
Hooker  was  author  of  the  Laws  of  Eccle- 
siastical Polity. 

664.  Mirandula.  Pico  della  Mirandola, 
Italian  philosopher  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, one  of  the  leading  scholars  of  the 
Renaissance. 

666.  Jamblichus,  Plotinus.  Neo-Pla- 
tonic  philosophers  of  the  fourth  and  third 
centuries  A.  D. 

674.  Fuller.  Thomas  Fuller,  author  of 
The  Worthies  of  England,  1662.  Lamb 
adapts  Fuller's  description  of  the  trials 
of  wit  between  Shakespeare  and  Ben 
Jonson,  substituting  Coleridge  for  Jonson, 
and  C.  V.  LeG.  for  Shakespeare. 

519.  695.  Nireus  formosus.  Handsome  Nireus; 
Homer  called  Nireus  the  handsomest  of 
all  the  Greek  host  before  Troy. 
709.  Sizars.  University  students  who 
received  free  board;  formerly  they  per- 
formed certain  menial  duties  in  return 
for  the  financial  assistance. 

DREAM   CHILDREN 

621.  221.  John  L.     Lamb's  brother  John,  who 
died  shortly  before  this  essay  was  written. 

THE   PRAISE   OF  CHIMNEY  SWEEPERS 

5.  Nigritude.       Blackness. 

9.  Professional     notes.       Their     call     of 

"  Sweep!    Sweep!  " 

19.  Sport  their   cloth.      Wear   a   garb   of 

black,  like  a  clergyman. 

28.  Fauces  Averni.    The  jaws  of  hell. 

622.  53.  Kibed.     Chilblained.      . 
156.  Tester.    Sixpence. 

59.  'Yclept.    Called. 

71.  The  only  Salopian  house.  The  only 
shop  devoted  to  the  sale  of  saloop,  or 
sassafras  tea. 
88.  Fuliginous.  Sooty. 
137.  Covent  Garden.  The  fruit  and 
vegetable  market  of  London. 
523.  165.  Westward.  I.  e.,  homeward  from 
work,  for  Lamb  lived  in  the  Temple, 
west  from  Cheapside. 
181.  Hogarth.  William  Hogarth  (1697- 
1764),  the  famous  eighteenth  century 
painter  of  London  life.  The  March  to 
Pinchley,  one  of  his  most  animated  pieces 
of  work,  depicts  a  company  of  soldiers 
marching  through  a  crowd  in  the  utmost 
confusion;  one  of  the  figures  in  the  fore- 
ground is  that  of  a  sweep,  with  just 
such  a  grin  as  Lamb  describes,  except 
that  he  is  grinning  not  at  the  pie-man, 
but  at  a  soldier  who  is  stealing  milk  from 
a  milkmaid. 

208.  A  sable  cloud,  etc.  Adapted  from 
Comus,  1.  221  /. 

229.  The  young  Montagu.  Edward  Wort- 
ley    Montagu    (17 13-1776),    son    of    the 


famous  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu, 
who  twice  ran  away  from  school,  once 
turning  chimney  sweep. 

623.  232.  Defiliations.  Instances  of  parents 
being  deprived  of  their  children. 

242.  Ascanius.  Son  of  yEneas;  in  the 
first  book  of  the  JEneid  (1.  695  jf.)  we  are 
told  how  on  one  occasion  Venus  lulled 
him  to  sleep. 

624.  283.  Incunabula.    Cradle. 

290.  Jem  White.  A  schoolfellow  of 
Lamb's  at  Christ's  Hospital. 
299.  The  fair  of  St.  Bartholomew.  Held 
in  Smithfield,  one  of  the  poorer  districts 
of  London,  originally  on  St.  Bartholo- 
mew's Day,  August  24;  later,  when  the 
calendar  was  revised,  on  September  3.  It 
became  the  occasion  of  great  disorder  and 
scandal,  and  was  abolished  in  1855.  Ben 
Jonson  wrote  a  comedy  of  this  title,  deal- 
ing with  the  humors  of  the  Fair,  and 
severely  satirizing  the  Puritans. 
312.  Quoited.  Thrown,  as  a  quoit  would 
be. 

335.  Rochester.  The  Earl  of  Rochester 
(1647-1680),  one  of  the  courtiers  of 
Charles  II,  noted  for  his  riotous  excesses. 
341.  Old  dame  Ursula.  Lamb  so  names 
the  woman  after  one  of  the  characters  in 
Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair,  mentioned 
above,  a  fat  pig-woman, — i.  e.,  woman 
who  sold  roast  pig, — indescribably  coarse 
of  behavior. 

345.  Whereat  the  universal  host  .  .  . 
brightness.  A  paraphrase  of  Paradise 
Lost,  I.  541-543;  see  p.  161. 
360.  Kissing-crust.  The  soft  part  of  the 
crust  of  a  loaf  where  it  has  touched  an- 
other in  baking. 

526.  388.  Golden  lads,  etc.  From  Cymbeline, 
IV.  ii. 

DISSERTATION   UPON   ROAST  PIG 

The  Chinese  manuscript,  and  the  volume 
ascribed  to  Confucius,  are  inventions  of 
Lamb,  who,  however,  obtained  the  sug- 
gestion for  the  essay  from  his  friend 
Thomas  Manning,  who  had  travelled  in 
China. 

527.  188.  Locke.  John  Locke  (1632-1704),  au- 
thor of  the  Essay  concerning  Human  Un- 
derstanding. 

209.  Mundus  edibilis.  World  of  edibles. 
211.  Princeps  obsoniorum.  Chief  of 
tidbits. 

217.  Amor  immunditiae.    Love  of  filth. 
253.  Radiant  jellies  .  .  .  shooting  stars. 
There  was  a  popular  superstition  that  if  a 
shooting  star  could  be  found  fallen  on  the 
ground  it  would  turn  out  to  be  nothing  but 
a  mass  of  jelly. 
262.  Conversation.    Behavior. 
264.  Ere  sin,  etc.     One  of  Lamb's  most 
exquisite   touches  of  humor;   the   quota- 
tion is  from   Coleridge's    Epitaph  on  an 
Infant. 
273.  Sapors.    Flavors. 


XOTES 


867 


528.  312.  Villatic.  Of  the  village;  the  quota- 
tion is  from  Samson  Agonistes. 
378.  Intenerating  and  dulcifying.  Making 
tender  and  sweet.  The  use  of  such  long, 
highsounding  words  of  Latin  derivation, 
with  reference  to  a  subject  so  common- 
place, has  much  to  do  with  the  flavor  of  the 
essay. 

387.  St.  Omer's.  A  French  Jesuit  col- 
lege, where,  of  course,  Lamb  never  at- 
tended school. 

629.  404.  Shalot.    A  kind  of  onion. 

THE   SUPERANNUATED   MAN 

One  of  the  most  autobiographically  exact 
of  Lamb's  essays.  Lamb  was  a  clerk  in 
the  service  of  the  East  India  Company 
for  thirty-three  years,  resigning  his  post 
in  March,  1825,  on  a  pension  of  two- 
thirds  his  regular  salary. 
Sera  tamen,  etc.  Quoted  from  Virgil's  first 
eclogue:  Liberty,  though  late,  yet  looked 
upon,  or  visited,  me. 

630.  162.  Boldero  .  .  .  Lacy.  Fictitious 
names   under   which   Lamb   conceals    the 
directors  of  the  East  India  Company. 
164.  Esto  perpetua.     Be  thou  eternal. 

531.  241.  A  Tragedy  by  Sir  Robert  Howard. 
The  Vestal  Virgin,  or  the  Roman  Ladies; 
Howard  was  brother-in-law  of  Dryden, 
and  did  some  dramatic  work  in  collabora- 
tion with  him. 

286.  Gresham.  Sir  Thomas  Gresham 
(d.  1579),  a  wealthy  London  merchant 
who  founded  the  Royal  Exchange  and 
became  Lord  Mayor.  Whittington.  Sir 
Richard,  better  known  as  Dick,  Whitting- 
ton, whose  rise  from  poverty  to  the  Lord 
Mayorship  is  familiar  from  nursery 
rhymes. 

298.  Aquinas.  St.  Thomas  Aquinas, 
Italian  philosopher  of  the  thirteenth 
century;  his  writings  filled  seventeen 
volumes. 

632.  310.  Carthusian.  The  Carthusian  order 
of  monks  was  founded  by  St.  Bruno 
c.  1084,  at  La  Grande  Chartreuse  (Latin 
Carthusia);  the  Carthusian  rule  was  strict. 
^^^-  Elgin  marbles.  Parts  of  the  pedi- 
ments and  frieze  of  the  Parthenon, 
brought  to  England  by  Lord  Elgin  and 
placed  in  the  British  Museum. 
361.  Cantle.     Slice. 

392.  Cum  dignitate.  From  Cicero's 
phrase,  otium  cum  dignitate — ease  with 
dignity. 

397.  Opus  operatum  est.  The  work  has 
been  done. 

On  the  sixth  of  April,  1825,  Lamb  wrote 
to  his  friend  Wordsworth,  "  Here  I  am 
then,  after  thirty-three  years'  slavery, 
sitting  in  my  own  room  at  eleven  o'clock 
this  finest  of  all  April  mornings,  a  freed 
man,  with  441  £  a  year  for  the  remainder 
of  my  life.  .  .  . 

"  I  came  home  forever  on  Tuesday  in 
last  week.     The  incomprehensibleness  of 


my  condition  overwhelmed  me.  It  was 
like  passing  from  life  into  eternity.  Every 
year  to  be  as  long  as  three,  i.  e.,  to  have 
three  times  as  much  real  time — time  that 
is  my  own,  in  it!  I  wandered  about 
thinking  I  was  happy,  but  feeling  I  was 
not.  But  that  tumultuousness  is  passing 
off,  and  I  begin  to  understand  the  nature 
of  the  gift.  Holidays,  even  the  annual 
month,  were  always  uneasy  joys;  their 
conscious  fugitiveness;  the  craving  after 
making  the  most  of  them.  Now,  when 
all  is  holiday,  there  are  no  holidays.  I 
can  sit  at  home,  in  rain  or  shine,  without 
a  restless  impulse  for  walkings.  I  am 
daily  steadying,  and  shall  soon  find  it 
as  natural  to  me  to  be  my  own  master, 
as  it  has  been  irksome  to  have  had  a 
master.  .   .  . 

"  I  eat,  drink,  and  sleep  sound  as  ever. 
I  lay  no  anxious  schemes  for  going  hither 
and  thither,  but  take  things  as  they  occur. 
Yesterday  I  excursioned  twenty  miles; 
to-day  I  write  a  few  letters.  Pleasuring 
was  for  fugitive  playdays;  mine  are 
fugitive  only  in  the  sense  that  life  is  fugi- 
tive.   Freedom  and  life  coexistent!  " 


HAZLITT 

THE    FIGHT 

533.   24.  The    Fancy.      Sportsmen,    especially 

prize-fighters. 

78.  Alter  idem.    A  second  self. 

89.  Lines   from   Spenser.      From    Muio- 

potmos,  1.  209  Jf. 
634.   104.  One  of  the  mails.     One  of  the  mail 

coaches. 

180.  The  Brentford  Jehu.    See  2  Kings, 

ix:   20:  "  The  driving  is  like  the  driving 

of  Jehu  the  son  of  Nimshi;  for  he  driveth 

furiously." 

535.  268.  Follows  so  the  ever-running  sun. 

"  Follows  so  the  ever-running  year, 
With  profitable  labor."     Henry  V,  IV.  i. 

293- 

536.  348.  The  vein  of  Gilpin.     See  Cowper's 
John  Gilpin's  Ride. 

359.  Frank  us.     Send  us  down  on  a  pass. 

388.  A    lusty    man.      Canterbury    Tales, 

Prologue,  1.  167;  p.  3. 

405.  Standing  like  gray-hounds. 

"  I  see  you  stand  like  gray-hounds  in  the 

slips, 
Straining    upon    the    start."      Henry    V, 

III.  i.  31. 
411.  Oaken  towel.  Staff  or  club. 
415.  A  firebrand  like  Bardolph's.  Bar- 
dolph  is  one  of  the  characters  in  Henry  IV 
whom  Falstaff  is  forever  twitting  about 
his  red  nose;  e.  g.:  "  O  thou  art  a  per- 
petual triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire- 
light.  Thou  hast  saved  me  a  thousand 
marks  in  links  and  torches,  walking  in 
the  night  betwixt  tavern  and  tavern." 
(III.  iii.) 


868 


NOTES 


637.  437.  Hogarth.     See  note  on  The  Praise  of 

Chimney  Sweepers,  p.  523,  1.  181. 

443.  Cobbett.      William    Cobbett    (1766- 

1835),  an  English  radical  journalist,  editor 

of    CobbeWs     Weekly    Political     Register, 

whose  attacks  on  the  government  resulted 

from  time  to  time  in  his  being  imprisoned 

and  fined. 

520.  Alas!    the    Bristol    man,    etc.      See 

Cowper's  The  Task,  II.  322: 

"Alas,  Leviathan  is  not  so  tamed." 
538.  551.  The   Game   Chicken.     The   nom  dc 

guerre,    of    Henry    Pearce,    a    well-known 

.English  pugilist. 

585.  Stone.     An  English  weight,  legally 

fourteen  pounds. 
640.  826.  Sir  Fopling  Flutter.     A  fashionable 

fop  in   Etherege's  comedy,    The  Man  of 

Mode,  or  Sir  Fopling  Flutter. 
541.  889.  Procul    este    profani.      JEneid,    VI. 

258.    Stay  far  off,  unholy  ones. 

906.  New  Eloise.     La    Nouvelle    Helo'ise, 

by    Rousseau;     a    sentimental    romance 

published  in  1760. 

ON   GOING   A  JOURNEY 

642.  30.  May  plume  her  feathers,  etc.  Comus, 
378/. 

36.  A  Tilbury.    A  two  wheeled  gig  without 
a  cover. 

643.  97.  Sterne.  The  Rev.  Laurence  Sterne 
(1 713-1768),  author  of  A  Sentimental 
Journey  and  Tristram  Shandy. 

544.  170.  Ail-Foxden.  Near  Nether-Stowey, 
Somersetshire,  where  Hazlitt  visited  his 
"  old  friend  C "  (Samuel  Taylor  Cole- 
ridge)   in    1798.      "  L ,"    1.     204,    is 

Charles  Lamb,  a  friend  of  both  Hazlitt 
and  Coleridge. 

176.  Here  be  woods  as  green,  etc. 
Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess,  I.  iii. 
238.  Sancho.  Sancho  Panza,  Don 
Quixote's  esquire  and  servant  in  Cer- 
vantes' burlesque  romance  Don  Quixote. 
244.  Procul  este  profani.  See  The  Fight, 
note  on  1.  889. 

645.  312.  GribelinJs  engravings.  Simon  Gri- 
belin  (1661-1733),  an  engraver  of  some 
ability,  published  in  1707  seven  plates 
of  the  cartoons  of  Raphael. 
325.  Paul  and  Virginia,  .  .  .  Camilla. 
The  former  a  pastoral  novel  by  Bernadin 
de  St.  Pierre,  published  1788;  the  latter, 
a  novel  by  Madame  D'Arblay  (Fanny 
Burney),  published  1796,  much  inferior 
to  her  masterpiece  Evelina. 
331.  New  Eloise.  See  The  Fight,  note 
on  1.  906. 

546.  381.  Where  is  he  now?  In  1822,  when 
this  essay  was  first  published,  Coleridge's 
creative  power  was  in  eclipse,  and  his 
whole  constitution  broken  by  ill  health 
and  the  use  of  laudanum. 

547.  472.  Stonehenge.  A  prehistoric  monu- 
ment in  the  shape  of  a  roughly  circular 
group  of  huge  monoliths,  on  Salisbury 
Plain,  Wiltshire. 


547.  400.  The  Bodleian.  The  University 
library  at  Oxford. 

ON  FAMILIAR  STYLE 

549.  112.  Cum  grano  salis.  With  a  grain  of 
salt. 

176.  Mr.  Cobbett.  See  note  on  The 
Fight,  1.  443. 

550.  247.  A  well  of  native  English  undefiled. 
Adapted  from  Spenser's  "  Dan  Chaucer, 
well  of  English  undefyled,"  Faerie  Queene, 

IV.  ii.  32. 

251.  Erasmus's  Colloquies.  The  Col- 
loquia  of  Erasmus  (1466-1536),  appeared 
in  1519. 

261.  What  do  you  read?  etc.  See  Ham- 
let, II.  ii. 

272.  Florilegium.  Anthology;  here  rather 
a  collection  of  big  words.  Tulippomania. 
Craze  for  tulips. 

289.  Sermo  humi  obrepens.  Talk  that 
creeps  on  the  ground. 

651.  314.  Fantoccini  beings.     Puppets. 

315.  That  strut  and  fret,  etc.     Macbeth, 

V.  v. 

320.  And  on  their  pens,  etc.  Adapted 
from  Paradise  Lost,  IV.  988-9: 

"And  on  his  crest 
Sat  Horror  plumed." 

395.  Cowper's    description.       The    Task, 

V.  173/- 


DE  QUINCEY 

CONFESSIONS    OF    AN    OPIUM-EATER 

The  text  here  used  is  the  briefer  and 
better  known  version  which  appeared  in 
the  London  Magazine  in  1821,  and  was 
reprinted  in  the  first  edition  of  1822;  an 
expanded  version  was  published  in  Selec- 
tions Grave  and  Gay,  1856. 

552.  108.  Archididascalus.    Head  master. 

553.  180.  I  came  to  leave .  The  Man- 
chester Grammar  School. 

216.  Towers      of .        Manchester 

Cathedral. 

654.  293.  Lustrum.     Period  of  five  years. 
315.  wxO^f^pov.       A     day      of     twenty- 
four  hours. 

320.  That  moveth  altogether,  etc.  From 
Wordsworth's  Resolution  and  Independ- 
ence, 1.  77. 

655.  414.  Anastasius.  A  novel,  published 
1819,  the  hero  of  which  was  an  opium- 
eating  Greek. 

416.  Mithridates.  The  title  of  a  dic- 
tionary of  all  languages,  published  by 
Johann  Christoph  Adelung  in  1806. 
Mithridates  was  renowned  as  a  linguist; 
hence  the  title. 

557.  582.  The  Scriptures  speak  of.  Revela- 
tion, xx :  12. 

558.  646.  A  certain  day  in  August.  The  Civil 
War  may  be  said  to  have  begun  when 
Charles  I  raised  the  royal  standard  at 
Nottingham,  August  22,  1642. 


NOTES 


553.  649.  Marston  Moor,  —  Newbury, — 
Naseby.     Battlefields  of  the  war. 

661.  Paludaments.    Robes. 

662.  Paulus  or  Marius.  Both  Roman 
Consuls. 

664.  Tunic  ...  on  a  spear.  Carried 
thus  as  a  signal  for  battle. 

665.  Alalagmos.  "  A  word  expressing 
collectively  the  gathering  of  the  Roman 
war-cries — Alala,  Alala."  (De  Quincey.) 
729.  Officina  gentium.  Workshop,  or 
laboratory  of  the  peoples. 

559.  764-7.  Brahma  .  .  .  Osiris,  etc.  The 
first  three  Hindu  deities,  the  last  two 
Egyptian. 

SUSPIRIA  DE   PROFUNDIS 

561.  DeQuincey  planned  a  series  of  approxi- 
mately twenty  papers,  "  Sighs  from  the 
Depths,"  of  which  that  here  reprinted  is 
one  of  the  earliest.  The  series  was  never 
completed,  only  six  being  published. 
DeQuincey  had  himself  experienced  the 
sorrows  he  writes  of, — the  death  of  father 
and  sisters,  social  ostracism,  and  a  subjec- 
tion to  opium  which  might  easily  have 
driven  him  mad. 

562.  79.  On  the  foundation.  Holding  a 
scholarship. 

98.  The  Parcae.    The  Fates. 

563.  159.  Telegraphed.  DeQuincey  means 
simply  "  signalled,"  or  "  communicated 
by  signs." 

195.  Keys  more  than  papal.  The  "  papal 
keys  "  are  the  keys  of  St.  Peter,  symbolic 
of  the  Pope's  power. 

564.  257.  Pariah.     An  outcast. 

294.  The  tents  of  Shem.     Shem,  son  of 

Noah,  was  supposed  to  be  the  ancestor  of 

the  Jews  and  wandering  races. 

307.  Cybele.     See  note  on  Childe  Harold, 

iv.,  1.  10. 

339.  Eumenides.     The  "  benevolent  "  or 

"  gracious  ones,"  a  euphemistic  name  for 

the  Furies. 

565.  380.  Accomplished.     Made  perfect. 

LANDOR 

THE   DEATH   OF   ARTEMIDORA 

566.  11.  Iris.  Messenger  of  the  gods,  who 
liberated  the  souls  of  the  dying  by  loosen- 
ing their  hair. 

IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMNON 

567.  Because  Agamemnon  had  slain  a  stag 
sacred  to  Diana,  the  goddess  held  the 
Grecian  fleet,  gathered  for  the  Trojan 
war,  in  port  at  Aulis.  Calchas,  the  sooth- 
sayer, reported  that  according  to  the 
oracle  the  goddess's  wrath  would  endure 
until  Iphigeneia,  daughter  of  Agamemnon, 
should  be  sacrificed  to  her.  According 
to  one  form  of  the  story,  Diana  did  not 
allow  the  sacrifice  to  be  consummated, 
but  carried   Iphigeneia  to  Tauris,  where 


she  became  priestess.  Compare  with  Lan- 
dor's  treatment,  stanzas  26-29  of  Tenny- 
son's Dream  of  Fair  Women. 

TENNYSON 

CENONE 

570.  (Enone  was  a  nymph  of  Mt.  Ida  near 
Troy,  beloved  by  Paris,  but  deserted  by 

him  after  Venus,  as  a  reward  for  his  deci- 
sion that  she  was  most  beautiful  of  the 
goddesses,  had  promised  him  the  fairest 
woman  in  the  world,  Helen,  for  his  wife. 

571.  39,  40.  As  yonder  walls,  etc.  According 
to  one  form  of  the  story  Apollo  raised  the 
walls  of  Troy  by  playing  on  his  lyre. 

79.  Peleus.     It  was  at  the  marriage  feast 
of    Peleus    and    Thetis    that    the    golden 
apple  was  thrown  which  caused  the  strife 
among  the  goddesses. 
81.  Iris.     Messenger  of  the  gods. 

572.  102.  Peacock.    Juno's  bird. 

170,  171.  Idalian,  Paphian.  At  Idalia 
and  Paphos,  in  Crete,  were  special 
shrines  to  Venus. 

573.  220.  The  Abominable.  Eris,  goddess  of 
strife. 

574.  257.  The    Greek    woman.       Helen. 
259.  Cassandra.       Daughter    of     Priam, 
gifted    with   a    power    of   prophecy,    but 
doomed  never  to  be  believed.     She  fore- 
told the  fall  of  Troy. 

THE   LOTOS-EATERS 

Based  on  Homer's  account  of  how  Ulysses 
and  his  mariners  touched  at  the  land  of 
the  lotos,  the  eating  of  whose  flower  pro- 
duced forgetfulness  of  home. 

A   DREAM    OF  FAIR    WOMEN 

575.  5.  Dan.  Don,  Master,  from  Latin 
dominus. 

27.  Tortoise.  Latin  tcstudo;  the  name 
applied  to  the  mode  of  defence  used  by 
the  Roman  legionaries  in  attacking  a 
walled  city,  the  holding  and  interlocking 
of  their  shields  over  their  heads  to  form  a 
solid  protection  against  missiles  hurled 
from  the  walls. 

576.  85.  A  lady.     Helen  of  Troy. 

100.  One  that  stood  beside.     Iphigeneia, 
daughter    of    Agamemnon,    sacrificed    to 
Artemis  before  the  Greek  fleet  sailed  for 
Troy.    Cf.  Landor's  poem,  p.  567. 
127.  A  queen.     Cleopatra. 

577.  146.  Canopus.  One  of  the  brightest  stars 
of  the  southern  sky. 

155.  The  other.     Octavius  Caesar. 

578.  195.  Her  that  died.     Jephtha's  daughter; 

cf.  JlldgCS,  XX. 

251.  Rosamond.        Rosamond      Clifford, 
called     Fair     Rosamond,     paramour     of 
Henry  II. 
255.  Eleanor.    Wife  of  Henry  II. 

579.  259.  To  Fulvia's  waist.  "  Cleopatra  puts 
the   name  of   the   wife   of  her   paramour 


S70 


NOTES 


Antony  for  that  of  Eleanor,  wife  of  Rosa- 
mond's paramour."     (Rolfe.) 

579.  263.  Captain  of  my  dreams.  Venus,  the 
morning  star. 

266.  Her  who  clasped.  Margaret  Roper, 
daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  More;  after  he 
was  beheaded  she  took  his  head  down  from 
London  Bridge  where  it  was  exposed,  and 
when  she  died  had  it  buried  in  her  arms. 
269.  Her  who  knew.  Eleanor,  wife  of 
Edward  I,  who  accompanied  her  husband 
on  the  First  Crusade,  and  when  he  was 
stabbed  with  a  poisoned  dagger,  sucked 
out  the  poison  with  her  lips. 

MORTE  D'ARTHUR 

Written  in  1835,  first  published  in  1842; 
afterwards  incorporated,  with  additions, 
in  The  Passing  of  Arthur  in  Idylls  of  the 
King.  Cf.  Malory's  account,  pp.  47  jf. 
4.  Lyonnesse.  A  legendary  country,  in- 
cluding part  of  Cornwall,  now  supposed 
to  be  submerged  beneath  the  sea. 

580.  21.  Camelot.    Arthur's  capital. 

23.  Merlin.  Arthur's  magician  and  chief 
adviser. 

31.  Samite.  A  heavy  silk,  sometimes  inter- 
woven with  gold  thread. 

581.  139.  Northern  morn.     Aurora  Borealis. 
140.  Moving  isles.     Icebergs. 

147.  Cf.  the  metrical  effect  of  this  line 
with  that  of  1.  65  and  1.  112. 

582.  186-192.  The  contrast  between  the  first 
five  lines  of  this  passage  and  the  last  two 
is  one  of  the  best  examples  in  English 
verse  of  the  fitting  of  sound  to  sense;  for 
a  similar  effect  cf.  11.  49-51. 

583.  242.  One  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 
world.  "  E.  g.,  chivalry,  by  formation  of 
habit  or  by  any  other  means."  (Tenny- 
son's note.) 

259.  Avilion.    See  Malory,  p.  48. 


"  The  poem  was  written  soon  after  Arthur 
Hallam's  death,  and  it  gives  the  feeling 
about  the  need  of  going  forward  and 
braving  the  struggle  of  life  perhaps  more 
simply  than  anything  in  In  Memoriam." 
(Tennyson's  note.) 

10.  Rainy    Hyades.      The    constellation 
Hyades   was   associated   by   the   ancients 
with   stormy  weather. 
584.   26.  Every  hour   is   saved.      Every   hour 
that  is  saved  is  something  more. 

IN  MEMORIAM 

590.  Composed  in  memory  of  Arthur  Henry 
Hallam,  whose  acquaintance  Tennyson 
made  at  Cambridge,  and  who  was  later 
engaged  to  Tennyson's  sister.  He  died 
at  Vienna  in  1833,  and  the  lyrics  com- 
posing the  poem  were  written  at  various 
times  between  then  and  1850,  the  date 
of  their  final  arrangement  and  publication. 
5.  Orbs  of  light  and   shade.     Sun   and 


moon,  not  eyes,  as  has  sometimes  been 
suggested. 
591.  1.  Wild  bird.  The  nightingale,  whose  song 
has  always  been  celebrated  for  passionate 
mingling  of  joy  and  pain. 
2.  Quicks.  Quickset;  slips,  especially  of 
hawthorn,  set  to  form  a  hedge. 

THE  CHARGE   OF   THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE 

594.  Written  to  commemorate  a  fatal  charge 
at  Balaclava  in  the  Crimean  War,  1854; 
the  poem  was  based  on  a  phrase  in  the 
London  Times' s  account  of  the  battle: 
"  Some  one  had  blundered." 

NORTHERN   FARMER 

Written  in  the  Lincolnshire  dialect.  "  It 
is  a  vivid  piece  out  of  the  great  comedy 
of  man,  not  of  its  mere  mirth,  but  of  that 
elemental  humorousness  of  things  which 
belongs  to  the  lives  of  the  brutes  as  well 
as  to  ourselves,  that  steady  quaintness 
of  the  ancient  earth  and  all  who  are  born 
of  her  .  .  .  continually  met  in  the 
peasant  and  farmer  class."  (Stopford 
Brooke:  Tennyson,  His  Art  and  Relation 
to  Modern  Life). 

THE   REVENGE 

597.  Tennyson  found  the  story  in  Raleigh's 
spirited  account;  see  p.  103. 

RIZPAH 

599.  Based  on  an  incident  read  by  Tennyson 
in  a  magazine.  For  significance  of  title 
see  2  Samuel,  xxi. 

600.  73.  Election  and  Reprobation.  Calvinis- 
tic  doctrines;  all  men  were  supposed  to  be 
damned  for  original  sin,  except  a  chosen 
few  whom  God  elected  for  salvation. 

MERLIN   AND   THE   GLEAM 

601.  An  allegory  of  Tennyson's  literary  life. 
For  commentary  see  the  preface  to  the 
present  Lord  Tennyson's  Memoir  of  his 
father. 

CROSSING   THE   BAR 

603.  Tennyson  directed  that  this  poem  should 
be  placed  at  the  end  of  all  collected  edi- 
tions of  his  works. 

BROWNING 

CAVALIER  TUNES 

In  these  three  dashing  lyrics  Browning 
reflects  the  spirit  of  reckless  loyalty  to  the 
King,  and  contempt  for  the  Puritans,  which 
animated  the  supporters  of  Charles  I. 

MARCHING   ALONG 

2.  Crop-headed.  The  Puritans  wore 
their  hair  cut  short  in  contrast  with  the 


NOTES 


871 


Cavaliers,  whose  long  curls  fell  upon 
their  shoulders.  "  Roundheads,"  the 
name  frequently  applied  to  the  Puritans, 
has  the  same  implication.  Parliament. 
The  Long  Parliament,  controlled  by  the 
Puritan  party. 

603.  7.  Pym.  One  of  the  Puritan  leaders  in 
the  Long  Parliament,  as  were  Hampden, 
Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  Sir  Henry  Vane 
the  Younger  (11.  13-14). 

15.  Rupert.      Prince   Rupert,   nephew   of 

Charles    I,    and    leader    of   the    Royalist 

cavalry. 

22.  Nottingham.      Where   Charles   raised 

his  standard  at  the  opening  of  the  Civil 

War  in  1642. 

THE    LOST  LEADER 

604.  Suggested  by  Wordsworth's  change  from 
Liberalism  to  Conservatism  in  politics, 
though  Browning  expressly  denied  that 
he  was  in  any  way  attempting  a  portrait 
of  Wordsworth. 

HOW  THEY   BROUGHT  THE  GOOD   NEWS 

605.  Browning  wrote:  "There  is  no  sort  of 
historical  foundation  about  '  Good  News 
from  Ghent.'  I  wrote  it  under  the  bul- 
wark of  a  vessel  off  the  African  coast, 
after  I  had  been  at  sea  long  enough  to  ap- 
preciate even  the  fancy  of  a  gallop  on  the 
back  of  a  certain  good  horse  '  York,'  then 
in  my  stable  at  home." 

PARTING    AT   MORNING 

606.  Companion  piece  to  Meeting  at  Night; 
the  speaker  is,  in  each  case,  a  man. 

3.  Him.    The  sun. 

4.  Need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me.  This 
may  mean  either  the  need  I  have  for  the 
world,  or,  the  need  the  world  has  for  me, 
my  duty  in  society. 

SOLILOQUY   OF   THE    SPANISH    CLOISTER 

606.  3g.  Arian.  The  Arian  heresy  held  that 
Christ  was  created  by  God,  and  was 
inferior  to  God  in  nature  and  dignity. 

607.  56.  Manichee.  Manicheans  were  a  sect 
in  the  early  Christian  centuries  who  com- 
bined Persian  and  Christian  beliefs. 

HOME-THOUGHTS,    FROM    THE    SEA 

The  speaker  is  on  shipboard,  off  the  north- 
west coast  of  Africa. 

1.  Cape  St.  Vincent.  On  the  southwest 
coast  of  Spain,  where  Nelson  defeated  a 
Spanish  fleet  in  1797. 

3.  Trafalgar.  The  scene  of  Nelson's 
victory  in  1805. 

5.  Say.     Imperative;  "  let  him  say." 


For  the  situation  see  /  Samuel,  xvi:  14-23. 


MEMORABILIA 

615.  The  speaker,  in  contrast  with  the  person 
he  addresses,  is  so  intense  an  admirer  of 
Shelley  that  it  seems  to  him  that  if  he 
could  once  have  seen  and  spoken  with  the 
poet  the  meeting  would  have  dwarfed  in 
importance  all  the  other  events  of  his 
life.  Browning  in  his  youth  admired 
Shelley  greatly. 

MY   LAST  DUCHESS 

The  dramatic  monologue,  Browning's 
favorite  poetic  form,  and  one  which  he 
uses  with  the  utmost  skill,  presents  some 
difficulty  to  the  reader  on  account  of  its 
directness  and  compression.  It  differs 
from  the  soliloquy,  e.  g.,  of  Shakespeare, 
in  that  the  presence  of  a  second  person,  a 
listener,  is  to  be  inferred;  oftentimes  the 
speaker  responds  to  a  question  or  gesture, 
implied  only  in  the  answer,  on  the  part 
of  this  silent  listener.  Cf.  My  Last 
Duchess,  11.  53-54.  It  is  a  good  plan  for 
the  student  to  read  the  poem  through 
once  or  twice  in  an  effort  to  get  the  situa- 
tion and  some  conception  of  the  speaker's 
character  before  trying  to  discover  the 
meaning  of  each  line.  The  poem  may 
then  be  studied  in  detail;  it  should  be 
noted  that  no  break  in  the  thought,  no 
interjection,  is  without  its  significance. 

The  speaker  is  Duke  of  Ferrara,  one  of 
the  oldest  and  proudest  of  the  Italian 
communes.  There  could  be  no  greater 
contrast  in  character  than  that  between 
the  Duke — of  impeccable  manners  and 
exquisite  artistic  taste,  but  selfish  to  the 
core  and  absolutely  heartless — and  the 
young  Duchess — naive,  filled  with  the 
joy  of  life,  whose  graciousness  springs 
from  a  heart  pure  and  generous. 
3.  Fra.  Brother.  Pandolf,  an  imaginary 
character,  is  a  monk,  like  so  many  of  the 
painters  of  the  Italian  Renaissance. 

616.  9.  Since  none  puts  by,  etc.  The  paren- 
thesis gives  a  hint  of  the  Duke's  esteem 
for  the  picture:  he  values  it  not  at  all  as 
a  reminder  of  his  Duchess,  but  simply  as 
a  work  of  art,  and  as  such,  is  careful  to 
protect  it  from  possible  harm. 

45,  6.  I  gave  commands;  Then  all  smiles 
stopped  together.  Generally  interpreted 
to  mean  that  the  Duke  gave  orders  for 
the  lady's  death.  In  reply  to  a  question 
by  Corson,  Browning  himself  said,  "  Yes, 
I  meant  that  the  commands  were  that 
she  be  put  to  death,"  adding  after  a 
pause,  "  Or  he  might  have  had  her  shut 
up  in  a  convent." 

53,  4.  Nay,  we'll  go  Together  down,  siv. 
The  envoy,  in  deference  to  the  Duke's 
birth,  has  dropped  back,  but  the  Duke, 
with  perfect  condescension,  calls  him 
forward  to  a  position  of  equality. 
56.  Claus  of  Innsbruck.  Another  imag- 
inary artist. 


872 


NOTES 


IN   A  GONDOLA 

617.  22.  The  Three.  Enemies  of  the  man, 
unidentified;  one  seems  to  be  closely  re- 
lated to  the  woman:  cf.  1.  107. 

618.  127.  Giudecca.  One  of  trie  canals  of 
Venice. 

619.  186-192.  The  pictures  seem  to  be  imagi- 
nary, though  the  artists  are  well  known. 
Haste-thee-Luke.  A  nickname  for  Luca 
Giordano,  a  Neapolitan. 

a  grammarian's  funeral 

As  My  Last  Duchess  illustrates  the  artistic 
taste  of  the  Renaissance  period,  and  The 
Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb  the  love  of  luxury, 
so  this  poem  exemplifies  the  devotion 
to  pure  learning  which  characterized  some 
of  the  Renaissance  scholars.  Grammarian 
should  be  taken  in  a  rather  wide  sense; 
it  is  equivalent  to  philologist,  one  who 
loves  learning.  Certain  of  the  Gram- 
marian's disciples  are  carrying  the  body  of 
their  master  for  burial  in  one  of  the  Italian 
hill  towns. 

26.  'Ware  the  beholders!  An  adjuration 
to  the  pall-bearers  to  make  a  good  ap- 
pearance before  spectators:  "  There  are 
people  watching  us — put  your  best  foot 
forward!  " 

820.  33,  34.  Apollo  was  god  of  song  and 
poetry,  and  patron  of  manly  beauty;  the 
implication  is,  therefore,  that  the  Gram- 
marian was  not  only  a  handsome  man  in 
his  youth,  but  that,  if  he  had  chosen,  he 
might  have  written  lyric  poetry. 
45,  46.  The  world  Bent  on  escaping.  The 
masterpieces  of  classical  literature  which 
had  for  centuries  lain  mouldering  in 
libraries. 
50.  Gowned.     Put  on  the  scholar's  gown. 

621.  129-131.  Hoti,  Oun,  De.  Greek  par- 
ticles. Though  to  some  these  might  have 
seemed  subjects  so  minute  as  to  be  ridic- 
ulous, the  Grammarian  had  said  the  last 
word  on  them. 

THE   BISHOP  ORDERS   HIS   TOMB 

"  The  Bishop  embodies  certain  tendencies 
of  the  Renaissance.  No  one  who  studies 
that  marvellous  period,  whether  in  its  his- 
tory, its  literature,  or  its  plastic  art,  can 
fail  to  be  profoundly  struck  by  the  way 
in  which  Paganism  and  Christianity, 
philosophic  scepticism  and  gross  supersti- 
tion, the  antique  and  the  modern,  en- 
thusiastic love  of  the  beautiful  and  vile 
immorality,  were  all  mingled  together 
without  much,  if  any,  consciousness  of 
incompatibility  or  inconsistency."  (W.  J. 
Alexander:  Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of 
Robert  Browning.)  Ruskin  says,  in  Mod- 
ern Painters:  "  I  know  no  other  piece 
of  modern  English,  prose  or  poetry,  in 
which  there  is  so  much  told,  as  in  these 
lines,  of  the  Renaissance  spirit — its  world- 


liness,  inconsistency,  pride,  hypocrisy, 
ignorance  of  itself,  love  of  art,  of  luxury, 
and  of  good  Latin." 

621.  5.  Gandolf.  A  fellow  churchman  of  the 
Bishop's,  and  a  rival  in  matters  ecclesias- 
tic and  secular. 

8.  And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  our- 
selves. Here,  as  in  lines  51  and  101,  the 
dying  Bishop  assumes  for  an  instant  the 
manner  of  the  professional  preacher. 
Such  lapses  are,  however,  brief. 
21.  The  epistle-side.  The  right-hand 
side,  as  one  faces  the  altar,  from  which 
the  epistle  was  read  in  the  service. 
26.  Tabernacle.  The  Bishop's  effigy  was 
to  recline  upon  a  basalt  slab  covering  the 
sarcophagus,  and  over  it  was  to  be  a  stone 
roof,  borne  upon  nine  columns. 

622.  29.  Peach-blossom  marble.  Particularly 
fine  marble  of  a  pinkish  hue. 

31.  Onion-stone.  Italian  cipollino  (little 
onion),  an  inferior  greenish  marble, 
readily  splitting  into  thin  layers,  like  the 
coats  of  an  onion. 

46.  Frascati.  A  wealthy  summer  resort 
near  Rome. 

49.  Jesu  Church.  77  Gesu,  the  church 
of  the  Jesuits,  in  which  is  an  image  of 
God,  bearing  a  representation  of  the 
earth,  made  of  lapis  lazuli. 
51,  2.  Job,  vii:  6,  9.  "  My  days  are 
swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle.  ...  So 
he  that  goeth  down  to  the  grave  shall 
come  up  no  more." 

55.  My  frieze.  Running  around  the 
sarcophagus,  beneath  the  slab  of  basalt. 
58.  Tripod,  thyrsus.  Both  Pagan  sym- 
bols: the  former  connected  with  the 
worship  of  Apollo,  whose  priestess  at 
Delphi  sat  upon  a  tripod  when  receiving 
the  divine  inspiration;  the  latter  the  vine- 
wreathed  staff  carried  by  the  followers  of 
Bacchus. 

74.  Brown.  I.  e.,  with  age. 
77.  Tully's.  Cicero's,  whose  Latin  style 
is  the  model  of  good  use  and  elegance. 
79.  Ulpian.  A  Roman  jurist  of  the  second 
century  A.  D.,  whose  Latin  has  not  the 
classic  perfection  of  Cicero's.  His. 
Gandolf's. 

82.  God  made  and  eaten.     I.  e.,  in  the 
sacrament  of  the  mass. 
87.  Crook.     Symbol  of  the  Bishop's  au- 
thority as  shepherd  of  his  people. 

623.  95.  Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the 
mount.  The  dying  man's  mind  confuses 
the  two  elements  of  his  bas-relief  men- 
tioned in  59-60.  Praxed  was  a  female 
saint. 

99.  Elucescebat.  The  correct  form  is 
ehicebat;  this  is  presumably  an  example 
of  Gandolf's  "  gaudy  ware,"  1.  78. 
101.  Cf.  Genesis,  xlvii:9:  "  And  Jacob  said 
unto  Pharaoh,  The  days  of  the  years  of 
my  pilgrimage  are  an  hundred  and  thirty 
years:  few  and  evil  have  the  days  of  the 
years  of  my  life  been." 


NOTES 


873 


623.  108.  Visor.  A  mask,  like  those  worn  by 
ancient  actors.  Term.  A  bust  terminat- 
ing in  a  square  pedestal,  like  the  repre- 
sentations of  Terminus,  god  of  bound- 
aries. 

109.  Lynx.  An  animal  which  figures 
largely  in  representations  of  the  Bacchic 
orgies.  All  the  objects  mentioned  in 
11.  107-110  are  commonly  found  on 
ancient  sarcophagi. 
116.  Gritstone.     A  coarse  sandstone. 

ANDREA   DEL  SARTO 

"  This  poem  was  suggested  by  a  portrait 
of  Andrea  and  his  wife,  painted  by  him- 
self and  now  hanging  in  the  Pitti  Gallery 
at  Florence.  Andrea  is  a  painter  who 
ranks  high  among  the  contemporaries  of 
Raphael  and  Michel  Angelo,  especially 
by  reason  of  his  technical  execution, 
which  was  so  perfect  as  to  win  for  him 
the  surname  of  '  The  Faultless  Painter.' 
Early  in  life  he  enjoyed  the  favor  of 
Francis  I,  at  whose  court  he  for  a  time 
resided;  but  having  received  a  large  sum 
of  money  from  Francis  for  the  purchase 
of  works  of  art  in  Italy,  he,  under  the 
influence  of  his  wife,  a  beautiful  but 
unprincipled  woman,  embezzled  it,  ap- 
plying it  to  the  erection  of  a  house  for 
himself  at  Florence."  (W.  J.  Alexander: 
Introduction  to  the  Poetry  of  Robert 
Browning.) 

15.  Fiesole.    A  hill  town  near  Florence. 
26.  Serpentining.      Suggesting   a   certain 
sinuous,  undulant  type  of  beauty. 
35-40.  The  key-note  of  the  poem. 

624.  57.  Cartoon.  A  preliminary  sketch,  or 
working  design. 

82.  Low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's 
hand.  Mechanically  facile  and  accurate, 
but  uninspired. 

93.  Morello.  A  spur  of  the  Apennines, 
north  of  Florence. 

105.  The  Urbinate.  Raphael,  born  in 
Urbino,  died  1520. 

106.  Vasari.  Italian  painter  and  writer 
of  the  1 6th  century,  author  of  Lives  of 
the  Painters;  he  includes  a  life  of  Andrea, 
to  which  Browning  is  indebted  for  ma- 
terial in  this  poem. 

625.  130.  Agnolo.    Michel  Angelo. 

146.  The     Paris     lords.       Courtiers     of 
Francis    I,   who   would   have   reproached 
Andrea  for  his  embezzlement. 
150.  Fontainebleau.    A  royal  palace  near 
Paris. 

153.  Humane.  Francis  was  a  great 
patron  of  arts  and  letters,  of  the  hu- 
manities. 

155.  Mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the 
smile.  Apparently  means  no  more  than 
smiling  mouth. 

626.  210.  Cue-owls.    So-called  from  the  sound 
of  their  call;  the  Italian  form  is  chili. 
220.  Cousin.       Lucrezia's    gallant,     who 
whistles  for  her  to  come  to  him. 


626.  241.  Scudi.  Plural  of  scudo,  a  coin 
worth  about  a  dollar;  scudo  means  shield, 
and  the  coin  bore  on  the  obverse  the 
shield  of  the  prince  who  issued  it. 

627.  263.  Leonard.    Leonardo  da  Vinci. 


Written  in  the  autumn  following  Mrs. 
Browning's  death.  The  title  means 
"  Look  forward." 


ABT  VOGLER 

Abt  (Abbe)  Vogler  (1 749-1814),  a  Ger- 
man Catholic  priest,  and  famous  musi- 
cian. He  invented  a  new  form  of  the 
organ,  called  the  orchestrion,  upon  which 
he  gave  performances  all  over  Europe, 
his  improvisations  being  especially  re- 
markable. 

3.  Solomon.  According  to  Mohammedan 
legends,  Solomon,  thanks  to  a  ring  on 
which  was  engraved  the  name  of  God 
(1.  7),  had  control  over  the  demons  and 
genii  of  the  underworld. 

628.  23.  Rome's  dome.  The  dome  of  St. 
Peter's. 

34.  Protoplast.  "  The  first-formed,"  the 
original,  the  model;  the  figures  of  those 
not  yet  born,  to  be  born  in  a  happier 
future,  are  lured  by  the  power  of  the 
music  to  appear  before  their  time. 
43-52.  A  comparison  of  the  process  of 
composition  in  three  arts — painting, 
poetry,  music:  in  the  first  two  the  process 
is  subject  to  certain  well  understood  laws; 
with  music,  on  the  other  hand,  the  result 
appears  to  be  produced  b>  no  tangible 
means,  to  be  in  subjection  to  no  natural 
law.  Hence  the  composer,  in  the  free- 
dom of  his  creation,  approaches  God,  who 
creates  by  merely  willing. 

629.  91.  Common  chord.  The  chord  produced 
by  the  combination  of  any  note  with  its 
third  and  fifth. 

93.  A  ninth.  An  interval  exceeding  an 
octave  by  a  tone  (major),  or  by  a  semi- 
tone (minor). 

96.  C  Major.  The  "  natural  "  scale, 
having  neither  sharps  nor  flats.  The  last 
six  lines  of  the  poem  give  symbolic  ex- 
pression to  the  idea  that  from  his  supernal 
visions  the  musician  descends  gradually 
to  the  realities  of  every  day. 

RABBI    BEN    EZRA 

Ben  Ezra  was  a  distinguished  Jewish 
scholar  of  the  twelfth  century,  noted  espe- 
cially for  his  commentaries  on  the  Old  Tes- 
tament. The  ideas  expressed  in  the  poem 
were  to  some  extent  suggested  to  the  poet 
by  Ben  Ezra's  writings,  but  Browning  de- 
velops them  in  his  own  way,  and  makes 
the  poem  one  of  the  best  expressions  of 
his  philosophy  of  life. 
17.  Low  kinds.    The  lower  animals,  living 


874 


NOTES 


but  for  the  day,  untroubled  by  doubt, 
uninspired  by  hope. 

629.  24.  The  awkward  inversions  are  charac- 
teristic of  Browning:  does  care  irk,  etc.? 
does  doubt  fret,  etc.? 

630.  48.  Its  lone  way.  In  Ben  Ezra's  commen- 
tary on  the  Psalms  we  find  this  sentence: 
"  The  soul  of  man  is  called  lonely  because 
it  is  separated,  during  its  union  with 
the  body,  from  the  Universal  Soul  into 
which  it  is  again  received  when  it  departs 
from  its  earthly  companion." 

49-72.  Browning  here  argues  against  the 
ascetic  ideal,  so  popular  during  the 
Middle  Ages,  which  proclaimed  that 
spiritual  advancement  was  to  be  gained 
through  mortification  of  the  flesh. 
74.  Youth's  heritage.  The  heritage  of 
experience  given  to  age  by  youth. 
87.  Leave  the  fire.    If  the  fire  leave. 

631.  124,  125.  Supply  whom  after  /  and  they. 
151.  Potter's  wheel.  Cf.  Isaiah,  Ixiv:  8 
"  We  are  the  clay,  and  Thou  our  potter 
and  we  are  all  the  work  of  Thy  hand.' 
The  metaphor  is  effectively  used  by 
Fitzgerald  in  his  translation  of  the 
Rubaiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam.  See  page 
643,  1-  3 25 if- 

EPILOGUE  TO  ASOLANDO 

632.  This  is  Browning's  final  cheery  word  on 
the  problem  of  life  and  death;  it  is  the 
epilogue  to  his  last  volume  of  poems,  en- 
titled Asolando,  published  in  London  on 
the  day  Browning  died  in  Venice. 

5.  Pity  me?    Will  you  pity  me,  dead? 
17.  The  unseen.     The  dead;  the  author 
himself. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

SONNETS    FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE 

This  title  serves  to  veil  the  fact  that  the 
sonnets  are  addressed  to  Robert  Brown- 
ing, and  express  with  perfect  sincerity  Mrs. 
Browning's  feeling  about  the  love  and 
marriage  of  the  two  poets.  For  an  ac- 
count of  their  origin  see  the  Letters  of 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  (Smith,  Elder 
&  Co.,  1898),  vol.  I.,  pp.  316-17. 


THE   CRY   OF   THE   CHILDREN 

633.  Occasioned  by  an  official  report  on  the 
employment  of  children  in  mines  and 
factories.  Mrs.  Browning  said  of  the 
rhythm:  "The  first  stanza  came  into 
my  head  in  a  hurricane,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  make  the  other  stanzas  like  it." 
Letters,  I.  156. 


FITZGERALD 

RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

636.  Omar  Khayyam  (Omar  the  Tent-Maker), 
a    Persian    astronomer    and    poet,    wrote 


637. 


his  Rubaiydt  (a  plural  form;  the  singular 
rubdiy  means  quatrain)  in  the  twelfth 
century.  Fitzgerald  describes  them,  and 
his  own  verses,  as  follows: 
"  The  original  Rubaiyat  are  independent 
Stanzas,  consisting  each  of  four  Lines 
of  equal,  though  varied,  Prosody;  some- 
times all  rhyming,  but  oftener  (as  here 
imitated)  the  third  line  a  blank,  some- 
times as  in  the  Greek  Alcaic,  where  the 
penultimate  line  seems  to  lift  and  suspend 
the  Wave  that  falls  over  in  the  last.  As 
usual  with  such  kind  of  Oriental  Verse, 
the  Rubaiyat  follow  one  another  according 
to  Alphabetic  Rhyme — a  strange  succes- 
sion of  Grave  and  Gay.  Those  here  se- 
lected are  strung  into  something  of  an 
Eclogue,  with  perhaps  a  less  than  equal 
proportion  of  the  "  Drink  and  make- 
merry,"  which  (genuine  or  not)  occurs 
over  frequently  in  the  Original.  Either 
way,  the  Result  is  sad  enough:  saddest 
perhaps  when  most  ostentatiously  merry: 
more  apt  to  move  Sorrow  than  Anger  to- 
ward the  old  Tent-maker,  who,  after  vainly 
endeavoring  to  unshackle  his  Steps  from 
Destiny,  and  to  catch  some  authentic 
Glimpse  of  Tomorrow,  fell  back  upon  To- 
day (which  has  outlasted  so  many  To- 
morrows!) as  the  only  Ground  he  got  to 
stand  upon,  however  momentarily  slipping 
from  under  his  Feet." 

Fitzgerald's  method  was  not  so  much 
one  of  literal  translation  as  of  combination 
and  paraphrase;  the  first  edition  of  1859 
contained  75  quatrains,  the  second  no, 
the  third  and  fourth  (here  reprinted)  101. 
Most  of  the  changes  were  in  the  nature  of 
improvement;  it  is  generally  felt,  how- 
ever, that  the  first  stanza  was  finest  in 
its  original  form,  where  it  ran  as  follows: 
"  Awake!   for    Morning   in    the    Bowl   of 

Night 
Has  flung  the  Stone  that  puts  the  Stars  to 

Flight: 
And  Lo!   the  Hunter  of  the   East  has 

caught 
The  Sultan's  Turret  in  a  Noose  of  Light." 
The  wonderful  success  of  the  stanza  form 
invented    by    Fitzgerald,    the    successive 
stanzas   rolling   on   in   subdued   splendor 
one  after  another  with  the  stateliness  of 
a  pageant,  needs  no  comment. 
In   the   text   Fitzgerald's   usage   with   re- 
gard   to    capitals    and    apostrophes    has 
been   preserved.     The   notes   that  follow 
are  based  upon  Fitzgerald's  own. 
5.  The  phantom  of  False  morning.     A 
transient  light  on  the  horizon  about  an 
hour  before  the  true  dawn. 

15.  White  Hand  of  Moses.  Moses 
brought  his  hand  forth  from  his  bosom 
"  leprous  as  snow,"  Exodus,  iv:  6;  the 
metaphor  is  applied  to  the  blooming  of 
the  flowers. 

16.  Jesus  .  .  .  suspires.  "  According  to 
the  Persians,  the  healing  power  of  Jesus 
resided  in  his  breath." 


NOTES 


875 


637.  17.  Iram.  An  ancient  Persian  garden, 
now  sunk  in  the  sands  of  Arabia. 

18.  Jamshyd's  Seven-ring'd  Cup.  Jam- 
shyd  was  a  legendary  King  of  Persia; 
his  cup  was  symbolical  of  the  seven  heav- 
ens, seven  planets,  seven  seas,  etc. 
22.  Pehlevi.  The  old  literary  language 
of  Persia. 

36-40.  Kaikobad  .  .  .  Hatim.         The 
proper  names  are  those  of  Persian  heroes; 
for  Zal  and  Rustum  see  Arnold's  Sohrab 
and  Rustum. 
44.  Mahmiid.    The  Sultan. 

638.  99.  Muezzin.  The  crier  who  calls  the 
faithful  to  prayer  in  Mohammedan 
countries. 

639.  122.  Saturn.  Lord  of  the  seventh  heaven. 
127.  Me  and  Thee.  Some  dividual  exist- 
ence or  personality  distinct  from  the 
whole. 

131.  Signs.     Signs  of  the  zodiac. 

641.  225.  My  computations.  Omar  was  a 
profound  mathematician,  and  helped  to 
reform  the  calendar. 

237.  Allah-breathing.    Allah- worshipping. 

642.  271.  Lantern.  Fitzgerald's  note  de- 
scribes a  "  Magic-Lanthorn  still  used  in 
India;  the  cylindrical  Interior  being 
painted  with  various  Figures,  and  so 
lightly  poised  and  ventilated  as  to  re- 
volve round  the  lighted  Candle  within." 
277.  The  ball,  etc.  The  reference  is  to 
the  game  of  polo,  of  ancient  Persian 
origin. 

302.  Dervish.     A  Mohammedan  devotee. 

643.  326.  Ramazan.  The  Mohammedan 
month  of  fasting,  when  no  food  is  eaten 
between  sunrise  and  sunset. 

327 £•    With  this  use  of  the  metaphor  of 
the  potter  and  the  clay  compare  Brown- 
ing's in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  page  631, 1.  150. 
346.  Sufi.     An  adherent  of  a  Persian  sect 
whose  belief  was  pantheistic. 
358.  The  little  Moon  .  .  .  that  all  were 
seeking.      The    new    moon    marking    the 
end  of  the  fasting  month. 
360.  Shoulder-knot     a-creaking.       With 
the  burden  of  the  jars  of  wine. 

CARLYLE 

SARTOR  RESARTUS 

644.  This,  the  most  influential  of  Carlyle's 
works,  appeared  as  a  serial  in  Fraser's 
Magazine  during  the  years  1833-4.  It 
is  an  attack  upon  the  materialistic  self- 
satisfaction  of  England;  an  attempt  to 
show  that  the  only  ultimate  reality  is 
spirit,  is  God,  and  that  everything  ma- 
terial is  merely  clothing  for  the  Divine 
Idea,  visible  manifestation  of  God.  In 
form  the  book  is  somewhat  grotesque. 
It  purports  to  be  a  long  review  of  a  work 
on  clothing,  the  magnum  opus  of  Diog- 
enes Teufelsdrockh,  a  German  philos- 
opher. Carlyle  speaks  through  the 
mouth   of  Teufelsdrockh;    the   views  ex- 


pressed in  the  chapter  here  printed  are 
Carlyle's  own.  At  the  same  time  he 
comments,  in  his  own  person,  on  the 
ideas  propounded  by  the  German,  fore- 
stalling criticism,  and  occasionally  ex- 
plaining oracular  utterances.  The  chap- 
ter on  Natural  Supernaturalism  is  really 
the  culmination  of  the  whole  work. 

644.  6.  The  Clothes-Philosophy.  The  idea 
that  all  appearances  are  merely  the 
clothing  of  the  Divine  Idea  which  alone 
has  ultimate  reality. 

645.  34.  Miracles.  Carlyle  objected  to 
science  because  it  tended,  so  he  thought, 
to  remove  wonder  and  worship  from 
human  life.  It  tried  to  "  explain  "  the 
phenomena  of  life  which  Carlyle  con- 
sidered divinely  miraculous. 

47.  Schlagbaum.  Carlyle  sprinkles  Ger- 
man words  and  phrases  through  Sartor 
Resarlus  as  proof  of  the  fact  that  he  is 
merely  reviewing  Teufelsdrockh's  book. 

646.  153.  Fortunatus.  The  hero  of  Thomas 
Dekker's  play  Old  Fortunatus,  well  known 
in  popular  legend,  possessed  such  a  hat. 
160.  Wahngasse  of  Weissnichtwo.  The 
city  in  which  Teufelsdrockh  is  supposed 
to  live  Carlyle  calls  "  Weissnichtwo  ";  "  I 
know  not  where."  Wahngasse;  dream- 
lane. 

168.  Groschen.     Small  German  coin. 

647.  264.  Thaumaturgy.  The  art  of  perform- 
ing miracles. 

275.  Stein-bruch.     Stone-quarry. 

278.  Ashlar  houses.     Houses  of  hewn  or 

squared  stone. 

321.  Johnson  .  .  .  went   to   Cock   Lane. 

See  BoswelPs  Life  of  Johnson,  p.  308. 

648.  397.  Cimmerian  Night.  See  note  on 
L' Allegro,  1.  10. 

429.  "  We  are  such  stuff,"  etc.  From 
The  Tempest,  IV.  i.  156/. 

PAST   AND  PRESENT:     LABOR 

649.  60.  Ezekiel.  There  is  no  reference  to  a 
potter's  wheel  in  Ezekiel.  Carlyle  has 
probably  confused  the  "  Vision  of  the 
Wheels,"  Ezekiel,  i:  15-21,  and  the  refer- 
ence to  the  potter's  wheel  in  Jeremiah, 
xviii:  1-6. 

121.  Sir  Christopher.  Sir  Christopher 
Wren  (1632-1723),  was  the  architect  en- 
trusted with  the  rebuilding  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  destroyed  in  the  London  fire 
of  1666.  Nell  Gwyn  was  a  favorite  of 
Charles  II,  whose  title  included  the 
phrase    "  Defender  of  the  Faith." 


651.  4.  Brahmins,  Antinomians,  Spinning 
Dervishes.  Brahmins  are  members  of  the 
highest  social  order,  or  caste,  among  the 
Hindoos;  Antinomians,  a  sect  of  heretics 
originating  in  Germany  about  1535; 
Spinning  Dervishes,  Mohammedan  fanat- 
ics whose  chief  claim  to  sanctity  is  based 


876 


NOTES 


on  their  ability  to  whirl  round  like  human 
tops. 

651.  37.  Shovel-hat.  A  particular  sort  of  hat 
worn  by  the  English  clergy.  Talfourd- 
Mahon  Copyrights.  A  bill  passed  in  1842 
guaranteeing  the  author's  copyright  for 
forty-two  years. 

68.  Kepler  calculations,  Newton  medita- 
tions. Johann  Kepler  (1571-1630),  was 
a  famous  German  astronomer;  Sir  Isaac 
Newton  (1642-1727),  the  author  of  the 
Principia,  was  one  of  the  world's  greatest 
mathematicians. 

652.  106.  Mayfair.  A  fashionable  residence 
district  in  London. 

124.  The  sad  and  true  old  Samuel.  Per- 
haps Carlyle  has  in  mind  Samuel  John- 
son's statement:  "  I  have  been  an  idle 
fellow  all  my  life."  See  line  1970,  selec- 
tions from  Boswell's  Life,  this  volume. 
133.  My  Corn-Law  friends.  The  "  Corn- 
Laws  "  imposed  high  duties  on  grains 
imported  into  England.  They  were 
abolished  in  1846. 

140.  St.  Stephen's.  The  Parliament 
houses. 

159.  Owen's  Labor-bank.  Robert  Owen 
(1771-1858),  a  British  social  reformer, 
undertook  to  improve  the  condition  of 
English  laborers,  through  the  establish- 
ment of  small  "  ideal  communities,"  in- 
cluding co-operative  banks  and  stores. 
168.  Downing  Street.  Many  of  the 
offices  of  the  British  government  are  in 
Downing  street. 

653.  261.  Manes.  The  souls  of  the  dead,  con- 
sidered as  gods  of  the  lower  world. 

268.  Acheron.     One  of  the  four  rivers  of 

the  classical  Hades. 

270.  Dante.     The  greatest  of  all  Italian 

poets   (1265-1321).     The  quotations  are 

from  his  Divine  Comedy. 

278.  Se  tu  segui,  etc.    "  If  thou  followest 

thy  star." 

287.  Eccovi  l'uom,  etc.  "  Behold  the 
man  who  has  stood  in  Hell." 

288.  As  poet  Dryden  says.  See  Absalom 
and  Achitophel,  11.  79-80. 

295.  Eurydice  from  Tartarus.  See  note 
on  U  Allegro,  1.  150. 

654.  313.  Lath-and-plaster  hats.  A  method  of 
advertising  then  practiced  in  London. 
318.  Law-wards.  Carlylese  for  Lords, 
etymologically  incorrect.  Anglo-Saxon 
hlafweard  means  guardian  of  the  loaf, 
the  bread,  not  of  the  law. 

334.  In  a  Great  Taskmaster's  eye.  An 
adaptation  from  the  last  line  of  Milton's 
sonnet  On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age 
of  Twenty-three.  See  p.  152. 
341.  Galvanism.  Electricity. 
344.  Midas-eared.  King  Midas,  whose 
touch  converted  any  object  into  gold,  had 
the  ears  of  an  ass. 

352.  Plugson  of  Undershot.  The  typical 
British  manufacturer,  to  whom  Carlyle 
had  devoted  a  previous  chapter  in  Past 
and    Present.      Taillefer    of    Normandy. 


One  of  William  the  Conqueror's  minstrels, 
who  is  supposed  to  have  struck  the  first 
blow  at  Hastings. 

654.  366.  Antaeus.  The  giant  whose  strength 
was  renewed  whenever  he  came  in  con- 
tact with  the  earth. 

397.  No  Civil-List  or  .  .  .  Budget.  No 
government  funds. 

Cromwell's  letters  and  speeches:  the 
battle  of  dunbar 

655.  The  battle  was  fought  September  3  (13), 
1650.  Cromwell's  army  was  suffering  from 
want  of  food;  had  Leslie  and  the  Scots 
remained  on  Doon  Hill,  it  is  probable  that 
Cromwell  would  have  withdrawn  by  sea. 
9.  Lambert.  John  Lambert  (1619-1683), 
Cromwell's  second-in-command;  one  of 
the  most  successful  of  the  Parliamentary 
major-generals. 

11.  Lesley.  David  Leslie,  afterwards 
Lord  Newark  (d.  1682),  commander  of 
the  Scottish  forces.  He  had  previously 
fought  with  Cromwell  against  Charles  I. 
27.  Committee  of  Estates.  The  govern- 
ing committee,  in  charge  of  the  whole 
campaign. 

31.  Bishop  Burnet.  Gilbert  Burnet 
(1643-1715),  Bishop  of  Salisbury;  best 
known  for  his   History  of  His  Own  Time. 

656.  79.  Monk.  George  Monk,  first  Duke  of 
Albermarle  (1608-1670),  Parliamentary 
commander  during  the  Civil  War,  com- 
mander of  a  brigade  at  Dunbar;  later 
influential  in  securing  the  restoration  of 
Charles  II. 

123.  Major  Hodgson.  John  Hodgson 
(d.  1684),  serving  in  Lambert's  regiment. 
His  Memoirs  give  the  best  contemporary 
account  of  the  battle  of  Dunbar. 

124.  A  Cornet.  The  lowest  grade  of 
commissioned  officer  in  the  British 
cavalry;  the  grade  is  now  extinct. 

RUSKIN 

MODERN  PAINTERS:  SUNRISE   AND  SUNSET 

From  chapter  4,  "  Of  Truth  of  Clouds," 
(Part  II,  section  3,  of  entire  work). 
Ruskin  is  arguing  that  Turner  has  been 
more  true  in  his  representations  of  nature 
than  others  with  whom  he  is  compared; 
the  omitted  portions,  indicated  in  the 
text,  are  repetitions  of  the  question 
"  Has  Claude  given  this?  " 

657.  14.  Atlantis.  A  mythical  city  lost  be- 
neath the  waves  of  the  Atlantic. 

658.  126.  Who  has  best  delivered  this  His 
message?  Ruskin's  answer  is,  of  course, 
Turner. 

THE  TWO  BOYHOODS 

Part  IX,  chapter  9;  the  entire  chapter  is 

reprinted. 

5.  Giorgione.       Italian     painter     (1477- 

15 10),  born  at  Castel-franco. 


NOTES 


877 


659.  103.  Bello  ovile,  etc.  "  Beautiful  fold 
where,  as  a  lamb,  I  slept." 
121.  Great  ships  go  to  pieces.  The 
sentence  refers  to  two  of  Turner's  paint- 
ings: "  The  Garden  of  the  Hesperides," 
and  "  The  Meuse." 

661.  255.  Once  .  .  .  twice  .  .  .  thrice. 
Turner  painted  three  pictures  commemo- 
rative of  Trafalgar:  "  The  Death  of  Nel- 
son ";  "  The  Battle  of  Trafalgar"  ;  "  The 
Fighting  Temeraire." 

361.  Our  Lady  of  Safety.  "  Santa  Maria 
della  Salute";  a  church  on  the  Grand 
Canal. 

662.  394.  Chiaroscuro.  Technically  the  dis- 
position of  lights  and  shadows  in  a  pic- 
ture; here  used  for  picturesqueness. 

456.  Among  the  Yorkshire  hills.  "  I 
do  not  mean  that  this  is  his  first  acquaint- 
ance with  the  country,  but  the  first  im- 
pressive and  touching  one,  after  his  mind 
was  formed.  The  earliest  sketches  I 
found  in  the  National  Collection  are  at 
Clifton  and  Bristol;  the  next,  at  Oxford." 
(Ruskin.) 

663.  517.  Whitby  Hill  .  .  .  Bolton  Brook.  The 
ruins  of  Whitby  and  Bolton  Abbeys  are 
the  "  traces- of  other  handiwork." 

562.  Her  breathless  first-born  .  .  .  her 
last  sons  slain.  "  The  Tenth  Plague  of 
Egypt";  "  Rizpah,  the  Daughter  of 
Aiah  ":  two  of  Turner's  paintings. 
576.  Salvator  .  .  .  Diirer.  Salvator 
Rosa  (1615-1673),  an  Italian  painter; 
Albrecht  Diirer  (1471-1528),  a  German 
painter  and  engraver. 

664.  600.  Between  Areola  and  Waterloo.  At 
Areola  Napoleon  gained  his  reputation  as 
a  general  by  defeating  the  Austrians, 
September,  1796;  his  final  defeat  at 
Waterloo,  June,  1815,  ended  his  military 
career. 

664.  Put  ye  in  the  sickle.    Joel,  iii:  13. 

STONES   OF   VENICE:   ST.  MARK'S 

From  the  first  part  of  chapter  iv,  vol.  II. 
Following  the  paragraph  with  which  this 
selection  closes,  comes  Ruskin's  descrip- 
tion of  the  interior  of  the  building. 

665.  8.  Unworthy  thenceforth,  etc.  Acts,  xiii: 
13;  xv:  38,  39.     (Ruskin.) 

40.  Vite  de  Santi,  etc.    Lives  of  the  patron 
saints  of  the  Venetian  Churches. 
56.  Una    stupenda,    etc.      A    wonderful 
city,  never  seen  before. 
73.  Cloister-like  and  quiet.     St.  Mark's 
Place,    "  partly    covered    by    turf,    and 
planted  with  a  few  trees;  and  on  account 
of   its   pleasant   aspect    called    Brollo   or 
Broglio,   that  is  to  say,   Garden."     The 
canal   passed   through   it,   over   which   is 
built  the  bridge  of  the  Malpassi.     (Rus- 
kin.) 
667.   283.  Cortile.     An  enclosed  court-yard  in 
a  large  house. 

320.  Vendita  Frittole,  etc.  A  fritter  and 
liquor  shop. 


668.  408.  Their  bluest  veins  to  kiss.     Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  II.  v.  29. 

669.  462.  Of  them  that  sell  doves.     Matthew, 


TIME    AND   TIDE 

Under  this  title  appeared  twenty-five 
letters  written  ostensibly  to  Thomas 
Dixon,  of  Sunderland,  but  in  fact  ad- 
dressed to  the  workingmen  of  England 
who  in  1867,  the  year  the  letters  appeared, 
were  agitating  reform.  In  them  Ruskin 
appears  not  as  the  critic  of  art,  but  as  the 
sociologist. 

THE   RELATION   OF   ART  TO   MORALS 

671.  A  selection  from  the  third  of  Ruskin's 
Lectures  on  Art,  delivered  while  he  was 
Slade  Professor  at  Oxford.  The  portion 
reprinted  comprises  paragraphs  71-81  of 
the  Lectures. 

672.  122.  My  three  years.  As  Slade  Professor 
of  Art  at  Oxford. 

673.  164.  The  contest  of  Apelles  and  Protog- 
enes.  The  two  men  were  rivals,  and 
attempted  to  outdo  one  another  in  draw- 
ing lines  of  remarkable  fineness. 

167.  The  circle  of  Giotto.  Giotto  (1267?- 
1337)  sent  as  a  sample  of  his  work,  and 
proof  of  his  powers,  a  perfect  circle. 
675.  382.  Miranda  .  .  .  Caliban.  Characters 
in  Shakespeare's  Tempest;  Caliban  is  a 
creature  more  brute  than  man;  Miranda 
is  the  most  spotlessly  pure  of  all  Shake- 
speare's heroines. 


MACAULAY 

OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

The  life  of  Goldsmith  illustrates  the 
vigor  and  picturesqueness  of  Macaulay's 
style;  it  is  not,  however,  a  thoroughly 
accurate  biography.  In  particular  it 
should  be  noted  that  Macaulay  inherited 
from  Boswell  the  condescending  attitude 
which  appears  in  this  essay;  more  recent 
critics  feel  less  of  this,  and  are  inclined  to 
treat  Goldsmith  more  seriously,  both  as 
a  man  and  a  thinker. 
676.  75.  Glorious  and  Immortal  Memory.  The 
memory  of  William  III. 
79.  The  banished  dynasty.    The  Stuarts. 

679.  386.  The  Dunciad.  Pope's  greatest  sat- 
ire. 

479.  Bayes  in  the  Rehearsal.  The  Re- 
hearsal was  a  burlesque  attack  on  heroic 
tragedy,  written  by  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham and  his  friends.  John  Bayes  was  a 
satirical  portrait  of  Dryden. 

680.  553.  Kelly  and  Cumberland.  Hugh  Kelly 
(1 739-1 777),  whose  sentimental  comedy 
False  Delicacy  was  brought  out  with  great 
success  at  Drury  Lane  six  days  before  the 
first  performance  of  The  Good-Natured  Man 
at  Covent  Garden;  Richard  Cumberland 


878 


NOTES 


(1732-1811),  a  dramatist  whose  sentimen- 
tal comedies  Goldsmith  ridiculed. 
681.  601.  Maupertuis.     Pierre  Louis  de  Mau- 
pertuis  (1698-1759),  a  French  astronomer. 

683.  830.  A  little  poem.  The  Retaliation.  See 
p.  286. 

CLOUGH 

QUA  CURSUM   VENTUS 

The  title  means  "  As  the  wind,  so  the 
course." 

ITE   DOMUM   SATURN 

684.  The  title  is  taken  from  a  line  in  the  tenth 
of  Virgil's  eclogues,  where  a  goatherd  is  ad- 
dressing his  herd:  "  Go  home,  full-fed; 
evening  comes."  Clough  makes  the 
speaker  a  peasant  girl,  driving  home  her 
cows. 

2.  Rose,  Provence,  La  Palie.     Names  of 
the  cows. 


ARNOLD 

PHILOMELA 

687.  Philomela,  daughter  of  Pandion,  King  of 
Attica,  was  dishonored  by  her  brother-in- 
law,  Tereus,  King  of  Daulis,  in  Phocis, 
a  country  in  northern  Greece.  Tereus 
cut  out  Philomela's  tongue  that  she  might 
not  bear  witness  against  him,  but  she 
made  her  secret  known  to  her  sister 
Procne,  wife  of  Tereus,  by  words  woven 
into  a  robe.  Procne  killed  her  son  Itys, 
served  him  up  as  food  to  his  father,  and 
fled  with  Philomela.  On  being  pursued 
by  Tereus,  the  sisters  prayed  for  deliver- 
ance, and  were  changed  into  birds  by  the 
gods,  Philomela  becoming  a  nightingale. 
Arnold  has  reversed  the  positions  of 
Philomela  and  Procne. 

688.  21.  The  too  clear  web.  The  woven  robe 
which  only  too  clearly  revealed  the  story 
of  the  crime. 

27.  Cephissian  vale.     The  valley  of  the 
Cephissus,  the  chief  river  of  Phocis. 

THE   SCHOLAR-GIPSY 

The  poem  is  based  on  the  following  pas- 
sage from  Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogma- 
tizing, 1661;  cf.  11.  n,  31,  133,  159. 
"  There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford,  who  was  by  his  poverty 
forced  to  leave  his  studies  there;  and  at 
last  to  join  himself  to  a  company  of  vaga- 
bond gipsies.  Among  these  extravagant 
people,  by  the  insinuating  subtilty  of  his 
carriage,  he  quickly  got  so  much  of  their 
love  and  esteem  as  that  they  discovered 
to  him  their  mystery.  After  he  had  been 
a  pretty  while  exercised  in  the  trade, 
there  chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of 
scholars,  who  had  formerly  been  of  his 
acquaintance!      They   quickly    spied    out 


their  old  friend  among  the  gipsies;  and 
he  gave  them  an  account  of  the  necessity 
which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of  life,  and 
told  them  that  the  people  he  went  with 
were  not  such  impostors  as  they  were 
taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  traditional 
kind  of  learning  among  them,  and  could 
do  wonders  by  the  power  of  imagination, 
their  fancy  binding  that  of  others;  that 
himself  had  learned  much  of  their  art, 
and  when  he  had  compassed  the  whole 
secret,  he  intended,  he  said,  to  leave  their 
company,  and  give  the  world  an  account 
of  what  he  had  learned." 

690.  95.  Lasher.  Originally  the  turbulent  wa- 
ter running  through  an  opening  in  a 
weir;  then  applied  to  the  weir  itself,  or, 
as  here,  to  the  pool  below  the  weir  into 
which  the  lasher  empties. 
129.  Christ-Church  hall.  The  dining- 
hall  in  Christ-Church  College,  Oxford. 

692.  208.  Averse,  as  Dido.  /Eneas,  on  his 
journey  through  Hades,  met  the  shade  of 
Dido,  queen  of  Carthage,  who  had  slain 
herself  when  deserted  by  him;  the  shade 
turned  away  from  yEneas  with  a  gesture 
of  aversion. 

245.  The  Syrtes.     The  ancient  name  for 
the  modern  Gulfs  of  Sidra  and  Cabes,  on 
the  northern  coast  of  Africa. 
249.  Iberians.      Iberia    was    the    ancient 
name  for  the  Spanish  peninsula. 

SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM 

The  incident  was  taken  by  Arnold  from 
Persian  history. 
706.  861.  Persepolis.     Capital  city  of  ancient 
Persia,   of   which  Jemshid,   or  Jamschid, 
was  a  mythical  king. 

THE   AUSTERITY   OF  POETRY 

i.  Son  of  Italy.  Jacopone  da  Todi,  an 
Italian  poet  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

RUGBY   CHAPEL 

In  memory  of  Arnold's  father,  Dr. 
Thomas  Arnold,  Master  of  Rugby;  "  the 
Doctor  "  of  Tom  Brown's  School  Days. 

LITERATURE   AND   SCIENCE 

709.  One  of  Arnold's  Discourses  in  America,  writ- 
ten for  his  lecture  trip  of  1883-4. 

711.  185.  To  know  the  best,  etc.  Quoted  from 
Arnold's  essay  The  Function  of  Criticism 
at  the  Present  Time. 

714.  511.  The  powers.  The  component  parts. 
540.  The  desire  to  relate  these  pieces  of 
knowledge  to  our  sense  for  conduct.  We 
acquire  knowledge,  and  then  try  to  answer 
the  questions,  "  What  difference  does  it 
make?  What  bearing  has  it  upon  my  life? 
How  does  this  new  fact  fit  into  my  own 
schedule  of  facts  and  values?  " 

715.  630.  Professor  Sylvester.  James  Syl- 
vester (1814-1897),  an  English  mathema- 


NOTES 


S79 


tician,  who  held  chairs  at  Johns  Hopkins 
and  Oxford  Universities. 
636.  Cambridge.  The  study  of  mathe- 
matics has  long  been  an  important  part 
of  the  curriculum  at  Cambridge  Uni- 
versity. 

662.  Mr.  Darwin's  famous  proposition. 
The  proposition  occurs  in  Part  IV,  chap- 
ter 21,  of  The  Descent  of  Alan,  and  is  really 
a  summing  up  of  the  whole  book. 
741.  A  Sandemanian.  A  member  of  the 
religious  sect  founded  in  Scotland  by 
Robert  Sandeman,  about  1725. 
952.  A  school  report.  Arnold  was  for 
many  years  a  government  inspector  of 
schools. 

1005.  Letters  will  call  out,  etc.  In  this 
sentence  Arnold  sums  up  his  entire  argu- 
ment. 

HUXLEY 

IMPROVING  NATURAL   KNOWLEDGE 

This  essay  was  delivered  as  a  lecture  in 
London,  January  7,  1866,  and  is  included 
in  Volume  I,  Methods  and  Results,  of  Hux- 
ley's collected  works. 

So.  Laud.      William    Laud    (1573-1645), 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.     He   was  the 
head  of  the  established  English  Church, 
and  a  violent  enemy  of  the  anti-Stuart 
parties,  who  accomplished   his  execution 
in  1645.     The  Earl  of  Rochester  and  Sir 
Charles  Sedley  were  court  wits  and  poets 
in  the  time  of  Charles  II. 
187.  Principia.    Sir  Isaac  Newton  (1642- 
1727)  published  the  Philosophies  Naturalis 
Principia   Mathcmatica,  setting  forth  his 
theories  about  gravitation,  in  1689. 
208.  Inquisitorial  cardinals.  Galileo  (1564- 
1642)   was  persecuted  by  the  Inquisition 
because  of  his  acceptance  of  Copernicus's 
theories  concerning  the  solar  system. 
214.  Vesalius  and  Harvey.     Vesalius  was 
a  Belgian  anatomist  of  the  16th  century; 
William     Harvey     (1578-1657)    was    an 
English  physician  who  published  in  1628 
a   treatise   De  Motu  Cordis   et   Sangiiinis 
in  which  he  set  forth  the  theory  of  the 
circulation  of  the  blood. 
239.  Writ  in  water.     Keats  suggested  as 
his  epitaph:  "  Here  lies  one  whose  name 
was  writ  in  water." 
266.  Revenant.    Ghost. 
309.  Boyle,  .  .  .  Evelyn.      Robert    Boyle 
(1627-1691),  an  English  chemist;  and  John 
Evelyn  (1620-1706),  the  diarist. 
653.  Count  Rumford.     Benjamin  Thomp- 
son  (1 753-1814),   a   scientist   of  interna- 
tional reputation. 

NEWMAN 

THE    IDEA    OF    A    UNIVERSITY 

t,2>-  On  an  occasion  like  this.  The  Dis- 
courses on  University  Subjects  were  de- 
livered in  1852  before  the  Catholics  of 
Dublin. 


731.  361.  "  The  world  is  all  before  it."  An 
adaptation  of  Paradise  Lost,  xii:  646-7: 

"  The  world  was  all  before  them,  where  to 

choose 
Their  place  of  rest,  and  Providence  their 

guide." 
375.  The  judgment-stricken  king.     Pen- 
theus,     in     Euripides's     Bacchce,    in     his 
madness  sees  two  suns. 

732.  446.  St.  Thomas.  Thomas  Aquinas 
(i227?-i274),  canonized  in  1323;  one  of 
the  greatest  of  the  scholastic  philosophers. 

733.  524.  Pompey's  Pillar.  A  column  erected 
at  Alexandria  in  honor  of  Diocletian. 

734.  627  ff.  Terpdyuvos.  Four  square.  Nil 
admirari.  To  wonder  at  nothing.  Felix 
qui,  etc.  Happy  is  he  who  has  come 
to  know  the  relationships  of  things,  and 
has  placed  beneath  his  feet  all  fear, 
and  inexorable  fate,  and  the  roar  of 
greedy     Acheron.       Virgil's    Georgics,     ii. 

49°fJ- 
736.  704.  The  learning  of  a  Salmasius  or  a 
Burman.  Claude  Saumaise  (1588-1653) 
was  a  French  classical  scholar.  Pieter 
Burmann  the  Elder  (1688-1741)  and  his 
nephew  Pieter  Burmann  the  younger 
(1 714-1778)  were  both  Dutch  scholars. 
706.  Imperat  aut  servit.  It  is  either  mas- 
ter or  servant. 

710.  Vis  consili,  etc.  Brute  force  with- 
out intelligence  falls  by  its  own  weight. 
712.  Tarpeia.  A  woman  of  Roman  leg- 
end, crushed  to  death  by  the  shields  of 
Sabine  warriors,  when  she  asked  for  what 
they  wore  on  their  arms  (bracelets)  as  a 
reward  for  betraying  Rome. 

738.  103 1.  Genius  loci.     Genius  of  the  place. 

739.  1 1 53.  The  exiled  prince.  See  As  You 
Like  It,  II.  i.  16. 

1 156.  The  poor  boy  in  the  poem. 
"  Crabbe's  Tales  of  the  Hall.  This  poem, 
let  me  say,  I  read  on  its  first  publication, 
above  thirty  years  ago,  with  extreme  de- 
light, and  have  never  lost  my  love  of  it; 
and  on  taking  it  up  lately,  found  I  was 
even  more  touched  by  it  than  hereto- 
fore."    (Newman's  note.) 

APOLOGIA  PRO   VITA   SUA 

Early  editions  of  the  Apologia  contained 
the  correspondence  between  Newman 
and  Charles  Kingsley,  author  of  Westward 
Ho!  The  correspondence  as  a  whole, 
and  Newman's  summary  which  is  here 
reprinted,  had  been  given  to  the  public 
by  Newman  before  the  Apologia  was 
published;  they  were  omitted  from  later 
editions  of  the  Apologia. 


ROSSETTI 

THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL 

740.  The  pictorial  quality  of  this  poem  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  work  of  Rossetti,  famous 
as  painter  as  well  as  poet;  his  painting  of 


88o 


NOTES 


the  same  name  corresponds  exactly  to 
the  poem. 

SISTER   HELEN 

741.  Founded  on  the  old  superstition  that  a 
woman  deserted  by  her  lover,  could  ob- 
tain the  power  of  life  and  death  over  his 
body  by  making  a  waxen  image  of  him, 
and  laying  it  in  the  heat  of  the  fire;  as  the 
wax  melted  the  man's  life  ebbed  away. 
There  are  three  speakers, — the  wronged 
woman,  her  small  brother,  who  does  not 
understand  what  is  going  on,  and  a  spec- 
tator, whose  comments,  slightly  varied 
from  verse  to  verse,  keep  pace  with  the 
progress  of  the  story. 

THE   HOUSE   OF   LIFE 

745.  The  name  given  by  Rossetti  to  a  sequence 
of  one  hundred  and  one  sonnets;  this  and 
Mrs.  Browning's  Sonnets  from  the  Portu- 
guese are  generally  conceded  to  be  the 
finest  collections  of  sonnets  since  Shake- 
speare's. 

THE   SONNET 

Similar  sonnets  on  the  sonnet-form  are 
Wordsworth's  Scorn  not  the  Sonnet,  and 
Richard  Watson  Gilder's  Sonnet  on  the 
Sonnet:  "  What  is  a  sonnet?  " 

13.  Dark  wharf's.     Compare 

"  the  fat  weed 
That  roots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  wharf," 
Hamlet,  I.  v.  32-33. 

14.  Charon's  palm.  Charon  ferried  the 
souls  of  the  dead  over  the  river  Styx  to 
Hades;  a  piece  of  money  was  buried  with 
the  body  to  serve  as  fee  for  the  passage. 

MORRIS 

THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE:  AN  APOLOGY 

746.  The  Earthly  Paradise  is  a  collection  of 
twenty-four  tales  in  verse,  commonly 
considered  the  best  body  of  narrative 
verse  that  has  been  given  to  English 
poetry  since  Chaucer's  time.  In  the 
Prologue  Morris  tells  how  "  certain 
gentlemen  and  mariners  of  Norway, 
having  considered  all  that  they  had  heard 
of  the  Earthly  Paradise,  set  sail  to  find  it, 
and  after  many  troubles  and  the  lapse  of 
many  years  came  old  men  to  some  West- 
ern land,  of  which  they  had  never  before 
heard";  the  inhabitants  of  this  land  are 
of  Greek  descent.  For  the  entertainment 
of  the  wanderers,  the  dwellers  in  the 
western  land  give  semi-monthly  feasts, 
at  each  of  which  a  story  is  told.  The  duty 
of  telling  a  story  alternates  between  the 
two  peoples;  half  the  tales  are,  accord- 
ingly, from  the  Greek  mythology,  half 
of  Scandinavian  or  Romance  origin. 

25.  The  ivory  gate.  The  house  of  Mor- 
pheus, god  of  sleep,  had  two  gates, 
through  which  dreams  issued:  if  true,  the 


dream  passed  through  a  gate  of  horn;  if 
false,  through  one  of  ivory. 


746.  7.  Below  bridge.  Navigation  stopped  at 
London  Bridge. 

747.  15.  Bills  of  lading.  Chaucer  was  for  a 
time  a  clerk  of  the  customs. 

ATALANTA'S   RACE 

748.  63.  Fleet-foot  One.  Ordinarily  the  epi- 
thet would  indicate  Hermes;  in  this  con- 
nection it  may  mean  Artemis. 

750.  177.  Saffron  gown.  Saffron  was  the 
color  used  at  marriages  by  the  Greeks  and 
Romans;  cf.  V Allegro: 

"  There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear." 
184.  Sea-born  one.    Venus. 

751.  208.  Adonis'  bane.    The  wild  boar. 

752.  275.  Three-formed  goddess.  Artemis, 
or  Diana,  so  called  because  she  was  wor- 
shipped as  Diana  on  earth,  as  Luna  in 
heaven,    as  Hecate  in  hell. 

279.  Her.    Diana. 

282.  Sea-born  framer.    See  note  on  1. 184. 

755.  516.  Damascus.  Astarte,  the  Phoenician 
goddess  of  love,  was  identified  with  Venus. 

756.  535.  Saturn's  clime.  Saturn  ruled  the 
world  before  his  place  was  usurped  by 
Zeus,  or  Jupiter;  Saturn's  reign  was  iden- 
tified with  the  golden  age,  a  time  of  peace, 
plenty,  and  happiness. 

758.  663.  Mighty  Lord.    Zeus. 
664.  Her.    Venus. 

PATER 


760.  22.  Efforts  to  limit  art  a  priori.  By  argu- 
ment from  hypotheses  concerning  ma- 
terial, etc. 

92.  Absence  or  presence  of  metrical 
beauty.  Wordsworth's  views  are  ex- 
pressed in  the  Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads. 

761.  96.  Dichotomy.  A  division  into  two 
classes. 

109.  I  propose  here  to  point  out.  Pater 
here  states  the  purpose  of  the  essay.  He 
is  to  discuss  not  prose  or  poetry,  but  both, 
finding  in  both  certain  identical  charac- 
teristics, the  qualities  of  "  literature  as  a 
fine  art." 

165.  Livy,  Tacitus,  Michelet.  Jules 
Michelet  (1 798-1874),  like  the  two 
Romans,  was  a  historian. 

762.  253.  At  this  point  Pater  notes:  "  Mr. 
Saintsbury,  in  his  Specimens  of  English 
Prose,  from  Malory  to  Macaiday,  has  suc- 
ceeded in  tracing,  through  successive 
English  prose-writers,  the  tradition  of 
that  severer  beauty  in  them,  of  which 
this  admirable  scholar  of  our  literature 
is  known  to  be  a  lover.  English  Prose, 
from    Mandeville   to    Thackeray   more   re- 


NOTES 


cently  '  chosen  and  edited  '  by  a  younger 
scholar,  Mr.  Arthur  Galton,  of  New 
College,  Oxford,  a  lover  of  our  literature 
at  once  enthusiastic  and  discreet,  aims 
at  a  more  various  illustration  of  the 
eloquent  powers  of  English  prose,  and  is 
a  delightful  companion." 

763.  338.  Le  cuistre.  The  academic  pedant. 
358.  Well!  Pater  is  fond  of  this  inter- 
jectional  use  of  well.  It  suggests  the 
French  eh  bienl 

364.  Dictionary  other  than  Johnson's. 
Johnson's  Dictionary,  though  compara- 
tively slight  in  extent,  contains  few  words 
to  which  exception  may  be  taken  on  the 
score  of  utility,  and  is  equipped  with  illus- 
trative quotations  which  make  it  still 
valuable. 

764.  417.  "  Its  "  which  ought  to  have  been  in 
Shakespeare.  Shakespeare  uses  "  his," 
in  conformity  with  regular  Elizabethan 
usage,  for  the  neuter  possessive. 

453.  Ascesis.  The  Greek  word  from 
which  the  English  ascetic  and  asceticism 
are  derived. 

765.  540.  Michelangelo.  For  a  discussion  of 
one  phase  of  the  work  of  this  great  Italian 
artist,  see  Pater's  essay  in  The  Renais- 
sance. 

609.  Dean  Mansel.  Henry  L.  Mansel 
(1820-1871),  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  from  1868 
to  his  death. 

767.  769.  Swedenborg.  Emanuel  Swedenborg 
(1688-1772),  founder  of  the  New  Church, 
or  Swedenborgians.  The  Tracts  for  the 
Times  were  written  and  published  by 
John  Henry  Newman  and  his  associates 
in  the  so-called  "  Oxford  Movement," 
during  the  years  1833-1841.  The  last 
of  the  tracts,  No.  90,  was  condemned  by 
the  University  because  of  its  Romanism. 

768.  952.  Blake's  rapturous  design.  One  of 
the  illustrations  made  by  Blake  for 
Blair's  Grave  represents  "  Soul  and  Body 
Reunited." 

769.  1057.  Buffon.  Le  Comte  de  Buffon 
(1707-1788),  a  famous  French  naturalist. 

WORDSWORTH 

772.  36.  Most  serious  critical  efforts.    See  the 

selections  from  the  Preface  to  the  Lyrical 
Ballads. 

38.  The  excesses  of  1795.  The  culmina- 
tion of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

773.  117.  Disciplina  arcani.  Discipline,  or 
learning,  of  the  mystery. 

158.  Senancour.  Obermann,  by  Etienne 
de  Senancour  (1770-1846),  is  characteris- 
tic of  this  interest  in  nature.  Gautier 
(1811-1872)  was  an  enthusiastic  Roman- 
ticist, a  dramatist,  poet,  and  playwright. 
161.  Rousseau.  The  importance  of  Rous- 
seau's La  Nouvelle  Heloise  in  awakening 
people  to  the  influence  of  nature  upon  the 
soul,  and  the  influence  of  Rousseau's 
theories  concerning  the  "  state  of  nature," 
have  been  often  pointed  out.     Chateau- 


briand (1 768-1 848)  and  Victor  Hugo 
(1802-1885)  were  both  significant  in  the 
development  of  French  romanticism. 
773.  173.  Reynolds  or  Gainsborough.  The 
two  greatest  English  portrait  painters: 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (1723-1792),  and 
Thomas  Gainsborough  (1727-1788). 
211  ff.  The  first  three  quotations  are  from 
The  Prelude;  the  fourth  is  from  The  Pet 
Lamb. 

775.  411.  A  selection  of  language  really  used 
by  men.  See  the  Preface  to  the  Lyrical 
Ballads,  p.  389. 

776.  452.  George  Sand.  Her  most  famous 
novel,  La  Petite  Fadette,  is  known  in 
English  translation  as  Fanchon  the  Cricket. 
The  author's  real  name  was  Mme.  Aman- 
dine Dudevant. 

457.  Meinhold.  Johannes  Meinhold 
(1797-1851)  was  a  little-known  novelist 
whom  Pater  considered  significant  in  the 
history  of  German  romanticism. 

777.  588.  Anima  mundi.    Soul  of  the  universe. 

778.  703.  The  Ode  .  .  .  had  its  anticipator. 
See  Henry  Vaughan's  The  Retreat,  p.  123. 

779.  747.  Grandet,  Javert.  Characters  in 
Balzac's  Eugenie  Grandet  and  Victor 
Hugo's  Les  Miserables,  respectively. 
785.  Antique  Rachel.  In  Dante's  Pur- 
gatorio,  xxvii,  Rachel  is  a  type  of  the 
contemplative  life. 

797.  One  who  had  meditated.  Lord 
Morley. 

STEVENSON 

MS    TRIPLEX 

780.  24.  Dule  tree.    A  tree  used  as  a  gallows. 

781.  104.  The  blue-peter.  A  blue  flag  indicat- 
ing that  a  ship  was  about  to  sail. 

141.  The  valley  at  Balaclava.  The  scene 
of  the  famous  charge  of  the  "  Light  Bri- 
gade "  in  the  Crimean  War. 
145.  Curtius.  A  hero  of  Roman  legend 
who  leaped  into  a  chasm  in  the  Forum, 
and  sacrificed  his  life  that  the  gulf  might 
be  closed. 

159.  Caligula.  The  third  emperor  of 
Rome,  who  proclaimed  himself  a  god. 

782.  187.  The  sheet.  The  rope  by  which  the 
position  of  a  sail  is  controlled.  If  it  be 
tied,  or  "  made  fast,"  a  sudden  gust  of 
wind  may  upset  a  small  boat  before  the 
sailor  has  an  opportunity  to  loosen  the 
sheet. 

206.  Omar  Khayyam  .  .  .  Walt  Whit- 
man. Omar  Khayyam  was  a  Persian 
poet  who  died  c.  11 23.  Walt  Whitman, 
an  American  poet  famous  for  his  whole- 
sale violations  of  the  conventions  of  po- 
etry, died  in  1892. 

214.  The  same  stuff  with  dreams.  See 
Shakespeare's  Tempest,  IV.  i.  156: 

"  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

783.  303.  As  the  French  say.    A  cul-de-sac. 


NOTES 


783.  312.  A   Bath-chair.      An   invalid's   chair, 
much  used  at  Bath,  the  health  resort. 
320.  Our  resped  aA  lexicographer.     Sam- 
uel Johnson. 

327.  Bound  with  triple  brass.  The  title 
of  the  essay,  "  /Es  Triplex,"  meaning 
"  triple  brass,"  is  from  Horace,  Odes,  I.  iii. 
304.  Nelson.  Before  the  battle  of  the 
Nile,  Nelson  made  the  remark  to  his  offi- 
cers. See  Southey's  Life  of  Nelson,  chap- 
ter v.:  "  Before  this  time  tomorrow,  I 
shall  have  gained  a  peerage,  or  West- 
minster Abbey." 

784.  416.  The  last  paragraph  might  almost 
have  been  written  by  Stevenson  as  pro- 
phetic of  the  close  of  his  own  life. 


SWINBURNE 

ATALANTA   IN   CALYDON 

785.  The  poem  is  a  drama  in  the  Greek  form. 
5-8.  There  is  reference  here  to  two 
stories  of  the  nightingale,  both  account- 
ing for  the  melancholy  in  its  song.  Ac- 
cording to  one,  ^don  killed  her  son  Itylus 
by  error,  and  was  changed  by  Zeus  into  a 
nightingale.      The   tongueless    vigil    refers 


to  the  better  known  story  of  Philomela, 
ravished  by  her  brother-in-law,  Tereus, 
who  cut  out  her  tongue  that  she  might 
not  bear  witness  against  him;  she  was 
afterward  changed  to  a  nightingale. 
Cf.  Arnold's  poem  Philomela,  p.  687. 

785.  10.  Maiden  .  .  .  lady.  Artemis,  the 
moon-goddess,  patroness  of  chastity. 

786.  38.  The  oat.  The  shepherd's  pipe  of 
oaten  straw,  contrasted  with  the  lyre, 
symbolic  of  a  more  elaborate,  sophisti- 
cated society. 

44.  Maenad,  Bassarid.  Names  equiva- 
lent to  Bacchanal  (1.  49),  one  of  the  Bac- 
chantes, female  followers  of  Bacchus, 
who  engaged  in  wild  orgies  in  the  god's 
honor. 

TO   WALT   WHITMAN   IN  AMERICA 

787.  Whitman  seemed  to  Swinburne,  as  to 
many  others,  to  be  the  prophet  and  poet 
of  the  new  democracy  which  America  was 
to  offer  to  the  Old  World. 

CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE 

790.  9.  If  all  the  pens,  etc.  A  quotation  from 
Marlowe's  Tamburlaine,  Part  I,  V.  i. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Addison,  Joseph 239 

Arnold,  Matthew 685 

Bacon,  Francis 107 

Ballads,  English  and  Scottish  Popular 32 

Ballads,  Loyalist  Stall 191 

Beaumont,  Francis 90 

Blair,  Robert 337 

Blake,  William 383 

Boswell,  James 301 

Bowles,  William  Lisle 387 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas 128 

Browne,  William 91 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett 632 

Browning,  Robert 603 

Burke,  Edmund 322 

Burns,  Robert 366 

Byron,  George  Gordon,  Lord 446 

Campbell,  Thomas 508 

Campion,  Thomas 83 

Carew,  Thomas 115 

Carlyle,  Thomas 644 

Chatterton,  Thomas 354 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey 1 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 683 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 417 

Collins,  William 339 

Cowley,  Abraham 126 

Cowper,  William 360 

Crabbe,  George 385 

Crashaw,  Richard 121 

Daniel,  Samuel 72 

Defoe,  Daniel 214 

Dekker,  Thomas 84 

DeQuincey,  Thomas 551 

Donne,  John 88 

Drayton,  Michael 72,  85 

Dryden,  John 195 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward 76 

Fergusson,  Robert 353 

Fitzgerald,  Edward 636 

Fletcher,  John 90 

Fuller,  Thomas 132 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 279 

Gray,  Thomas 342 

Greene,  Robert 77 

Hazlitt,  William 533 

Herbert,  George 1 20 

Herrick,  Robert 117 

Hood,  Thomas 510 

Howard,  Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey 69 

Huxley,  Thomas  Henry 720 

Johnson,  Samuel 290 

Jonson,  Ben 86 


Lamb,  Charles 512 

Landor,  Walter  Savage 566 

Lodge,  Thomas 78 

Lovelace,  Richard 116 

Lyly,  John 77,  97 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington,  Lord 675 

Macpherson,  James 352 

Malory,  Sir  Thomas 44 

Marlowe,  Christopher 78 

Marvell,  Andrew 124 

Meredith,  George 790 

Milton,  John 145 

Moore,  Thomas 508 

Morris,  William 746 

Nash,  Thomas 79 

Newman,  John  Henry,  Cardinal 728 

Noah's  Flood 27 

North,  Sir  Thomas 91 

Pater,  Walter  Horatio 760 

Peele,  George 77 

Pepys,  Samuel 187 

Piers  the  Plowman 26 

Pope,  Alexander 260 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 79,  103 

Ramsay,  Allan 332 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel 740 

Ruskin,  John 657 

Sackville,  Charles,  Earl  of  Dorset 127 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 441 

Shakespeare,  William 72,  80 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 471 

Shirley,  James 117 

Sidney,  Sir  Philip 69,  76,  100 

Southey,  Robert 440 

Southwell,  Robert 80 

Spenser,  Edmund 49,  71 

Steele,  Sir  Richard 240 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 780 

Suckling,  Sir  John 116 

Swift,  Jonathan 226 

Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 784 

Taylor,  Jeremy 142 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord 568 

Thomson,  James ^^ 

Vaughan,  Henry 1 23 

Waller,  Edmund 1 24 

Walton,  Izaak 137 

Wrebster,  John 91 

Wither,  George 115 

Wolfe,  Charles 509 

Wordsworth,  William 389 _ 

Wyatt,  Sir  Thomas 69 


Keats,  John . 


490  I   Young,  Edward . 
883 


336 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Absalom  and  Achitophel 195 

Abt  Vogler 627 

Addison  (Johnson's  Life  of) 298 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid 373 

Adonais 479 

Ae  Fond  Kiss 381 

JEs  Triplex 780 

"  After  long  storms  and  tempests'  sad  assay"  71 

After  Sunset 789 

Agincourt 85 

Alexander's  Feast 209 

All  Is  Well 684 

Amoretti 7 1 

Andrea  del  Sarto 623 

Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua 739 

Apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal,  The 221 

Areopagitica 181 

Argument  of  His  Book,  The 117 

Ask  Me  no  More  Where  Jove  Bestows 115 

Astrophel  and  Stella 69 

Atalanta  in  Calydon:  Choruses 785 

Atalanta's  Race 747 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns 409 

Auguries  of  Innocence 385 

Auld  Lang  Syne 378 

Austerity  of  Poetry,  The 706 

Back  and  Side  Go  Bare,  Go  Bare 75 

Balade  de  Bon  Conseyl 25 

Bamborough  Castle 388 

Bard,  The 347 

Beau  Tibbs  at  Home  (Citizen  of  the  World)  287 

Ben  Jonson 790 

Biographia  Literaria 436 

Bishop  Orders  His  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's 

Church,  The 621 

Blessed  Damozel,  The 740 

Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind 81 

Boat  Song 442 

Bonie  Doon 380 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 43 

Bonny  Dundee 445 

Borough,  The 387 

Break,  Break,  Break 589 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The 510 

Bright  Star!  Would  I  Were  Steadfast  as  Thou 

Art 508 

Brignall  Banks 444 

Bristowe  Tragedie 354 

Bugle  Song 589 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  The 509 

Burning  Babe,  The 80 

By  an  Evolutionist 601 

Campaign,  The 239 

Canterbury  Tales,  The 

The  Prologue 1 

The  Nun's  Priest's  Tale n 

The  Pardoner's  Tale 19 

Care-Charmer  Sleep 72 

Care-Charming  Sleep 91 


PAGE 

Carthon 353 

Castaway,  The 365 

Castle  of  Indolence,  The 335 

Cath-Loda 352 

Cavalier  Tunes 

Marching  Along 603 

Give  a  Rouse 603 

Boot  and  Saddle 604 

Chance  and  Change 84 

Change,  The 126 

Character  of  a  Roundhead,  The 192 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior 411 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The 594 

Cherry-Ripe 84 

Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 

Canto  iii 452 

Canto  iv 456 

Christopher  Marlowe 789 

Christ's  Hospital  Five  and  Thirty  Years  Ago  512 
Citizen  of  the  World,  Essays  from  The 

Beau  Tibbs  at  Home .  .  t 287 

A  Visit  to  a  Silk  Merchant 289 

Clod  and  the  Pebble,  The 384 

Cloud,  The 474 

Club,  The  (Spectator) 248 

Collar,  The 120 

Come,  Cheerful  Day 83 

Come,  Drawer,  Some  Wine 192 

"Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of 

peace" 70 

Come,  Thou  Monarch  of  the  Vine 82 

Come  unto  These  Yellow  Sands 82 

Complaint  of  Chaucer  to  his  Empty  Purse, 

The 25 

Complete  Angler,  The 137 

Composed   upon   Westminster  Bridge,   Sep- 
tember 3,  1802 416 

Conclusion,  The 80 

Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater 551 

Constancy 116 

Contented  wi'  Little  and  Cantie  wi'  Mair.  .  .  .   382 

Coquette's  Heart,  A   (Spectator) 258 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 117 

Coronach 443 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  The 370 

County  Guy 445 

Cradle  Song 384 

Cromwell's  Letters  and  Speeches 655 

Crossing  the  Bar 603 

Cry  of  the  Children,  The 633 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 77 

Cupid's  Curse 77 

Daft  Days,  The 353 

Death 90 

Death  of  Artemidora,  The 566 

Death  of  Caesar,  The 91 

Defense  of  Poesy,  The 100 

Dejection :  an  Ode 433 

Description  of  Spring 69 


885 


886 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


PAGE 

Deserted  Village,  The 279 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  The 447 

Diary:  Samuel  Pepys 187 

Dirge,  A  ("Call  for  the  robin-redbreast")  .  .     91 
Dirge,  A  ("  The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state")   117 

Dissertation  upon  Roast  Pig,  A 525 

Don  Juan 

Dedication 460 

Canto  iii 460 

Canto  iv 463 

Dover  Beach 709 

Dream-Children:  A  Reverie 519 

Dream  of  Fair  Women,  A 575 

Dryden  (Johnson's  Life  of) 297 

Duelling  (Tatler) 241 

Duncan  Gray 381 

Eagle,  The 592 

Earthly  Paradise,  The 

An  Apology 746 

Prologue 746 

Atalanta's  Race 747 

Edward 32 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard ....   343 

Endymion 490 

Epilogue  to  Asolando 632 

Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  The 278 

Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy,  An 88 

Essays:  Bacon 

Of  Truth " 107 

Of  Adversity 108 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life 109 

Of  Great  Place 109 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self in 

Of  Youth  and  Age 112 

Of  Gardens 112 

Of  Studies 114 

Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  An 211 

Essay  on  Criticism,  An 262 

Essay  on  Man,  An 276 

Even  Such  Is  Man 90 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The 496 

Expostulation  and  Reply 392 

Faerie  Queene,  The 

Letter  to  Raleigh 49 

Book  I,  Canto  i 51 

Canto  iii 56 

Canto  xi 57 

Fatal  Sisters,  The 349 

Fear  no  More  the  Heat  o'  the  Sun 82 

Fight,  The 533 

Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall 596 

Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton 380 

Forsaken  Merman,  The 686 

France:  an  Ode 417 

"Fresh  Spring,  the  herald  of  love's  mighty 

king" 71 

"  From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring"     74 

Frost  at  Midnight 430 

Frozen  Words  (Tatler) 244 

Full  Fathom  Five  Thy  Father  Lies 83 

"Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen"     73 

Garden  of  Proserpine,  The 784 

Go  and  Catch  a  Falling  Star 88 

Go  Fetch  to  Me  a  Pint  o'  Wine 379 

Go,  Lovely  Rose ! 1 24 

Good  Schoolmaster,  The 132 

Grace  for  a  Child 119 


PAGE 

Grammarian's  Funeral,  A 619 

Grave,  The 337 

Gray  (Johnson's  Life  of) 300 

Green  Grow  the  Rashes 377 

Hark,  Hark!  the  Lark 82 

Hark,  Now  Everything  Is  Still 91 

Harp  of  the  North 443 

Harp  That  Once  through  Tara's  Halls,  The.  .   509 
"Having  this  day  my  horse,  my  hand,  my 

lance" 70 

Haystack  in  the  Floods,  The 758 

Hellas,  Final  Chorus  from 488 

He  That  Loves  a  Rosy  Cheek 115 

Hey  Nonny  No! 83 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 596 

Highland  Mary 381 

Hind  and  the  Panther,  The 207 

His  Pilgrimage 79 

Holy  Dying 142 

Holy  Fair,  The 366 

Home  They  Brought  Her  Warrior  Dead.  .  .  .   590 

Home-Thoughts,  from  Abroad 607 

Home-Thoughts,  from  the  Sea 607 

Hope 388 

Horatian  Ode  upon  Cromwell's  Return  from 

Ireland,  An 1 24 

House  of  Life,  The 

The  Sonnet 745 

Lovesight 745 

Silent  Noon 745 

A  Superscription 745 

How  Roses  Came  Red 118 

How  They   Brought  the   Good   News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix 605 

Humble  Petition  of  the  House  of  Commons, 

The 192 

Hunting  of  the  Cheviot,  The 39 

Hydriotaphia,  or  Urn  Burial 128 

Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni  431 
Hymn  ("The  spacious  firmament  on  high")   240 

Hymn  to  Diana 86 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 471 

Hyperion 502 

Idea  of  a  University,  The 728 

II  Penseroso 147 

Impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings,  The 326 

In  a  Gondola 616 

Inchcape  Rock,  The 440 

Indian  Serenade,  The 474 

In  Memoriam 590 

In  the  Holy  Nativity  of  Our  Lord  God 121 

Intimations  of  Immortality 413 

Introduction  to  Songs  of  Innocence 383 

Iphigeneia  and  Agamemnon 567 

Ite  Domum  Saturae 684 

It  was  a  Lover  and  His  Lass 82 

I  Wandered  Lonely  as  a  Cloud 411 

Jock  of  Hazeldean 444 

John  Anderson  My  Jo 379 

Jolly  Beggars,  The 382 

Journal  to  Stella,  The 236 

Juggling  Jerry 794 

Kemp  Owyne t>3> 

Know  Ye  the  Land? 446 

Kubla  Khan 419 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 491 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The 568 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


887 


PAGE 

L'Allegro 145 

Lamb,  The 383 

Lass  with  a  Lump  of  Land,  The 332 

Last  Fight  of  the  Revenge,  The 103 

Last  Word,  The 709 

Lawyers'  Lamentation,  The 193 

"  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds" .      75 

Letter  to  James  Macpherson 294 

Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield 293 

Letters  (Gray) 350 

Levana  and  Our  Ladies  of  Sorrow 561 

Life  Is  Struggle 684 

Life  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  The 134 

Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  The 301 

"Like  as  a  ship,  that  through  the  ocean  wide"     71 
Lines  Composed  a  Few  Miles  above  Tintern 

Abbey 393 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 495 

Lines  Printed  under  the  Engraved  Portrait 

of  Milton 211 

Lines  to  John  Lapraik 366 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring 392 

Litany  in  Time  of  Plague 79 

Literature  and  Science 709 

Little  Black  Boy,  The 384 

Lives  of  the  English  Poets,  The 

Milton 294 

Dryden 297 

Addison 298 

Pope 299 

Gray 300 

Lochinvar 441 

Locksley  Hall 584 

London,  1802 416 

Lost  Leader,  The 604 

Lotos-Eaters,  The 574 

Love  among  the  Ruins 614 

Love  in  the  Valley 790 

Love  Is  Dead 76 

Lover  Compareth  His  State  to  a  Ship,  The .  .     69 

Love's  Deity 89 

Lovesight 745 

"  Loving  in  truth,  and  fain  in  verse  my  love 

to  show" 69 

Lucifer  in  Starlight 795 

Lucy  Gray 395 

Lullaby 85 

Lycidas 148 

Lyrical  Ballads,  Preface  to  the 389 

Mac  Flecknoe 204 

Man's  a  Man  For  A'  That,  A 382 

Mary  Morison 377 

Match,  A 787 

Maud 592 

Meeting  at  Night 606 

Memorabilia 615 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam 601 

"Men  call  you  fair,  and  you  do  credit  it".  .      72 

Michael 399 

Milton  (Blake) 385 

Milton  (Johnson's  Life  of) 294 

Modern  Painters 657 

Modest  Proposal,  A 231 

Morte  D'Arthur 579 

Morte  Darthur,  Le 

Preface  of  William  Caxton 44 

Book  xxi 45 


PAGE 

Mr.  Spectator  (Spectator) 246 

Musical  Instrument,  A 636 

My  Boat  Is  on  the  Shore 448 

My  Days  among  the  Dead  Are  Passed 441 

My  Heart  Leaps  Up  When  I  Behold 406 

My  Heart's  in  the  Highlands 379 

My  Last  Duchess 615 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  Is 76 

Mynstrelle's  Songe 359 

Ned  Softly  (Tatler) 242 

Night-Piece,  to  Julia 119 

Night  Thoughts 336 

"No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead"     74 

Noah's  Flood 27 

Northern  Farmer — Old  Style,  The 594 

Now  Winter  Nights  Enlarge 84 

Nun's  Priest's  Tale,  The n 

Ode  ("How  Sleep  the  Brave") 339 

Ode  for  Ben  Jonson,  An 119 

Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College .  .   342 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 493 

Ode  on  Melancholy 494 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 492 

Ode  to  Duty 411 

Ode  to  Evening 339 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 472 

(Enone 57° 

Of  A'  the  Airts  the  Wind  Can  Blow 378 

Of  Adversity : 108 

Of  Corinna's  Singing 83 

Of  Gardens 112 

Of  Great  Place 109 

Of  Marriage  and  Single  Life 109 

Of  Studies 114 

•  Of  Truth 107 

Of  Wisdom  for  a  Man's  Self 'in 

Of  Youth  and  Age 112 

Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night 509 

Oh,  Breathe  not  His  Name 509 

Oliver  Goldsmith 675 

O  Mistress  Mine,  Where  Are  You  Roaming?     82 

On  a  Girdle 124 

"  One  day  I  wrote  her  name  upon  the  strand  "     71 

One  Year  Ago 566 

On  Familiar  Style 548 

On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer.  ..   507 

On  Going  a  Journey 542 

On  His  Blindness 152 

On  His  Deceased  Wife 153 

On  His  Having  Arrived  at  the  Age  of  Twenty- 
Three 151 

On  His  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday 568 

On  Shakespeare 152 

On  the  Advisableness  of  Improving  Natural 

Knowledge 72° 

On  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Pembroke.  ...     91 
On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  George 

Eliot 789 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic.  .   415 

On   the  Hellenics 567 

On  the  Knocking  at  the  Gate  in  Macbeth 559 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont 152 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 360 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture 362 

On  the  Sea-Shore  near  Calais 410 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey 90 

O  Sweet  Content 84 


888 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


PAGE 

Over  Hill,  over  Dale 81 

O,  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast 383 

Ozymandias 472 

Paradise  Lost 

Book  i 153 

Book  ii 165 

Book  xii 180 

Pardoner's  Tale,  The 19 

Parting  at  Morning 606 

Passionate  Shepherd  to  His  Love,  The 78 

Passions,  The 340 

Past  and  Present 648 

Peace 123 

Peggy 332 

Philomela 687 

Piers  the  Plowman 26 

Pindaric  Ode,  A 88 

"Poor  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth".  .      75 

Pope  (Johnson's  Life  of) 299 

Praise  of  Chimney  Sweepers,  The 521 

Preface  to  the  Fables  (Dryden) 213 

Preface  to  the  Lyrical  Ballads,  The 389 

Prelude,  The 396 

Princess,  Songs  from  the 589 

Prisoner  of  Chillon,  The 448 

Progress  of  Poesy,  The 345 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  The 1 

Prometheus  Unbound 478 

Prospectus  (Tatler) 240 

Prospice 627 

Protecting  Brewer,  The 193 

Prothalamion 66 

Pulley,  The 121 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 683 

Queen  Elizabeth 97 

Quip,  The 1 20 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 629 

Rambler,  The 290 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  The 264 

Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France.  ...    329 

Relation  of  Art  to  Morals,  The 671 

Requiescat 688 

Resolution  and  Independence 406 

Retaliation,  The 286 

Retreat,  The 1 23 

Revenge,  The 597 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  The 419 

Rizpah 599 

Robin  Hood 495 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 35 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 38 

Rosalind's  Madrigal 78 

Rose  Aylmer 566 

Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam 636 

Rugby  Chapel 706 

Rule,  Britannia 336 

Sappho  to  Hesperus 566 

Sartor  Resartus 644 

Saul 607 

Say  Not  the  Struggle  Nought  Availeth 685 

Scholar-Gipsy,  The 688 

Scots  Wha  Hae 377 

Seasons,  The 333 

Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child 78 

Shakespeare 685 

"Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day?"     72 
Shall  I,  Wasting  in  Despair 115 


PAGE 

She  Dwelt  among  the  Untrodden  Ways ....    396 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 447 

She  Was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 410 

Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters,  The 216 

Sick  Rose,  The 385 

Silent  Noon 745 

"  Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  bound- 
less sea" 73 

Since  There's  no  Help 72 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 34 

Sir  Roger  at  Church  (Spectator) 253 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Assizes  (Spectator) 254 

Sister  Helen 741 

Sketch  of  His  Own  Character  (Gray) 350 

Sleep  and  Poetry 490 

Slumber  Did  My  Spirit  Seal,  A 396 

Sohrab  and  Rustum 692 

Soldier,  Rest 442 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 606 

Solitary  Reaper,  The 409 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  A 208 

Song  from  Pippa  Passes 603 

Song  from  Shakespeare's  Cymbeline,  A 339 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The 511 

Songs  from  Shakespeare's  Plays 80 

Songs  of  Selma,  The 353 

Song:  (To  All  You  Ladies  now  at  Land) ....    127 

Song  to  Bacchus 91 

Song  to  Celia 86 

Sonnet,  The 745 

Sonnet  on  Chillon 448 

Sonnet  to  Mrs.  Unwin 364 

Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese 632 

Sonnets:  Milton 151 

Sonnets:  Shakespeare 72 

So  We'll  Go  no  More  A-Roving 448 

Spectator,  Essays  from  The 

Mr.  Spectator 246 

The  Club 248 

Westminster  Abbey 251 

Sir  Roger  at  Church 253 

Sir  Roger  at  the  Assizes 254 

The  Vision  of  Mirza 256 

A  Coquette's  Heart 258 

Spring's  Welcome 77 

Stanzas  for  Music 447 

Stanzas  Written  in  Dejection 476 

Stones  of  Venice,  The 664 

Style 760 

Sunflower,  The 385 

Superannuated  Man,  The 529 

Superscription,  A 745 

Swallow,  The 127 

Sweet  Are  the  Thoughts 77 

Sweetest  Love,  I  Do  not  Go 89 

Sweetest  Melancholy 90 

Tables  Turned,  The 392 

Take,  O,  Take  Those  Lips  Away 82 

Tale  of  a  Tub,  The 226 

Tam  Glen 378 

Tarn  O'Shanter 374 

Task,  The 361 

Tatler,  Essays  from  The 

Prospectus 240 

Duelling 241 

Ned  Softly 242 

Frozen  Words 244 


INDEX  OF   TITLES 


889 


PAGE 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 589 

Tell  Me  Where  Is  Fancy  Bred 81 

"That   time   of   year   thou    mayest   in   me 

behold" 74 

Thief,  The 127 

Three  Years  She  Grew 396 

Tiger,  The 385 

Time    ("0   Time!    who   knowest   a   lenient 

hand  to  lay") 387 

Time  ("Unfathomable  Sea!  whose  waves  are 

years") 477 

Time  and  Tide 669 

Time  I've  Lost  in  Wooing,  The 508 

"Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry  "     74 

To ("Music,  when  soft  voices  die") .   476 

To ("One    word    is    too    often    pro- 
faned")     478 

To  Age 568 

To  All  You  Ladies  now  at  Land 127 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 116 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 369 

To  a  Mouse 369 

To  a  Sky-Lark  ("Ethereal  minstrel,  pilgrim 

of  the  sky") 415 

To  a  Skylark  ("Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit") .   475 

To  Autumn 494 

To  Cyriack  Skinner 153 

To  Daffodils 119 

To  Keep  a  True  Lent 119 

To  Lucasta,  on  Going  to  the  Wars 116 

To  Make  Charles  a  Great  King 191 

To  Mary 364 

To  My  Ninth  Decade 568 

To  Night 477 

To  Robert  Browning 566 

To  the  Cuckoo 410 

To  the  Electors  of  Bristol 322 

To  the  Lord  General  Cromwell 152 

To    the   Memory   of   my   Beloved,    Master 

William  Shakespeare 87 

To  the  River  Tweed 388 

To  the  Virgins,  to  Make  Much  of  Time 118 

To  Toussaint  l'Ouverture 417 

To  Walt  Whitman  in  America 787 

To  Youth 568 

Triumph  of  Charis,  The 87 

True-Born  Englishman,  The 214 


PAGE 

Ulysses 583 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree 81 

Universal  Prayer,  The 279 

Upon  Julia's  Clothes 119 

Upon  the  Loss  of  his  Mistresses 117 

Village,  The 385 

Virtue 1 20 

Visit  to  a  Silk-Merchant,  A  (Citizen  of  the 

World) 289 

Vision  of  Mirza,  The  (Spectator) 256 

Walking  with  God 360 

Westminster  Abbey  (Spectator) 251 

"When  I  behold  that  beauty's  wonderment"  71 

When  I  Have  Fears  That  I  May  Cease  to  Be .  507 
"When   I  have  seen    by  Time's   fell   hand 

defaced" 73 

When  Icicles  Hang  by  the  Wall 80 

"When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's 

eyes". _ 73 

"When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time".  ...  75 

When  the  Lamp  Is  Shattered 488 

When  Thou  Must  Home 83 

"When    to     the    sessions    of    sweet    silent 

thought " 73 

When  We  Two  Parted 446 

Where  Lies  the  Land 684 

Where  the  Bee  Sucks,  There  Suck  1 83 

Who  Is  Silvia? 81 

Why  So  Pale  and  Wan,  Fond  Lover? 116 

Wife  of  Usher's  Well,  The 34 

Willie  Brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maut 379 

Windsor  Forest 260 

Wish,  The 126 

With  a  Guitar,  to  Jane 489 

"With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st 

the  skies" 7° 

Wordsworth 772 

Work  without  Hope 436 

World,  The 123 

World  Is  Too  Much  with  Us,  The 416 

World's  Wanderers,  The 477 

Written  at  Tynemouth  after  a  Tempestuous 

Voyage 388 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 508 

Yew  Trees 4°8 

You  Ask  Me  Why,  Though  111  at  Ease 579 

Youth  and  Age 435 


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